by Katia Rose
It seemed like a more productive alternative to replaying every single moment with Paige and dissecting them like a science project gone wrong.
The latest record I’m working on is a debut EP from some teenage, Québécois singer-songwriter based here in Montreal. I get all my equipment fired up and browse around for the right files, slipping into the rhythm of my work just like I hoped I would.
I can always count on this place to turn the rest of my life into background noise. When I’m here, all that matters is the music.
Schenkman Studios hasn’t made many famous records, but they have made a lot of records. In my four years here, we’ve worked with everyone from opera singers to rappers. I’ve learned more about music between this place’s acoustic panels than I could have doing a whole doctorate in the subject.
Plus, somewhere amidst all the insults, Jacob unearthed a passion for mastering in me that I didn’t know I had. I barely knew what mastering meant before I started working here, but now I get as much of a high off polishing somebody else’s tracks to perfection in the studio as I do playing my own stuff in clubs.
Mastering is like an excavation. It’s like getting handed a map and a metal detector and being told to dig for treasure. It’s about being hearing things no one else hears, looking for things in places no one else would think to search. It’s about making all those indefinable adjustments that take a piece of music from sounding very good to fucking amazing.
There are more technical ways to describe it, but to me, that’s what it’s about. The mastering engineer is the last person to get hold of a song before the production process is finished. They’re basically the gatekeeper of quality.
I flip some switches around so that the track I’m working on plays from the state of the art speakers arranged around the room. I close my eyes, taking a moment to just listen before I work. An acoustic guitar fills the air with a wistful set of chords that make something in my chest tighten.
The singer is good—really good. The songs are simple but honest, like pages from the diary of the teenager who wrote them. I can remember what it was like to be that young, to feel so full of life it’s like it was bursting out of me, clanging in my head and coursing through my body every second of every day, always searching for an escape.
It found that escape in music. I remember staying up until almost dawn on school nights, hiding the light from my laptop so my mom wouldn’t ground me, as I worked on what were admittedly very shitty pieces of electronic music made on very basic free software. I remember hitting play when I decided they were finally done and collapsing onto my pillow, headphones on as I stared up at the ceiling lit by the streetlight outside.
I watch the little bar passing over the sound waves on my laptop screen as the song keeps playing, but all I can see is Paige’s face lit by the blue glow from that neon beer sign as she told me it was too late.
Too late for us.
I haven’t known what to do with myself since then. I spent half of yesterday stalking her Chanly accounts on the internet, even though it hurt like hell. She doesn’t post much herself, but her music has got some rabid fans. After watching a few clips on YouTube and Instagram and checking out what she’s got on SoundCloud, I realized her set at Taverne Toulouse was just child’s play compared to what she’s capable of.
I’ve never heard anything like it. I’ve never seen anyone play the way she does. I read through a whole Reddit thread analyzing a photo she posted of her live setup, and the things she does with her gear impressed me not only as a musician but as someone with a degree in electrical engineering.
I don’t know how she isn’t huge yet. Everyone who follows her seems to agree.
Chanly.
I combed through my memories—and Google—but I couldn’t figure out what it means or why she picked it.
One of the many things I haven’t figured out.
I dive headfirst into working on the EP after that, losing myself in details and technicalities so I can forget how much every song makes me think of her. I don’t come up for air until my stomach is growling so loud I can hear it with my headphones on and my back is crying out for me to do something other than sit in a chair. I glance at the clock in the corner of my screen and do a double-take when I see it’s almost 3PM.
The studio time warp effect shouldn’t surprise me anymore, but it’s still jarring to look up and realize five hours have gone by in what felt like the space of a few minutes.
I stand up—my spine singing in relief—and take my phone with me to check for messages as I head down the hall to the break room. I know I have some leftovers in the mini fridge, but whether they’re still edible or not will soon be revealed.
I have a text from my mom, which will no doubt be the five millionth not-so-subtle hint that she expects me to have a plus one for my little sister’s wedding in a few weeks, or so help her God, she will find one for me. I open it up, and sure enough, it reads:
Hi, son. Aaliyah and I are doing the seating plan. I will send a picture. Isn’t it cute? Just wondering if there’s a name I should add for you. Don’t worry; it’s not too late! Let me know.
My mother, Sandra Beckman-Salah, is one of the country’s leading scholars of Middle-Eastern studies. She is a no-nonsense, hardass professor with two PhDs, four published books, and a strict enough dedication to formality to use semicolons in her texts, but for some unknown reason, she becomes an irrational maniac about weddings.
It was the same thing when my older sister got married. She acted like it was going to bring the whole ceremony to a halt if I didn’t show up with a date. I was single and didn’t have anyone I felt like bringing, so she talked me into going with the daughter of her assistant professor.
The first thing the girl said to me was that I looked very ‘exotic’ in my suit and that she couldn’t believe I was half-white.
It was all downhill from there.
I check the rest of my texts instead of sending a reply, hoping against reason that if I ignore my mom long enough, she’ll just go ahead and mark me down as solo on the seating plan.
There are a few messages from Nabil about some equipment issue at The Cube Room he’s wondering if I can help with. The texts go from casual to urgent and end with a missed call alert.
I feel like a shit friend, but part of me considers ignoring him too. Getting lost in my work today was exactly what I needed; even this trip to the break room already has me thinking about Paige again.
“Youssef!” Jacob comes into the break room and stops to cross his arms over his chest when he spots me. He’s wearing his ever-present faded jeans and old Radiohead shirt. “We need to have a chat.”
A few years ago, that phrase from him would have filled me with terror. Now I know him well enough to laugh at the way he makes everything sound like it should be followed with a whole orchestra going ‘Dun Dun DUNNN.’
“Is that so?”
“It is so.” He comes closer and reaches for the coffee pot, where the remains of this morning’s batch are still keeping warm. “You haven’t told me what you think of my proposal yet.”
I swallow and consider sprinting back to my studio to lock the door. I’ve been dodging him about his ‘proposal’ for weeks, mostly because I still can’t believe he made it, never mind actually consider how I feel about it.
In a rare display of genuine emotion, Jacob called me into his office last month and told me I have a rare and special talent in the studio and that Schenkman Studios wouldn’t be what it is without me. Then he offered to sell me half the business and make me the heir to the rest.
I know I shouldn’t be considering it at all. Given where my DJ career is headed, it’s not even an option if I want to keep riding the momentum of my EP, but as soon as he said it, there was a minute when I could see the future so clearly it was like a photograph right in front of my eyes: this place, redone the way I’ve always daydreamed about, filled with clients from all over the world and the proper staff to make i
t happen. I could picture myself bringing it all to life, overseeing the transformation and mastering the projects that really meant something to me along the way.
“Yeah, it’s, um, like I said, it’s a really incredible offer.”
Jacob pours the last of the coffee into his mug. “So why haven’t you taken it?”
I busy myself with cleaning the dishes someone left in the sink. “I just have to think about it.”
He stands there staring at me until I look up from the plate I’m scrubbing.
“Youssef.” His grey eyebrows gather into a frown. “I’ve said this once, and I won’t say it again. You have a gift. You have instincts. You have something that can’t be taught. I need someone to help me keep this place going, and you’ve got what it takes.”
Something swells in my chest, something that feels a whole lot like a yes that wants to get out, but it’s a yes that would also be a no to all the things I’ve spent years dreaming about, things I’m only just starting to achieve.
Those things apparently also make me panic and run out of restaurants, but the idea of giving them up to run this little studio is still too outrageous for me to even wrap my head around.
“Thank you.” I set the dish down on its shelf. “I really appreciate that. I do. I just—”
“You need to think,” he mocks, making air quotes. “All right. Think about it. Just don’t think forever.”
He heads out with his coffee, and I keep working on the dishes. I feel like I’ve already been thinking forever, about everything. All I’ve done since I saw Paige is think, and now that I’ve got Jacob’s proposal on my mind again, I don’t know if even shutting myself up in the studio is going to be enough to keep all the thoughts away.
I get the dishes finished and pull out my phone to read Nabil’s appeals for help again. The Cube Room is only a few blocks away, and whatever electrical issue they’re having might keep me busy for a while. I text him that I’m on my way.
The last of the summer heat is thick and cloying when I step out onto the bright downtown street. Sunlight is bouncing off the glass windows of the high rise office buildings, and the sidewalks are full of business people rolling up their sleeves and tourists sweating through their t-shirts as they haul brand name shopping bags around.
I head down to Rue Saint-Catherine. The Cube Room isn’t all that noticeable during the day, but at night, the huge cube-themed LED installation above their sign is a well-known beacon for people looking for a good night out. I head around to the staff entrance and knock a few times before some college-aged guy opens the door.
“Hey, I’m here to see Nabil.”
He blinks. “Oh shit. You’re Youssef, right?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
He steps back and ushers me in, still blinking. “Wow. I’m a big fan, man. I saw your set at Piknic this summer, and I’ve caught a few of your club shows too. Your shit’s killer, especially that EP.”
“Oh. Thanks, man.” It hits again: that floating feeling. I swallow and resist the urge to shake my head to clear it out. “I appreciate that.”
I wave goodbye and make my way through the backstage area and out onto the main floor of the club. The air smells like a mix of spilt beer, cleaning products, and the stale remnants of dry ice: the sweet perfume of a nightclub during daylight hours. The big cubes made of tube lights that hang from the ceiling are all switched off, but the house lights are on, gleaming off the battered hardwood and the two bars at the back of the huge, empty dance floor. There are some staff members rushing around, and every sound they make echoes.
It’s been a while since I’ve been in here. I used to try to see a couple shows a month and catch up with some of the older staff members, but life hasn’t allowed it since my EP took off.
“Youssef!” Nabil appears at the edge of the stage that also houses the DJ booth and waves like he’s guiding a plane down a runway. “You’re here! Come join me in my office.”
“Your office?” I call out. “Aren’t I supposed to be fixing an electrical problem?”
“All will reveal itself, my friend.”
He disappears, and a few of the staff members rushing around the room laugh as I groan and climb up onto the stage to follow him. A short hallway off one of the wings leads to the staff room and the doors to two offices. Nabil is standing in front of his, grinning at me so wide I’m starting to get suspicious.
“What’s up?”
He just motions for me to follow him and shuts the door behind us. His office is small but organized, with bare concrete walls covered in old event posters. He sits on the edge of his desk, and I lean against the door to stare him down.
“What’s going on?”
“What do you mean what’s going on?”
“You’re acting...weird.”
He winks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Nabil. You just fucking winked at me. I walked three blocks in the sweltering heat to get here. Tell me what’s going on, because I know it can’t be an electrical problem.”
He shrugs, still grinning. “Maybe I’m just acting weird because I’m going on a date tonight.”
“You’re—wait, what?”
He nods and bobs his head to an imaginary beat as my jaw drops. I was starting to think he’d never get over his ex.
“Wait, is it with that girl from the bistro on Saturday?”
More nodding and grooving to a silent beat follows.
I swear in Arabic and reach over to punch him in the arm. “Shit, man. You literally drunkenly chased her through the building and still ended up with a date. I didn’t know you had that kind of game.”
He scoffs. “I did not drunkenly chase her.”
“Close enough.”
“Asshole. Maybe I won’t tell you my other exciting news.”
I lower myself into the chair in front of his desk. “Thank God there’s other news. I’m happy for you, man, but I’d be kind of pissed if you made up some elaborate story just to get me here when you could have, I don’t know, sent a text.”
“Paige is here.”
I jump up out of the chair like it just lit my ass on fire.
“What?”
“Right next door in the other office, talking to our booking agent, actually,” he continues in an even tone as he pretends to look through some papers on his desk. The fucker. “I just thought you might want to know.”
“Nabil!” I grab the papers out of his hand. “What the hell?”
“What?” He tries to feign innocence, but he can’t hide his smirk. “I just thought you two might want another chance to catch up.”
I roll the papers into a tube and hit him in the shoulder. “You get one girl’s phone number and decide it’s time to play matchmaker? I told you she doesn’t want to talk to me! It’s too late. That’s exactly what she said to me. It’s too late.”
I drop back into the chair again and can’t help glancing at the wall beside me.
She’s right behind that wall.
“Yeah, I think you might have mentioned that, I don’t know, seven times in your texts yesterday. It was kind of embarrassing.”
I give him the finger, but all he does is laugh.
“I’m just trying to help you, man. I saw you two the other night, and it is definitely not too late. You guys had, like, sparks shooting out of your eyes whenever you looked at each other. It was intense.”
Intense is exactly how it felt. Even after all this time, I felt more in the first second I saw her behind the DJ booth than I have about any girl in years.
I glance at the wall again.
“You could always tell me what happened back in high school,” Nabil sing-songs. “That might help.”
I glare at him. “I’ve told you. We drifted apart. She stopped wanting me around. It just got...complicated.”
He throws his hands up in the air. “Oh! I see! It got complicated. Well thank you for that explanation. It clears everything up.”
“Not exactly, but now that you mention it, why don’t you go try that?”
“Because it’s stupid, Nabil! And messed up and creepy! What am I supposed to say when she asks me what I’m doing here?”
He stares at me like it should be obvious. “Fixing an electrical issue. Duh. I already gave you the excuse.” He taps the side of his head. “I’ve got some serious matchmaker skills.”
I’m pissed enough to consider asking how that worked out with his ex, but I hold back because the truth is I’m way more terrified than I am angry.
I’m terrified by how much I want to fling that door open and say something crazy. I want to demand answers, to figure out why she said what she said all those years ago.
I want to figure out why it all went wrong.
“Okay, here’s what we do.” Nabil stands up and plants his feet in front of my chair. “You go out on the stage and pretend to be fixing something. She’ll be leaving any minute now, and she’ll walk by on her way out and see you. Then you can pretend you’ve just noticed her, and boom! Conversation started.”
I glare at him. “Are we seriously going to strategize about this like teenage girls?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
I take a long breath and let it out. “No.”
Six
Paige
MASH-UP: A piece of music created out of two or more pre-existing tracks
“All right, that’s everything for today. You’re all booked.”
A bigger-than-I-usually-display-in-front-strangers smile stretches my face as I take my copy of the papers I just signed from off the booking agent’s desk.
