Swimming Through the Dawn

by R. P. Rioux

  "The material I have is predominantly black, white, and red. Do you have a preference for —"

  Before she could finish her question, Steve approached. He was munching from an open bag of chips. "Mind if I join you?"

  "Just in time," said Grace.

  Steve placed the bag on the table, where it was immediately pounced upon. "God, I'm starving," said Erin. Before long, nothing remained but crumbs. Steve looked bereft of all happiness.

  "I hope you were done with those," a mischievous Heather said, bewitchingly licking the remaining seasoning from her fingers.

  "I am now, it seems." Not wishing to waste time, Steve dove straight to the point, starting with a review of the project. When he stuck to layperson terms, he held the group's attention. When he ranged too far into technical jargon, however, his audience became lost. "The plan is to use a Red Helium sensor with Ultra Panavision 70 lenses to capture the image at 2:1," he said. "I can later crop it vertically for outputting to a 2:39 aspect ratio." He beamed at this report, as though anticipating raucous cheers. Instead, he was met with blank stares.

  Grace leaned over to Heather. "You speak film nerd. Can you translate that into English for the rest of us?"

  "I'm not fluent," she responded.

  "Oh, spare me," said Steve, dismissing their mockery. He reminded them of the film clips they showed Danya, mainly as it related to the extra wide screen. "That's what I'm aiming for. Plus, I want the colors to pop, like the videos in Korea." The girls smiled at this. "Here's the big news." He paused to build anticipation. "We're shooting on location again." This disclosure produced groans of protest.

  "Again?" said Mindy.

  "Not that awful roof?" asked Erin.

  "No," he responded, "not exactly."

  "What, exactly, then?" asked Grace suspiciously.

  "We'll be in the desert, but this time in an air-conditioned building. The Scottsdale Airpark, specifically."

  "Where's that?" asked June.

  "In Arizona," answered Grace. June remained perplexed.

  "Why, exactly?" asked Heather.

  "My dad, much to my surprise, knows the owner of a private jet servicing hangar. Through him, I swung a deal to film over Easter weekend in exchange for promo services."

  "Do we get to fly on a private jet?" asked Erin, hopefully. "I've always wanted to fly on a private jet. Once my —"

  "Um, no," he said. "But I bet they'll let you tour one if you ask nicely." Erin pouted.

  Steve described the travel arrangements and previewed their daily schedules. Once his report was finished, Heather nudged Grace in the ribs. "It's time," she said in Korean.

  Grace took the cue. "Um, Steve." The tone of her voice warned that a delicate topic was at hand. He visibly tensed, preparing for the worst. "The other day, we discussed ground rules for our videos."

  "And what did you decide?"

  "Let's see if I remember. First off, the way women are portrayed in western music videos is abominable. This will not be acceptable."

  "I'm listening," said Steve.

  Grace tallied their demands on her fingers. "Our videos must be told from our point of view. We won't be props for the fantasies of male characters, nor depicted as weak, worthless victims. And don't you dare film us as fragmented, disconnected body parts either."

  "So, let me get this straight," Steve said with a smirk. "If I follow your rules, I'll have to cut the scene where men throw slices of lunch meat at your thong-clad asses for target practice. Is that what you're proposing?"

  This prompted a giggle from Heather. Grace kept a straight face. She snatched the empty chip bag, shook it in the air, then let it fall to the table. "Lucky for you, this is empty, or you'd be taking a crumb shower right now."

  "Oh, that reminds me," interjected Marielle. "I hit the mother lode. As in free material." Ears perked at this news. "A touring company for My Fair Lady wrapped their circuit last week. My costume shop acquired the entire wardrobe. It's more than we can handle, frankly. I have free reign to use material however I want, and let me tell you there are some extraordinary pieces in the collection."

  "A turbo-charged Ascot Gavotte!" said Steve.

  "Exactly!" responded Marielle, being the sole participant who caught his reference. She handed Steve the stack of sketches for his perusal.

  "Not wishing to change the subject, but I have the results of the level tests." Grace's announcement was met by collective anxiety. First came the vocal rankings as determined by Heather's voice coach. In order, they were: Heather, Sun-hee, and Mindy, followed by June, with Grace in fifth, and Vanessa and Erin tied last. Nobody was shocked by the rankings. Nobody objected.

  The dance rankings, according to Danya, went as follows: Vanessa, June, Mindy, with Grace and Sun-hee tied for fourth, and Heather and Erin tied for last.

  "I'm tied for the worst singer and the worst dancer?" a deflated Erin complained.

  "You're the best bassist, though," noted Sun-hee.

  "Oh, whoop de doo. I'm the only bassist."

  "That automatically makes you the worst bassist too, then," said Mindy.

  "Yup. You're a triple threat," added Vanessa, piling on the torment.

  Erin responded with her trademark blend of feigned deer-in-the-headlights alarm and I'll-get-you-back-someday-just-you-wait menacing stare. "Get out," she said with her arm pointing to the parking lot. "I hate you all, I'll have you know." Mindy put an arm around Erin and kissed her on the cheek. This gesture produced a smile from their beleaguered companion.

  Heather, listened quietly to the rankings without partaking in the banter. "I'll work harder to become a better dancer, I promise."

  "Danya specifically told me the rankings are not set in stone," said Grace. "They're a starting point based on raw talent. The last topic we need to address is fitness."

  "Uh, oh. Here we go," said Mindy.

  "Let me tell you from experience, a performance schedule can be hard on the body. I can't stress enough how important it is to keep in top physical shape. That includes eating right and exercising regularly."

  "What are you saying?"

  "Well, some of us are getting a tad—how to put it?"

  "Big boned," volunteered Vanessa.

  "Yeah, big boned," repeated Grace. "We'll go with that."

  * * *

  Ronald Perlstein was not your run of the mill university teacher. He had become famous on campus for both his encyclopedic knowledge of motion pictures and for making arcane aspects of world cinema relatable to a broader audience. His enthusiasm was infectious. The consensus, confirmed by both Steve and Grace, was that Art of the Cinema was a must-take elective, even for non-majors.

  The course reputedly was an easy-A, but those who registered soon learned two things: they'd be challenged in unexpected ways, and they'd never view movies the same again. Mr. Perlstein's method was to prompt a general and open discourse on each week's featured film. No two sessions were identical. Conversations could lead in any direction. He faced pressure from Administration to make the course more academically rigorous, but students loved the experience because of its uniqueness. Rather than offering dry intellectual lectures and grandiose postulations of film theory, classes were visceral, filled with humor, and provided insight on the human condition. Of course, students left with a better understanding of cinema as a vital art form, but they also learned valuable life lessons along the way. For those on the cusp of adulthood, this was of considerable value.

  Heather's sole experience with Mr. Perlstein was as Grace's guest one Tuesday. The movie that week was The Spirit of the Beehive. The experience stuck with her for days. At Steve's continued prompting, Heather gathered the nerve to pay him an office visit. Even at his doorstep, she still wasn't convinced the effort had value.

  Mr. Perlstein, however, instantly made her feel welcome. "You're the singer from Steve's video," he recalled. The recognition flattered her. Unlike others, she didn't find his bedraggled image off-putting. An unruly shock of white ha
ir lent him the appearance of a mad scientist. His wardrobe looked purchased from a dollar store two decades earlier. The relative unprofessionalism was part of his charm. Heather had a soft spot for eccentrics, truth be told.

  His office reflected these same characteristics. A jumbled mess, it contained every manner of movie poster, script, book, paper, magazine, and knick-knack tossed willy nilly in a way that would drive a neat freak bonkers. Yet despite this, it was a cozy space. Heather introduced herself and shared thoughts on the movie she'd seen. He was genuinely interested in her viewpoint. Her confidence grew, as did her willingness to share.

  She was surprised to learn that Mr. Perlstein had long hosted a local jazz program on public radio. In that capacity, he had interviewed many noteworthy musicians over the years. She could see how his easygoing style would make them feel comfortable enough to share intimate thoughts.

  Heather was gripped by his anecdotes. She could relate to tales of early career setbacks, of course, but the inspirational ones affected her most. Her favorite stories were of artists realizing they had made the right choice in life, despite the challenges they had faced. Hearing those accounts brought a lightness to her heart.

  Heather expressed doubts over her own talent, noting voice coaches who criticized her many shortcomings. She allowed anxieties to surface, particularly those related to high expectations. Mr. Perlstein listened carefully.

  As the sun dipped towards the horizon, the room darkened. Automatic lights switched on. She felt cold in their harsh fluorescent glare and took a moment to button her sweater. The interruption provided an excuse to depart. She had no intention of becoming a nuisance, and the thought of rambling incessantly embarrassed her. From habit, she bowed to Mr. Perlstein as if he were a teacher in Korea. Upon realizing how peculiar this must've looked, she giggled.

  As she gathered her belongings, Mr. Perlstein offered words of advice. "Don't be afraid of your imperfections," he said. "They bring tensions that can make music special. Billie Holiday didn't have a perfect voice, yet she's remembered as an all-time great." He shook his hands in the air for effect. "Remember to move people! That's what's important."

  Heather looked at him, squarely. She no longer felt cold.

  "And forget what others say," he continued. "Don't play safe for their benefit. Good art comes from discomfort. Walk out to sea. When you can no longer feel the sand beneath your toes, that's where you'll find magic."

  30

  Mindy

  Mindy had been looking forward to this recording session. The new songs were fun to play, and she anticipated good results.

  The B-side for their second single album was called "From That Day On." Stylistically, the song was in line with "Have No Fear" in being a rock-oriented power ballad about two people growing apart. Heather opened the song by singing over a simple arrangement of acoustic rhythm guitar and muted synth. The band joined in for the second verse with an understated arrangement. Its chorus featured a soaring initial turn by Heather with a lovely follow up by Sun-hee. Rather than a rap, Grace provided a reflective electric guitar solo.

  As the more straightforward song, "From That Day On," was recorded first. In keeping with its low-key nature, only the two most prominent singers were required. Heather had completed her vocals, and Arturo was getting Sun-hee situated for her track.

  "You sounded great this time," said Steve, as Heather emerged from the isolation booth.

  "Are you saying I don't sound great every time?"

  Steve blinked rapidly. "No, you do sound great every time."

  "Then why don't you tell me every time?"

  "Um…because…usually—" He pinched the skin at his throat. "Because usually, I'm overwhelmed by your artistry."

  Heather's shoulders drooped. "So, you're not overwhelmed by my artistry today?"

  He stared at her, his thought process thoroughly disrupted. Finally, he admitted, "I can't possibly come out ahead in this conversation, can I?"

  Heather stood straight. "There's hope for you yet," she said with a mischievous grin.

  Mindy stifled a laugh. Poor Steve.

  As with their first album, the two chosen songs provided contrast. The A-side single, "Feel the Heat," was an unusual bird. Conceived as a hard-driving hybrid of 80s synth-pop spiced with hard-rocking guitars, it was propelled by a constant dance beat and a melody exhibiting few peaks or valleys. The rich power vocals were supported by strummed guitars through the bridge. The song's most memorable feature was a chantlike chorus that featured distinctive whistling. Steve described it as sounding like a refugee from a spaghetti western, and he predicted it would become the song's iconic hook.

  The recording session, unfortunately, became as contentious as one of those westerns. Phil was excited to bring a distinctive rock edge to "Feel the Heat." He had argued for the band to adopt this approach from the beginning. Soon after, though, he and Steve clashed over how far to shift this dynamic.

  The song was conceived as a bridge between the two units of Made in Heaven. The idea was to have music the band could play as a traditional rock song while also having enough of a dance groove for the girl group's activities. They could choose to perform it either way depending on the available situation. As with any hybrid, achieving balance was vital. This proved difficult because Phil and Steve constantly bickered over where that balance should lie. The musicians had gone on a dinner break, except for Mindy, who stayed behind to record the drum track. She was caught in the center of this tug-of-war as it reached its apex.

  The tinderbox exploded when Phil insisted on drums with a clean sound, like the classic rock recordings of the 70s. He subsequently asked for them to be thoroughly miked. Steve, on the other hand, wanted to recreate the 80s gated reverb sound that made drum tracks from the era sound distinctive. His approach called for a more straightforward mic placement featuring a compressed and gated talkback mic. Both options were tried, first Phil's way, then Steve's.

  "Okay, yeah, now put it back," said Phil.

  Arturo jumped at his command. As he entered the live room and approached the drum kit, Steve blocked him. "Hold on, what are you doing?"

  "He's right, it sounds better," said Arturo.

  "Sounds better? But does it sound, right?"

  Phil joined them. "Let him go. He's gotta reset the mics."

  "I don't remember making that decision," said Steve.

  "That's because I'm the music producer!" countered Phil.

  "Only because I said so!"

  "You had your way last time and look what happened. This time it'll be done right."

  "It's my project. And the music was sublime last time."

  "That's what you think. Others disagree."

  "Others? What others?"

  "It may be your video, but the studio is mine. I'm the one enrolled in the recording class."

  "The project originated with me, and I'm paying for it. You agreed to help is all."

  "Who says? I was there from the beginning."

  "What? You talked me into picking Radish Conspiracy. How is this in any way your idea?"

  "Oh, come on. I didn't say that."

  Mindy looked at Arturo, who shrugged. The two of them watched helplessly as Phil and Steve summoned years' worth of bad blood. As the clock ticked on, the attacks became more personal. It pained her to listen to them.

  "What do you think, Mindy?" Phil asked after they had been at it for a while. "Wouldn't you prefer a full sound?"

  She threw her hands in the air. "Leave me out of this. I didn't write the song."

  "We're getting nothing done by arguing," continued Steve.

  "Then move. Once it's done, you'll have a hell of a track to work with."

  "I won't let you take over the project. It's not even your song. Can you even articulate what the vision is, or are you making this the Phil Daniels show?"

  "You would be so lucky."

  "No Phil, I mean it. I'm done." He stood with his chest puffed and huffing. "You're like a brothe
r to me, but it's not working. I'm kindly asking you to leave. We can hash over this later, but tonight we're short of time. This arguing is counterproductive."

  Phil stared coldly at him.

  "Arturo, will you get ready to record the drum track as we rehearsed it?" Steve asked. The engineer returned to the control room but shared a wordless glance with Phil as he passed.

  "Okay, Mindy, give me another run through."

  She was glad to return to drumming. It filled the awkward silence permeating the studio. As she played, Phil grabbed his belongings and left without uttering another word.