The Maestro

by T. Davis Bunn

  “You weren’t practicing. You were on your way to the moon.”

  I smiled in reply. Now that it was back, it was hard to remember how I survived those ten long years without hearing the inner song.

  Mario noted the change in my expression, said, “This is no day to get serious on me, Maestro.”

  “I was just thinking.”

  “I know you were. You want to think today, you think about how it feels to be saved.”

  I looked at him. “I never thanked you, did I?”

  He did not need to ask what I was talking about. “Don’t thank me, Maestro. Thank God.”

  “I do,” I said. “Every day.”

  “Gianni,” Amy called. I turned to see her shrug off a shapeless raincoat, revealing a shimmering white sequined dress. The move was greeted by whistles and applause from the light technicians and cameramen. Amy smiled, raised her hair up with both hands and swung around in a slow dance step.

  Pipo grinned at Jake. “I thought the pros never noticed anything like that.”

  “Wrong network,” the chief cameraman replied.

  Siebren stepped lightly onto the stage. “Let’s try to get some of that steam on tape, shall we?”

  Mario grinned, gave me a double thumbs up, and raced for the back doors.

  Siebren looked up to the glass control room set high in the back wall. He was not wearing a headset. He said in a loud voice, “Anybody up there awake?”

  The orange ready-light above the smoked-glass panel blinked on and off a couple of times.

  “Wonders will never cease,” Siebren said loudly. “Think somebody might be able to find the CD? The right one?”

  The orange light went into a paroxysm of blinking. The chief cameraman adjusted his headset. “Willy asks if you might want to take time for a little stroll outside.”

  Siebren grinned at the opaque glass. “I hear they’re looking for somebody to cover the drought in Somalia.”

  “Willy says they’re all ready to roll,” the cameraman said.

  “I thought they might be,” Siebren said, and turned to us. “Since you’ve already practiced synching, perhaps we can do away with playing the song through a few times.”

  “Yes, please,” Amy said.

  “I’d get down on my knees, but there’s not enough room back here,” Pipo agreed.

  “Why don’t we go ahead and start then,” Siebren suggested, his voice nonchalant. “I’ll just stay down here for the first filming to make sure everything runs according to plan.”

  An electric thrill ran through me as the cameramen moved into position. I saw the others stand a little more erect, adjust straps and instruments one last time, tense for the start.

  “Everybody ready?” Siebren asked, and looked at each of us in turn. “Fine. Watch the yellow light, please. It will blink four times, then ‘Love Enough To Share’ will begin on the fifth blink. Drums, conga, horns, singer, please feel free to make as much noise as you like. That’s the nice thing about not doing it live on the show. Does anyone need a light to count time?”

  “Not anymore,” Pipo said.

  Siebren looked back at the control room. “Four blinks, then start, yes? Not fourteen.”

  The cameraman said, “Willy says okay.”

  “No, he didn’t,” said a voice from overhead.

  The cameraman shrugged. “It’s what he meant.”

  The ready-light blinked; one, two, three, four, and we began.

  We had done the song countless times over the past three days, hammering away in sheer boredom until all awkwardness over synching had disappeared. I blessed Jake’s tireless work today as I played with only part of my mind, the rest occupied with Amy swaying and singing her heart out, Pipo hammering and grinning, the three camera cranes swinging and swooping, the man with the portable video-cam kneeling at my feet and then rising to shove it in my face, Siebren standing at the stage’s corner, pointing out things to the control room, men scampering along fragile bridges overhead, lights flashing and focusing and filling the stage with colors.

  When the song ended Siebren stood in thought for a moment, turned to the control panel, and asked in a loud voice, “How did it look?”

  The cameraman closest to me said, “Willy can’t decide who looked better, the girl or the kid here.”

  “This I’ve got to see,” Siebren said, jumping down lightly from the stage. “Five minutes, everybody. Please don’t leave the stage.”

  The five became ten and the ten fifteen before Siebren’s voice crackled from the enclosed speakers, “All right, positions everyone. We will do another couple of takes and perhaps change a few things.” He waited a moment for us to settle, then said, “On the fifth blink, as before.”

  We did three more takes, the cameras switching positions each time. The only moment of nerves for me came on the third take, when two of the cranes and one of the shoulder cameras were all pointed at me throughout most of the song. Then we did four more takes where they flooded the stage with smoke that glowed as the floor lights ran through complex patterns. Amy’s steps raised multicolored swirls that swayed in time to her dance.

  At the end of that take Siebren’s voice came through the speakers once more. “Lady and gentlemen, your preparation has made our job infinitely easier. From all of us, thank you.”

  Pipo whooped and danced out from behind his congas, kicking streams of smoke up over his head. The rest of us stood and watched his war dance and grinned our enjoyment of having a big step behind us.

  Siebren came through the back doors and walked to the edge of the stage. “The sound studio is ready. How many of you need to change clothes?”

  “Just Gianni and Amy,” Jake replied. “We thought the rest of us would stay casual.”

  Siebren thought it over. “And the two here are in frilly evening shirts and tuxedo trousers, is that right?”

  “A matched pair,” Jake agreed.

  Siebren looked to where the chief cameraman stood beside me. “I like the contrast.”

  “Especially with the studio for background,” the cameraman agreed. “Old wood and funky curtains. Maybe we could start and end with sweeps through the control room.”

  “Great idea,” Siebren said, unleashing his grin. He turned back to us, said once more, “So long as you understand it might not be workable in the time we have.”

  “Might as well give it a shot,” Jake said for us all.

  “I agree. All right, those of you who do not have to change, perhaps you could give us a hand moving the equipment.” He looked at me and Amy. “I would be most grateful if you two could please be quick.”

  “You heard the man,” Jake said. “Get a move on.”

  Ten minutes later I was seated on a stool in the very center of the largest live room I had ever seen. It needed to be big. The place for Amy and me was surrounded by lights on tripods with little white umbrellas to soften the glare. It was hot. I felt little prickles of sweat breaking out as the makeup girl worked on my face. Just outside the lights, Amy stood patiently while one girl powdered her face and another braided silver threads into her hair. The chief cameraman was holding a light meter to my face while two men with shoulder-cams walked in and out of the light tripods getting their movements down and talking through their headsets.

  The chief cameraman came up and took the acoustic guitar I was holding. As he carefully polished the face, Siebren appeared in the control room doorway and clapped his hands once. “Pay attention, please. I want you all to know that we have less than an hour to get this right. We have no monitors, so we won’t have any idea how this is going to look until it’s too late to change anything. We’re going to do as many takes as time permits and hope for the best. If this does work, it will largely be because you came in prepared.”

  Siebren thought a moment, then asked the cameraman, “Did I forget anything?”

  The cameraman shook his head. “You remind me of a man waiting for his first baby to be born.”

  Siebren
gave the room one more glance. “That’s it, then. Good luck, everyone.”

  The cameraman handed back my guitar. “Try not to touch the face. Fingerprints will show up strong under these lights. And don’t swing it too much while we’re filming. We’ve got to keep it at an angle where there’s no glare.”

  Amy moved in between the lights, allowed herself to be positioned by the cameraman. He told us, “You two are going to have to be close enough for us to shoot both faces together.” He turned me slightly. “Let’s see if we can get the neck of your guitar and the finger action in there as well.”

  He turned to where one of the cameraman crouched and focused up on us, asked, “How does it look?”

  “Dynamite.”

  “Try for a side shot,” he said to one of the men hovering outside the circle of light. He turned back to me, said, “Gianni, that’s your name, right? Yeah, well, don’t you dare move. Don’t even breathe more than you have to.”

  “All right.”

  To Amy he said, “Try to hold your swaying down to about this much.” He held his two hands up a short distance apart. He looked at the cameraman who stood at my right shoulder, asked, “That about right?”

  “Maybe a little more.”

  Siebren called from the control room, “No, let’s keep it down to as little as possible. We can’t redo a shot if she moves out of the frame.”

  The cameraman nodded, said to Amy, “We need to have you and Gianni in silhouette, with the kid’s finger action kind of framing the bottom part of the picture.”

  Amy appeared surprisingly calm. “I understand.”

  The chief cameraman walked to the control-room door, picked up his video-cam, said to the cameraman beside Amy, “I’ll take the single face shots, moving back and forth between the two. You stay put and concentrate on the side shot.”

  “Right.”

  Siebren said from the doorway, “You gentlemen have your positions marked? Fine. Cover as many angles as you can. All right, everybody set?” He turned to where Willy and Mario were seated behind the control-room console. “Watch my hand, everybody. Five, four, three, two, one, go!”

  My initial case of nerves passed swiftly. With the hollow-body I could actually hear myself play, which had not been possible with the Stratocaster used on “Love Enough To Share.” It was both easier and more fun to follow my part exactly. Amy stood beside and slightly behind me, her face pointed forward, her eyes half closed as she sang. The power of her voice sent chills up my spine.

  We had time for nine takes before Siebren stopped us with, “You are to be congratulated, all of you. If this hasn’t worked it will not be because of lack of effort. I think all of my crew will join me in saying what a pleasure it has been to work with professionals.”

  “Likewise,” Jake called.

  “Thanks a million,” Pipo chorused.

  “Before you break I would like to pan an entrance and an exit through the control room,” Siebren said. “All cameras please leave the studio. Everyone else please hold as still as you can.”

  The chief cameraman walked slowly and steadily in and out of the live room, through the control room, back and forth several times. We held still and followed him with our eyes.

  Siebren clapped the man on the shoulder, said to us, “We have less than ten minutes to break camp. If Natural Light would please help, they would earn our eternal gratitude.”

  ****

  The sound check for the concert was made much easier by having the same camera crew work with us as in the studio. It was a good thing, too. The auditorium was the largest hall that any of us had played in; the empty seats rose up in a seemingly endless wave. The promoters were expecting a sellout crowd. I looked out through the cavernous hall, tried to imagine the place full of people, could not.

  We were scheduled to play two hour-long sets with an hour’s break. In between our two sets one of Holland’s gospel choirs would perform. We were not particularly excited about having our time on stage split in two, but the Gospel Holland people had pleaded long and hard with Jake. They wanted us to cushion the choir on either side, and show them on television singing to a full house. Jake told us afterward that he had not felt in much of a position to refuse them anything. We agreed, and said nothing more about it.

  There were three men with shoulder-cams weaving their way among us, another positioned directly in front of the stage on a raised platform, and a final camera back on the distant balcony. Lighting and mixing boards were so far away that I could not make out Mario’s face. It was a very big hall.

  Amy came up to me after the sound check, asked if I wanted to sit in on the press conference.

  “Not if I have to say anything.”

  “You really don’t like being singled out, do you?”

  “It’s not that. Everything I’ve got to say I say in my music.”

  She looked at me, decided, “We all have our different gifts, Gianni. I still need you, though.”

  “Isn’t Jake going to be there?”

  “Of course he is. Times like these, I need both my men.”

  A bespectacled dark-haired young woman who looked enormously harried greeted us as we left the stage. Her name was Monika, she said, and she was working as press aide to Siebren, the show’s producer.

  “The last thing we expected was to have the secular press show an interest in what we were doing here,” she told us. “But this concert has been sold out for several days. I guess they wanted to find out what’s going on.”

  Amy took the news with no visible display of nervousness. “So what kind of questions should we expect?”

  “Who knows?” She brushed her limp hair back. “The secular press in Holland is so far away from the religious press that it may as well be on Venus.”

  The pressroom was a large dining hall with one wall of glass overlooking a rock garden. Long tables, each set for twenty people, stretched out in orderly rows. The table closest to the entrance was filled with perhaps a dozen people. They fiddled with note pads and microphones and spoke quietly among themselves. Heads swiveled at our entrance, but there were no smiles, no expressions of friendliness.

  Monika gave them a nervous grin. “I would like to introduce the leaders of Natural Light, Jake and Amy Templer. And this is their lead guitarist.” She glanced at the paper in her hand, pronounced incorrectly, “Giovanni di Alta.”

  We went around and sat in the three open chairs directly opposite the center of their group. Tape players were switched on, microphones pushed in our direction.

  The interviewer sat directly across from Amy, a tired-looking man in faddish clothes with ash-colored hair cut in a punk style. “Do you find a very great difference between a normal rock concert and one of your own?”

  Amy laughed. “Which are you saying is normal?”

  The interviewer seemed uncertain how to continue. “I mean, have you ever gone to rock concerts that weren’t, like, Christian?”

  Amy shared a smile with Jake before replying, “One or two.”

  “Well, did you notice any real difference?”

  “They’re two different worlds,” Jake said.

  “There is such tension and negative energy at secular rock concerts, such a potential for extremes,” Amy said. “The violence you see sometimes is just an offshoot. Billy Joel did an interview not too long ago where he said that a successful concert was one where the first three rows of chairs were totally demolished. Look at Prince, or any number of heavy-metal bands. The definition of success for a secular rock group is that they work the crowd up to such a frenzy that they lose control.”

  Six arms stretched across the table, and two more reached in from either side. Their microphones pressed tightly around Amy’s face like a battery of accusing metal fingers. It was not like approaching the microphone on stage. There was a cynicism here, a sense that they were hoping something would go wrong.

  The microphones turned back toward their appointed spokesman. “So how would you describe your
own music’s direction?”

  “With Christian rock there is a sense of being lifted upward,” Amy replied. “The difference between gospel and secular rock music could not be greater. Look around you tonight and tell me what you find. Ask yourself if you have ever seen so many open-hearted smiles in a secular concert. Joy, peace and excitement all at the same time.”

  The microphones moved back for the question, “And what do you feel causes this difference?”

  “The million dollar question,” Jake said.

  Amy reached out her hand to Jake. “May I have your Bible, please?”

  She turned the pages, found the passage, and looked up. “This comes from the sixth chapter of Luke:

  Each tree is recognized by its own fruit.

  People do not pick figs from thornbushes, or grapes from briars. The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks.

  She stared the interviewer directly in the eyes. “We give from what the Lord has given us. It is as simple as that. We celebrate because we are saved, and call for others to know the joy that we have found in Him.”

  We arrived backstage after dinner and went directly to our minuscule dressing room. We had not been there more than a few minutes when one of the roadies came in and asked for me. He passed me a slip of paper. I opened it, and felt the years fall away.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  The roadie motioned with his bearded chin. “By the side entrance. Didn’t want to come into the hall.”

  “What is it, Gianni?” Amy asked.

  “I’ve got to go see someone,” I said, and followed the roadie from the room.

  * * *

  He was waiting for me in the light of a slow-motion summer dusk. He stood as far from the laughing, jostling crowd as he could and still remain in view of the side doors. He wore exactly the same clothes I remembered—dark suit, over-starched white shirt, thin dark tie, glinting spectacles. I steeled myself and walked over.

  “I heard from several of my students that you were back,” Professor Schmitz told me. “I refused to believe you had stooped to this level until they brought me a poster of this concert.”