Chase to the Encore

by P G Loiselle

  As soon as we took over, our onstage magic seemed to overwhelm the onlookers. We played hotter than ever before. The sweat that dissipated in that space could have filled the seven seas or at least the Scituate Reservoir. The band fought hard to make the show a reality, even when the situation with Stone was dire, and we gave our all to honor what we earned. The building quaked with ecstasy, the rafters rattled, and the crowd was grinding and bumping, dancing and jumping, buzzing and pumping for the entire jaunt. They were like popcorn kernels, shaking incessantly, pent up with the concentrated energy gathered right when they’re on the verge of popping, but stuck at that state for hours, with this unlimited potential energy being flashed back at us. Queen bees we were, being fed a constant flow of sweet nectar and in return, keeping the hive alive. We sustained the pace until quarter past two with no timeouts in between. Whenever we noticed that the audience needed a break, we threw in a quiet number to let them catch their breath and gradually ratcheted up the intensity with the songs that followed. When we ran out of our own material, we threw in some classic rock covers and mixed in a smidgeon of the 4nM special sauce to pep up an even excellent dish to start with. We ended it with a twenty-minute rendition of Hendrix’s “Voodoo Chile” capped off by Stevie’s solo version of “My Country tis of Thee” to end the one set, three-and-a-half-hour blowout. In the end, when the instrumental undertones had all nearly faded, we stood center stage, arm in arm, soaking up the power of the fans roaring for more. The absolute highlight of the show was the thrill of spotting Mr. Jameson in the crowd, bopping around with the rest of them. I’m not sure how long he stayed, but the fact that he cared enough to be there at all electrified me.

  The word must have got around about the practice room break-in and the gall of those intruders to demolish most of what we owned. Many of our fans not only paid to get into the club, they even chipped in more on the way out because it was voted unanimously, per paper ballot in a beer can, that the proceeds would be used to help replace our damaged equipment. Mo told Tommy that he saw one chic throw in a fifty.

  Again, we seemed to have come out of this unscathed, and my gratitude to whatever force helped us get through it is boundless. But according to the law of averages, our time to be on the short end of the stick will come. That’s why we can’t take it for granted that we’ll prevail through each of these tribulations. We’ll have to earn it, every single time, be grateful when things work out and stay strong and united when they don’t. And the way I see it, Stone’s not going to wait long before he strikes again, and we need to be better prepared than we were. As Amy put it, they’ll hit us when we least expect it and where it hurts the most.

  For them, what they dished out so far has been a harmless game compared to what they’re probably used to, and next time, they’re bound to hit harder, much harder. We need to be proactive and need a better plan. But what? There’s nothing up my sleeve. Maybe if we all put our heads together, and I’m not talking about another huddle, we might find some answers.

  Tomorrow’s our first day recording as a full band at Free Range. I told my man Jake about our gear problem, and he’ll arrange for the studio to be fully equipped and set to go. He knows what serves our music best and promised to assemble the right blend of classic exotics and state of the art apparatus for us to go sonically wild. Guitars, amps, drums, cymbals, microphones, preamps, compressors, equalizers, delay, reverb, crunch, flange, phaser effects and more, all high end, top-notch toys that will be hand-picked by Jake and team and stand ready for us to craft our hope-to-be hits.

  We’ll begin early in the morning, and the session’s scheduled to end at six. That’s when I want us all, and I mean me and the Four, to venture out to the warehouse to discuss strategy with Amy. Stevie gave her the word via walkie talkie that only he and I would show up on Sunday, but I’m sure she’ll enjoy the extra company. It could be a logistical nightmare getting there. We’ll work that out tomorrow once my head’s on straight again and I had my three hours of shuteye. That’s how much it’d be if sleep overcame me, right this second…

  Tape Hiss

  Sunday, July 19, 1987

  There’s Luke, and my boy, Steve,” Jake said, fresh as a morning coffee on Quaaludes. “How absolutely grand it is to have you here on this gorgeous sunny day morning. Yes sir, wow, you’re all here, in my studio. We’ve got the Four and the Moore. Excellento.” Jake, with his sing-songy slur, went on and on about what an honor and pleasure it was for us to be cutting a record with him…yada, yada, yada. It seemed poured on like a thick goo of overdone compliments, but I had the feeling he meant all of it. He carried on so much, it was difficult for us to even get through the door.

  When we made it in over the threshold, everyone reciprocated Jake’s funky version of a secret handshake before taking off to check out the equipment.

  “Great to see you, Jake,” I said.

  “Yeah, great to see you, Jake,” Stevie said as a ghost note.

  “Frickin’ A man, is this Neil Peart’s kit?” Dale hollered from inside the drum room. The drum set was massive, with a battery of toms and cymbals of all types and sizes and percussion knickknacks everywhere a stick could strike.

  “A Bösendorfer baby grand,” Mike yelled out as if he discovered it under the Christmas tree.

  Everyone ran about the recording space looking for new finds. There were “oohs” and “ahhs”, but nobody dared touch a thing.

  “Don’t stare at the stuff, fellas,” Jake said. “These wonderful gizmos are here for you. Feel free to pick up any instrument you see and start rocking it. Look out for the mics and cables, though, and don’t knock over any gobos.” Gobos? I thought. “My team has placed everything exactly, and I mean exactly where it needs to be. We’ve already muddled our way through that excessively boring sound check thing that all artists such as yourselves simply dread.”

  Everyone except me had already plugged in and was jamming away while I was still out in the entranceway small-talking. “Unbelievable, Jake,” I said, floored by the spread he’d done up for us. “Oh, and here’s a copy of the contract. Looks fine. Even Stevie’s dad read it. We all signed.” I handed him the envelope, and he took it without veering his sights away from the live room.

  “You know, Luke, it’s not how fancy all these doodads look. It’s how it all sounds. And if it sounds good, it is good.” He put his right hand on my left shoulder and gazed at me father-like. “Duke Ellington, he’s the crazy cat who came up with that. And yes sir, it’s absolutely, 100% the truth. And this is what it’s all about here at Free Range Studios. Because in the end, the only evidence we have that it was a great one is the recording itself. But you must know, the sound is only a small part of it. The performance, that’s the key. You listen to some of these scratchy old shellac discs played on an old gramophone and it can be heaven for your ears and the rest of your organs. Horrible quality, though, simply horrible. BUT, when you combine both sound, performance and a superb composition, you’ve achieved what I like to call ‘production nirvana’. You can’t get any higher than that. Can you? And I’ll die with you here, a thousand times, until we reach production nirvana. Got it? Now walk with me and dig this.”

  We stepped into the control room where the mix was beginning to form. Two assistants manned a thirty-two channel Neve mixing board, turning knobs, moving faders and reading meters. On the receiving end was a big ole, reel-to-reel, four-inch tape machine, not yet spinning but anxious to be fed some positrons.

  “Jake,” one of the guys said as if he were addressing Captain Kirk. “I’ve already adjusted the trim on the potis for recording and sent Barry out to set up the headphone mixes. We’ll be ready to roll in fifteen. We just need to…” He stopped mid-sentence and looked at me. “Hey, I’m Matt. You must be Luke.”

  I was only half-interested in meeting him because the whole time, I was observing the band through the control room window thinking that I had never heard a
better sound over a pair of speakers in my whole life. I don’t know if it was the mixing board, the studio monitors, the gear, or any of the effects they might have been using, but with the sound alone, we must have been close to production nirvana already and only need to finish the job by playing our songs, like we did at the Rockin’ Steady, like we did at The Showroom and like we do all the time, whenever we’re together making music. I realized I was being rude and greeted the engineer.

  Jake must have sensed where my head was at. “Almost perfect,” he said. “Listen to how tight Dale and Tommy are keeping that drum and bass groove. And the way Mike’s laying down the foundational melody for Stevie to build his castle of notes on, and in an instant tear it down to create a new fortress for the band to live within. If it sounds good, it is good, but if it sounds perfect. Well… But without you, Luke, we won’t reach that perfection. So, get out there and complete the circle.”

  Without comment, I flew out of the control room, hurried into the recording space, careful not to trip over the cables and found my station in an individual cabin built especially for recording vocals. I’d lay down my guitar parts separately during the overdub session, so that the guitar track wouldn’t bleed into my $3,000 vocal microphone, a Neumann U87. Barry, the junior assistant, was already waiting to stick some headphones on me. Once those enclosed plastic shells enveloped my auditory organs, a louder, more muffled version of what I heard in the control room piped into my ears. I caught on to what they were playing and sang along. The lyrics I knew by heart, and I could concentrate on feel and expression. That was only the warm-up. Suddenly, Jake was squawking in the phones, as if he were inside our heads, getting us ready for the real deal.

  “If you guys could only be sitting here in the booth with us, listening to what’s coming over the monitors, you wouldn’t want to go back in there for the fear of missing something. I’ve seen you guys play live and heard about the legendary concert you gave last week in Woonsocket. And if only half of that…alchemy, or whatever you want to call it, can be transported to tape today, we’ve got a winner. So, do what you do best, and let it rip. This show’s for you guys. Tape’s rolling.”

  It was a unanimous decision to begin with “Fly Someday”, and when I heard Dale’s four clicks of the drumsticks and felt the tingling in my tummy, I realized it was the perfect choice.

  “Fly Someday”

  There needn’t be a reason / Some things happen just the same

  Another moment / Another face without a name

  I wake up in the morning / And I start it up again

  a simple way to make the day flow / And I hope, and I pray that I will…

  Chorus:

  Fly away / I’m going to fly away someday

  And maybe I will find that / wherever I will land / You’ll be there

  Fly away / I’m going to fly away someday

  And maybe I will find that / Wherever I will land / You’ll take

  my hand

  You’ll take my hand

  It’s getting so much harder / Sometimes I just can’t find a friend

  Trying take it further / Than my body wants to bend

  Gotta go for the gold cuz I’m getting old you know / But it seems so far away

  To make it cuz I’m playing it solo / But I hope, and I pray that I will…

  [Repeat Chorus]

  Hey, I’m falling down / I’ll write my story

  Hey, I’m breaking ground /I’ll seek my glory

  Hey, got to leave this town / And make my way someday back to you

  And I thought I saw you standing there / Thought I had the dime to call you on the phone

  Couldn’t wait another minute cuz you’re slipping, sliding, driving me out of my mind.

  There needn’t be a reason / Some things happen just the same

  Another moment / another face for me to frame

  I’ll try again tomorrow / Cuz it seems too hard today

  To fight against the fears that bind me / But I hope, and I pray that I will…

  [Repeat Chorus]

  The first number went down like cream cheese on toast, and we were done with the basics for all the tunes by late afternoon. We tracked each song twice and Jake said it’s a waste of time and tape to do a third run. He said he captured everything he needed and didn’t hear any way to improve it.

  After five hours of straight playing, we were glad to hang out in the control room basking in the fruits of our labor and in between playbacks, engage in mini rounds of busting nuggets to remind ourselves what this journey’s all about. We were all floored by the impeccable quality of the recording and crispness of the songs and couldn’t believe it was us on tape. Those kinds of results were usually saved for rock legends. After all the compliments, niceties, expressions of gratefulness and oodles of ass kissing, and before wrapping up for good, I asked Jake if we could use the vocal cabin for an ad hoc band meeting. He didn’t object and followed with a small speech concerning the theory of how certain frequencies cause people to gravitate to each other and how he thinks we hit all those frequencies today. I rounded up the bunch and dragged them into the cabin. The first thing I did was disconnect the cable from the microphone, so nobody in the control room would hear our discussion.

  “Man, it stinks in here,” Tommy said and moaned, wrinkling his nose.

  “If you were festering in this box for six hours,” I said, “it wouldn’t smell like petunias either.”

  “Probably right, but that ain’t making it no better,” Tommy replied. “Come on, get your little pep rally out of the way so I can breathe again.”

  “Pep rally? Haven’t you had enough already? I need to talk about something way more important, the situation with Amy.”

  “She needs us,” Stevie said, barely waiting for my sentence to end. “She’s in big trouble and counting on us for help. We all need to chip in.”

  I widened my eyes and creased my forehead, wondering how Stevie managed to get those words out so quick. Before he could expound on his proclamation, I retook the forum. “You saw what happened Friday night, and that was only the beginning. Those jerks won’t be so patient next time. Who knows what they’ll pull; we need to arm ourselves.”

  “With guns?” Piano Mike asked, appearing to tighten up.

  “Only figuratively,” I said. “We need a strategy to stop them.”

  “Why not with guns?” Dale said. “At least, we’d be at a level playing field.”

  “Guns kill people,” Stevie said, thwarting Dale’s suggestion. “People with guns kill other people with guns.”

  “True,” Dale replied with a rising pitch and rubbed the boney outline of his Rock Hudson chin. “Ok, no guns. What then?”

  “Unfortunately, I’m stumped myself,” I said. “Let’s synch up with Amy at the warehouse and come up with a plan together. Six heads are better than one.”

  “Tonight?” Tommy said. He picked up his flannel shirt and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Can’t cut it. Tina’s expecting me.”

  Stevie turned towards Dale. “What about you?” he said, laying on the tough-talk extra thick. “You wimping out or what?”

  “What do I look like a wuss?” Dale said and moved his gaze towards Tommy, grinning, as Tommy looked off to the side. “Course, I’m in. I live for shit like this.”

  I glared at Stevie, taken aback by his second call to action within minutes. Senor Softspoken, Mr. Murmur, Kid Whisper had gotten hold of an extra dose of bravado and seemed to be taking on the role as co-commander, whereas he generally felt more at home in the background with stuff like this. Both honor and unease were painted to his face.

  “Alrighty then.” I said, seizing the reigns. “Stone’s peons must be waiting outside the studio. We’ll go together. No clue how, though, without being followed, I mean.”

  “What about a truck?” Mike said. “I can call up one of the warehouse employees. I bet one of them would m
ake a special run for the boss’s son, especially since they earn double time on a Sunday. We can ride in the back. They won’t even see that anyone’s back there.”

  “Mike, you’re a genius,” I said, sensing a viable way to make this gathering happen. “But how do we sneak out of here, into the truck, and back in again without them noticing?”

  “You didn’t see that service elevator leading to the outside?” Mike said. “You can back a truck right up to that loading dock, and no one can see what’s going on. I noticed it because that’s what I do, all the time. Go to customers and suppliers and take along muscular guys who load and unload while I do business.”

  “You’re on a roll, Einstein,” I said. “Go use Jake’s phone and see if you can reach someone. Have them come asap. I’ll find out how long the studio’s open.”

  It didn’t take but five minutes before Piano Mike returned, and like that, all arrangements were made.

  The ride was short. Still, we bounced around the dusty cargo of the Ford Econoline 350 Box Truck the entire way from Cranston to the warehouse. The grooved, metal floor gave my boney bottom more than a good thrashing, and the arrival couldn’t have come soon enough. Unfortunately, the driver had a deadline to take us back by eight so he wouldn’t miss Murder, She Wrote, his all-time favorite TV show, he said. It was a sorry excuse but would still give us two hours to come up with a plan as a group.