by Wes Lowe
“I don’t want to blow this,” replied Abby, consternation spreading on her face.
Queenie eased up. “Let’s chill, everybody. Noah’s right. This is an opening offer but I want to bring you to something that will make you realize not only what a good deal it is but that you should be giving me more. After that, you can decide whether we get in bed with each other.”
Olivia, seeing Noah in action, realized he was no longer the innocent she once knew. He was decisive and insightful. “What say you, Noah?”
Noah masked the sudden nervous twitch of his hands. He hadn’t a clue as to whether this was a good deal or not but he couldn’t admit that. He answered enigmatically. “A worker deserves her wages, assuming she delivers. So let’s see if Queenie can deliver.”
Queenie twirled her boa. “Boys and girls, get ready for the ride of your lives.”
24
Pissed
Brooklyn
Alexei was fuming. Hassan hadn’t returned his phone called for more than twelve hours. I knew I no should work with bastard. Stick to Russians.
The brawny Russian had an urgent matter to discuss with his Moroccan partner. He wanted to visit Skyscape to impress a young female singer named Lena and her mother cum manager who had flown in from Moscow. Alexei wanted to wow her with ‘his’ studio tomorrow night and wanted Hassan to pull out all stops to impress.
Could she sing? Alexei couldn’t care less. With her luscious creamy breasts overflowing her skimpy bikini top and curvaceous hips, slim waist and tight butt and almost undulating out of her string bottom in her sexually-charged music video, Alexei couldn’t wait for a private shameless and uninhibited performance.
And her mother? Well, she had been a B movie actress thirty years ago whose claim to fame was being a natural 38D who had no qualms about proving it, either onscreen or in private. Alexei never had a mother/daughter combination before and he salivated at the possibility.
But that wasn’t the entire source of Alexei’s vexation.
I never should have introduced Queenie to Hassan. I bet he’s doing her now. That’s why he’s not answering.
As he continued to brood, the Russian’s veins bulged from his neck. He and Hassan had put a ten-thousand-dollar bet on which of them would get to bed Queenie first. The Russki boor’s ego went crazy at the thought that the Asian slut would prefer the Moroccan to him. He even went along with the idea of fronting the million dollars when Queenie approached him, thinking that it would give him an edge, not only with her father, but with her.
Now he was getting bitten in the ass. Queenie hadn’t coughed up or put out and Hassan was not answering his calls.
He was on the verge of calling it off until Queenie came in earlier in the week. When she wrapped her boa around his neck and almost garroted him, there was an overwhelming sexual rawness that could only be satisfied with an ultimate end.
Hers or his.
Someone was going to pay.
25
Awed
New York
Queenie booked a limo to take the entourage from Greenwich Village to Hell’s Kitchen. Unfamiliar to Noah or JJ, even in the darkness they noticed that much of the neighborhood suffered the “gentrification syndrome,” while a smaller portion maintained its eclectic ambience of artists and working class personality.
When they arrived at the Vector Building, Queenie announced, “We’re here.”
Olivia and Abby laughed excitedly as they exited the luxury vehicle while Noah and JJ puzzled at the girls’ enthusiasm over the derelict building. Queenie waved her boa in front of the skeptics. “Tsk. Tsk. Weren’t you ever taught not to judge a book by its cover? Look up.”
Noah and JJ tilted their heads up to see the lights on the topmost floor. The light was enough to show that the building’s bricks, window frames and ledges were repaired, restored or replaced. Plastic tarps covering the windows of some floors showed the renovation was not yet complete.
The newcomers’ curiosity grew as Queenie led the group through the building’s entrance.
The Vector Building’s security guard recognized Queenie, Olivia and Abby and waved them through. As Noah and JJ tried to follow, the guard stopped them.
“Not you. Security check. ID, please.”
The guard went through the motions of examining Noah and JJ’s passports then, with a bored gesture, waved them through the airport style metal detector.
Noah went through without incident but the alarms went off when JJ tried to pass through.
“You. Here,” said the guard. Frisking the Shanghainese ninja revealed he carried a small ceremonial dagger in the inside pocket of his jacket.
“You cannot enter with this,” said the guard gruffly.
Noah stepped in with a straight-faced lie. “Forgive my friend. He is a Shaolin monk and Shaolin monks require that they must carry this religious icon at all times.”
“You can kowtow or bow wow to any god you like, but there is no way in heaven or in hell that I’m letting that dagger come through,” said the guard with dictatorial authority.
Queenie stepped in and pressed a fifty into the guard’s hand. “Hey, Jerry, these are my friends. Please let them in. I will vouch for them myself.”
“Only for you, Queenie.” The guard pocketed the cash and waved them through. Getting on the elevator, they whisked directly to the twelfth floor.
Kenny was there to greet them. “Hey, Queenie. Nice to see you again, Olivia and Abby. And you guys must be Noah and JJ. Queenie’s given me the lowdown on who you are. I’ll make sure that I behave and we don’t get into a fight. I’m Kenny Tsang, studio manager of Skyscape Recording Studios.” The affable Asian shook Noah and JJ’s hands and planted kisses on the women’s cheeks.
“I’ve known Kenny for years and he’s an example of the kind of person I’ve helped and could even do more with if we had the chance,” stated Queenie. “Tell him your story.”
Kenny grinned. “Sure thing. As you can tell from my accent, I haven’t been in the U.S. that long. I’ve always wanted to be in the music biz as producer, manager, engineer but, as a poor immigrant, I didn’t have a chance. I met Queenie because she ate sometimes at the restaurant I worked at. Told her my dream and, next thing I know, I was a gofer at a studio… Sixty hours a week for no pay but I was in! I spent my spare time watching the artists, producers and engineers. Every now and then, someone would be sick or hungover and I’d get a chance to work on a session.”
Kenny shook his head at the memory of being indentured labor. “Five damned years, but it worked. Most drop out along the way and some of them were better than me… I like Queenie’s idea of shortcutting the process. Better than fetching millions of cups of coffee, cleaning up shit and vomit in toilets, and fetching pizza and coke any time of day or night… Hey, enough about me. Let’s take a tour.”
Kenny led the group down the hall to Studio 1. “Be very quiet because you are about to see a master in action. Tim Martin’s in with Richie Lake.”
“Never heard of either of them,” said Noah.
Olivia exhaled a short breath of exasperation. “Everyone knows Richie Lake. He’s the lead singer from YES BABE and Tim Martin is an A-list producer.”
Noah slapped his head with fake self-chastisement. “Of course. My bad.”
As Olivia’s eyes flung invisible daggers at Noah, Kenny opened the door and led them to the back of the control room where they saw Tim sitting beside the engineer behind a mammoth recording console. With a decibel level threatening to shatter eardrums, Tim was listening attentively to the end of the current take.
Noah and JJ were stunned to see Abby and Olivia acting like pubescent teenage girls, pointing and suppressing giggles when they saw Richie through the studio window.
Playback over, Tim pensively tapped his fingers on the console for five seconds before pressing his index finger on the talkback switch. “Good but not great. I know you can do better. You’re doubling your lead so listen to the other track so
you can get the cut-offs more in sync. Also, tighten your diaphragm to support the high note at the end of the last phrase. It’s pitchy.”
“Fix it in the mix, Tim. I’m tired and I want to go home,” whined Richie. “We’ve been here for more ten hours.”
“Sorry, Bud. Not my style. We ain’t leaving until you get it right. And do it all in one breath. Don’t split it.”
“But I’m running out of air.”
“Then don’t use it all up front. Save it for the end. Support the sound. Tuck it in. Okay. Coming at you again,” said Tim patiently.
“I hate you, Tim,” groused the pampered prima donna. “I’m going home now.”
As Richie began taking off his headphones, Tim pulled a Jekyll and Hyde. He screamed, “Richie, you do that, then never come back again. You’re a damned piece of shit and nothing without me. You wanna be your own producer, be my guest.”
“My last album sold two hundred thousand units.”
“Yeah, and I produced that, too. Or did your highness forget that detail?”
It was like watching a potential train wreck. You just had to keep glued to see what would happen. Noah, JJ, Abby, and Olivia watched in rapt fascination as the pouting Richie stood tapping his foot for a dozen seconds before putting his headphones back on. Through the window, they saw him give Tim the finger with each hand, then growl, “Run the tune, motherf***.”
The Svengali’s eyes twinkled as he did a one-eighty-degree attitude change. With sugar in his voice, he said, “Richie, you know I love you, kid. I really do. Come on. Smile for me. Come on, you know you want to. Come on.”
Richie tried not to obey but soon his icy glare melted into a slight upward curving of his lips.
“Let’s cook with gas.” Tim motioned for the engineer to start recording.
Richie popped in the vocal on the last two lines. Tim stopped recording and pressed the talkback button. “Not bad. Almost there. We’re gonna do it again.” His face whipped around to his guests. “Would you mind if we did this on our own, Queenie?”
“No worries, Tim. We’re just glad to get a glimpse of genius in action.”
Tim laughed. “Genius? Where?”
Kenny opened the door and led the group out of the room and back into the hall.
“Tim was fabulous,” gushed Abby. “At first I didn’t know what he was talking about. I thought what we first heard was fantastic, but that last take was amazing.”
“What was amazing to me was how he handled that kid,” said Noah. “That was totally opposite to what most social workers would do.”
“Tim’s got a knack for getting the best out of people,” agreed Queenie. That plus a couple hundred grams of coke to both Richie and Tim for putting on the show.
For the next half hour, Kenny and Queenie guided them through the ultra-high-tech facility.
“We’ve got five state-of-the-art studios and tracking rooms, all designed by a master architect and renowned acousticians. We’ve done our best to maintain the best of the original building—you can see some of original exposed brick in some of the rooms.”
Kenny pointed to one wall with old brick and then the other walls covered with wood and fabric. “While some think that acoustics is a science, we believe it’s an art and art needs flexibility. The needs for jazz are different than those for classical or rock or electronic. With every musician an individual, we’ve got to do a lot of experimenting to get the right sound. Sometimes we can make the adjustments inside the control room electronically, but not always. Sometimes we need to play with the acoustic materials or the placement of instruments to get what we want.”
Kenny turned toward Noah and faced him directly. “Gear is gear and a room is a room but the bottom line is that it’s about the money…and we’re doing pretty good there. During this past year we’ve generated over three million in revenue and have stuff in the can that hasn’t been released and a ton of other tunes that are in various stages of production.”
Queenie’s cell rang. “Hello. Oh, shit. Yeah, okay.” She put her hand over her phone. “Go ahead. I’ll join you in a moment.”
As Queenie dashed away, Kenny led Olivia, Abby, Noah and JJ around the corner, then opened the door to a recording room where a guitarist, bass player and drummer were going through a familiar tune.
Or at least familiar to Olivia and Abby. Bewilderment covered their faces.
Then Queenie entered the room with Tim. The crane lady announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, three-time Grammy-nominated producer Tim Martin is going to produce Forever I Will Love You. Abby, get behind the mic and Olivia, sit at the piano.
26
Make it Sing
As the gofers positioned Abby and had Olivia comfortably settled at the piano, Tim said, “When I heard your demo last night, I knew I had to do something. Powwowed with Queenie, brainstormed for hours.”
Queenie nodded. “We got to work. Tim with the arrangements and me on the phone. One thing we knew for sure was that this was not an electronic kind of thing. Had to get some real musicians.”
“Yeah. Got the best,” said Tim as he pointed to the musicians. “Hey, guys, these lovely ladies are Abby and Olivia, the creators of the tune we’re gonna record.” He turned to the girls. “And these scoundrels are Matt, the drummer; Pug, the bass player; and Stevie, our guitarist.”
Tim handed out some music sheets to Abby and Olivia. “I know this looks different than your typical lead sheet. And I know you wrote the tune but we’re gonna change it from a song to a story. Got it?”
Even Noah and JJ nodded with Abby and Olivia, totally engaged with the producer.
With dreamy eyes, Tim clicked his tongue in thoughtful attention. “You’ve just spent the last half hour in bed with the hottest guy you’ve ever met. But that’s not what you’re thinking about. You’re thinking about who you’re going to be lying with in twenty years, when you’re more experienced and living life is more than just hot, out-of-your-mind sex for fifteen minutes. He may not be Tom Cruise, he may not be a super stud, but he’s been there with you through all the shit that is life…and you wouldn’t trade him for anything. He’s your man and will be forever. And that’s what you’re singing about. ‘Forever I Will Love You’ is your upbeat anthem of love.”
Noah, Olivia, Abby and JJ were all thinking the same thing. That’s what I want.
Tim grinned. “I’ll bet you didn’t know that about your song, did you?”
Speechless, Abby and Olivia shook their heads.
“You had the basics, you hit all the notes, phrased it correctly but it fell short. Hey, check the two studs beside you. Noah and JJ, right?”
The two men nodded.
Tim turned back to Olivia and Abby. “This song is from you to them. Forever. Forever. Forever. Me and all the band? We’ll drive the bus but you gotta bring us there, emotionally, musically… Okay. Let’s do it.”
“Um, Noah’s an ex,” said Olivia.
“And JJ is a never was,” added Abby. “We just met.”
Fire was in Tim’s rolling eyes. “So what? You’re not writing a legal document. You are storytellers. Capiche?”
Abby and Olivia nodded sheepishly.
Tim motioned for Queenie, Noah and JJ to follow him to the control room. He sat in the producer’s chair at the console while Noah, Queenie and JJ sat on the sofa in front of the window to the studio where they had a great view of the musicians rehearsing .
“So, Queenie, I’m going retro for this tune. Using analogue tape instead of the computer and we’ll master on tape, too. There’s a warmth this tune needs that a bunch of digital zeroes and ones just ain’t gonna do.”
“That’s your wheelhouse, Tim,” agreed Queenie as he pressed the talkback button.
“Hey, everybody there?”
All the musicians nodded.
“Great. Okay. So this is Olivia’s solo off the top. Milk the shit out of it. When you’re done, watch Matt cuz he’s gonna mouth the count in. Then it’s time to rock o
ut.” Tim released the talkback button and settled into his chair.
Queenie saw that Noah and JJ’s eyes were fixed on Olivia as she prepared herself. Don’t let me down, Babe. They saw Olivia inhale, then watched as her hands began to caress the keyboard.
She’s making the piano sing. Noah felt his heart starting to pound.
When Abby joined in to sing, she injected a depth into the ballad that no one knew she had.
Coming to the end of the verse, Abby stretched out the final note.
That was Matt’s cue. He mouthed, “One. Two. Three. Four.”
And then the room caught fire. The drummer kicked ass, the bass player was playing out of his mind, the rhythm guitar was as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar, Olivia gave tight chordal backing on the piano—a perfect bed track for Abby to sing to.
Abby made the song uniquely her own with influences from Adele, Madonna in her prime, and the svelte tones of her favorite Chinese singer, Teresa Teng. Tim’s arrangement was powerful—reminiscent of what Quincy Jones had done for Michael Jackson’s Thriller.
For three minutes and thirty seconds of solid musical magic, Noah couldn’t keep his eyes off Olivia and JJ’s never left Abby.
At the end of the song, Abby finished with a sassy little step, a twirl of her jet black hair and raised her fist in the air.
After the obligatory thirty seconds of silence, Noah and JJ stood and applauded.
“That was fantastic!”
Olivia shot him an irritated glance through the studio window. “Noah, please don’t say anything. It’s not up to you.”
Put in his place, Noah folded his arms but then Tim interjected, shouting, “No, no, no, Olivia! I loved hearing that. Musicians do this as a job but people like Noah, John Q. Public, they’re the ones who will shell out the dough.”
“Right. Sorry. My bad,” replied Olivia.