Frowning, I said, “I don’t want to change my name.”
John pulled a chunk of ice from his glass and tossed it at me. It bounced off my nose and onto my lap. “You have to, girlie-man. You could be a cousin. A very distant cousin…”
I swept the ice from my lap and said, “Hey, that landed on my dress!”
Fritz threw his hands in the air and said, “Ooh my goodness! What a disaster! Oh! The humanity!” John and Sammy both looked at me and started laughing.
“This dress is expensive, guys! Mom? Does my nose look okay?”
Before Mom could answer, a forty-ish woman dressed twenty-ish who had been passing by stopped and said, “Excuse me for interrupting, but I just wanted to say that I remember seeing you today with Brooklyn Farrell while I was out shopping this afternoon and I asked myself, ‘Now, just who is that adorable young lady with Ms. Farrell?’ Well, I just had to find out and called Brook’s office and they said to call Mr. Winters’ office and they said you were part of a new act he’d just signed up.”
I swear she didn’t take one breath.
Mom partially stood up and offered her hand to Ms. Busybody. “I’m Denise Gray, manager of ‘John Gray’s Band’; the group of young people at the table.” Mom proceeded to introduce everyone at the table. She introduced me as Michelle Grayson.
Smiling, the woman said, “I’m Susan Stromberg, editor of ‘Teen Bop Magazine’, and you all look like a fine group of kids. Mr. Winters promised me some promotional pictures when your album is released.” Turning to face me and handing me a business card, she continued, “And, Miss Grayson, if you’d like to stop by the office some time, we’d love to have you. I know when your album is released, our readers are going to want to know all about you — from your fave celebs to your favorite nail polish. Well, I simply must run. Best of luck!”She waved her fingers and walked off.
“Holy shit!” breathed John. “What was that? I didn’t think she could stop talking!”
“John, be nice,” admonished Mom. “We haven’t recorded one song and already a magazine is interested in us. I think that’s cool.”
Smiling, I said, “But did you hear her? She called me ‘adorable’!”
John wrinkled up his nose and said, “She also called you ‘young lady’.”
Frowning, I retorted, “Well, that doesn’t cancel out being called adorable!”
John started to say something else, but the food finally arrived.
* * *
Tuesday morning was an absolute zoo. I hated every last nanosecond of it. We had to be at the studio at or before seven in the morning. Mr. Winters was sending a van to pick us up at six-thirty and to make sure we arrived. At six, John and the other band members were just starting to crawl out of bed. I, on the other hand had been up for an hour already.
Mom fussed over what I should wear. It took ten minutes to convince her I didn’t need to be dressed fancy for a recording session. Once that battle was over, then came the make-up. Getting the make-over the day before was one thing. But on this morning, Mom was making me put it on myself. I hate make-up! Okay, I guess we shouldn’t use the word ‘hate’. So, let me say I despise make-up! Why do girls subject themselves to this?
The door was open between our two adjacent rooms and there was a constant parade between the two rooms as the guys tried to find an un-occupied toilet or a space in front of the sink to brush their teeth.
After the tenth time of being bumped in the back of the head, I cried, “Watch it, will ya? I’m trying to put on mascara here. I don’t want to poke my eye out with this stupid thing!”
John looked around the room for Mom then said, “Mom! Can’t my little brother put his make-up on somewhere else? He’s in front of the sink and I can’t brush my teeth. And I think I’m going to hurl seeing Mikey in a bra and panties.”
In a scolding tone, Mom said, “You’ll just have to deal with it John. Michelle had some trouble this morning with her make-up, but I think she has it down now. Girls take a little longer to get ready because we just don’t sniff our shirts to see if they’re still wearable.”
John screwed up his face and asked, “Why do you keep calling Mike ‘Michelle’ and acting like he’s a girl. It’s just us, Mom.”
“I agree. In fact, Mom…” I started to say.
Mom raised her voice so all could hear. She said, “Now, listen everyone! I thought it was clear, but maybe it’s not. When we’re together as a band or talking about the band, that person,” she jabbed a finger at me, “is Michelle. Michelle is a girl. Be sure to use the proper pronouns. Got it? Okay.”
I don’t know how we did it, but we were all actually in the hotel lobby before the van arrived to take us to the studio. All of us, including Fritz, were just a little somber during the short ride to the studio. We all knew that after this ride, our lives would never be the same again.
* * *
We arrived at the studio with a few minutes to spare. I stood and watched as the guys unloaded their instruments from the van. Every time I tried to help, I was told to move out of the way. The studio crew directed the guys to a large sound room. Juan set his drums up there. There were several smaller booths along one wall.
Through a window, I saw Mr. Winters talking to some guy in his mid-40s with long black curly hair and a beard. Feeling useless, I found an empty stool and sat down and watched the guys and the crew run cables here and there. While I was looking about the room, I looked to one side and saw a young crewmember staring at me. He quickly diverted his eyes elsewhere. Oh, just peachy… I was being ogled at.
They were starting to do some sound tests when Mr. Winters and the bearded guy entered the studio. Winters cleared his throat and called out, “Listen up guys! I’d like to introduce the guy who is going to keep you on track to a great album. This is Richard Peter Johnson, your album’s producer.”
Fritz started to chuckle and said, “You gotta be shittin’ us, man. That can’t be his real name!”
Scowling, but with an even voice, dripping with authority, Mr. Johnson said, “You find something amusing about my name?”
Fritz stopped laughing and even took a step backward as he said, “Uh, no sir! Not at all.”
Glancing around at us, Mr. Johnson said, “That’s good. I expect everyone here to act like professionals. Let’s get down to business. We’re going to start today by warming up with what I consider your two weakest songs, by just jamming a little. I brought in some studio musicians this first day to help out.”
Mr. Johnson suddenly looked over at me and said, “You, girlie, what’s your name?”
I swallowed and meekly said, “Michelle.”
“Michelle, we’re not going to need you at all until this afternoon sometime. I’d recommend you stay and rehearse your solo piece, but you can go if you want, it’s up to you. If you stay, try not to get in the way, okay? All right. We’re on a tight schedule; let’s get it done.” He turned and headed for what I took for the control booth. Mom followed him in.
The guys and the studio musicians both started hooking up their instruments and putting on headphones. Other crew members were busy checking cable connections and then clearing the room. Mr. Winters excused himself as he had some other business to attend to. He promised to return in a couple of hours.
The young guy who had been looking at me approached. I couldn’t help but think, ‘Oh, God, now what?’
“Hi,” he said simply. “I’m Scott, one of the sound techs. I thought you might want to watch from the control booth for a bit.” He pointed to a large window across the room. “Then there’s some sound booths you can rehearse in if you like.”
Actually, being in the control booth sounded kind of cool, so I said, “Sure!”
Scott led me across the room and through the door into the control booth. Mr. Johnson was already seated, wearing headphones. Scott took the empty seat next to Mr. Johnson, placed a set of headphones around his
neck and then started checking all the settings.
Mr. Johnson hit a switch on the microphone near him and said, “Okay people. Let’s get some sound checks. We’ll run through today’s songs a couple of times; then we’ll lay down the instrument track. You’re not being paid to stand around…let’s go.”
I watched the guys run through some riffs while Scott adjusted sound levels. I marveled at all the knobs and switches and was impressed with Scott’s expertise.
I watched them run through their songs a few times, and then decided I’d better practice my song. During a lull in the activities, I asked Scott where I should go to practice. He looked through a stack of tapes, extracted one of them and then grabbed some sheets of paper from a desk. He then led me down a short corridor to a small sound booth.
There was a tape player in the small room and Scott put the tape into it. He then handed me the sheets of paper. I glanced over them and saw it was the music for my solo. Scott then unnecessarily explained how to use the tape player and left. I stood there for a few moments staring at the sheet of paper. I hit the play button and began to warble my little heart out.
* * *
Singing the same song, over and over in a small room by yourself is boring.
After an hour, I had to get out of that stupid little room. I wandered back towards the control booth. I cracked the door open and looked in. Mr. Johnson was running his hand through his long hair in an exasperated gesture.
“Guys, I know you’ve never really been in a real recording studio before,” Mr. Johnson said with a strained voice, “but I really thought by the time you reached this point, you’d be more professional musicians than this. Let’s try it again, from the top.”
Through the window, I could see John getting frustrated and upset. Fritz looked like he wanted to kill somebody. Mom was shaking her head. Apparently the session wasn’t going well. Scott saw me standing in the back of the room and gave me an apologetic smile.
John and the others looked at each other and John nodded his head in a silent count. The instruments burst into sound. Sammy sounded slightly behind the others. Mr. Johnson clicked his mike again and said, “Stop, stop. You guys aren’t together. Again!”
John, looking furious, took a step towards the window. Waving his arms, he yelled, “Just what the hell do you want, man?”
With a patience in his voice that his eyes belied, Mr. Johnson spoke into his mike again. “None of you were at the same tempo. I may be mistaken, but I think you’re supposed to all be playing together. Look, we’re not getting anywhere. Take a fifteen minute break, and we’ll give it another go.”
Mom got up and left the booth. Through the glass window, I saw her start to talk to John.
With a violent swat, Mr. Johnson snapped the microphone off. To Scott he said, “Man, what’s with those fuckers? I thought they were supposed to be hot.” Then he saw me standing at the back of the room. He rubbed his bearded chin and the back of his neck then started talking to Scott so that I couldn’t hear him.
Scott would gesture, nod, shake his head along with whatever it was Mr. Johnson was saying. Occasionally, he’d glance back over to me, and then divert his eyes quickly back.
A few minutes into the break, Mr. Winters arrived. He glanced around the studio, and saw no one doing anything. He approached me and said cheerfully, “Good morning, Miss Grayson! How’s… ah…” He looked around again. “How are things going so far?”
I shrugged and said quietly, “I think John and Mr. Johnson hate each other.” Mr. Winters gave me a questioning look and I continued, “Mr. Johnson thinks our band sucks.”
I thought I was speaking quietly, but apparently Mr. Johnson heard. He turned to face us and said, “Hal, where did you find these guys? Are they the same ones that made that demo you sent me?”
Mr. Winters nodded and said, “Yes… yes they are. What’s the problem, Dick?” I had a feeling not many people could get away with calling Mr. Johnson ‘Dick’.
Frowning, Dick said, “They all won’t stay in tempo, or they’ll be flat or they come in late. You name it, they’re doing it.”
Mr. Winters shrugged, “I’ll chalk it up to first day jitters. All of this is new to them.”
Mr. Johnson slumped down in his chair, “Well, the morning is pretty much shot. I should probably send someone out to bring back some sandwiches or something for lunch.” He leaned forward and pointed at me. “And you, young lady, we’ll do your solo feature after lunch. Give these guys a chance to get their heads screwed on straight.”
Mr. Johnson stood, stretched and ran his hands back through his thick hair and sighed. “Man! This would be a tight week for pros. I don’t see how we’re going to get through this in so short a time, Hal.”
Mr. Winters laughed, “That’s why the studio picked you. You’re a regular goddamned miracle worker.”
“Shit!” laughed Mr. Johnson. “This is going to take a miracle.” He looked over at me and softened his expression. “No offense miss. I’m just used to dealing with more seasoned acts.”
I folded my arms and fixed Mr. Johnson with a steely gaze. “Just give them a chance, Dick. They’ll pull this off just fine. You’ll see.”
Mr. Johnson let out a loud laugh. “I sure hope you’re right miss. I hope you’re right.” He paused a moment, then turned to Scott. “Hey Scott, we’re a little short handed here today, and I’m just going to let them jam a little bit to loosen up. How about running down to the deli and getting some sandwiches? Just tell Kumar to bill the studio.”
Scott stood up and said, “Sure, chief. No problem. I think I can carry all that.”
“I’m not doing anything right now,” I chirped. “Can I go with you?”Being in the studio all morning was beginning to give me a headache.
An odd expression shot across Scott’s face as he smiled broadly and said, “Sure! I’d love to have you along.”
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
The first couple of minutes after leaving the studio were spent in silence. Finally, Scott spoke up. “So, how do y’all like it here in L.A.?”
“It’s very crowded and it kinda smells.”
Wrinkling his nose Scott said, “Yeah, but you get used to it. This is a lot different from back home in Texas, too.”
“Texas? How did you wind up out here?”
“Well, after graduating from Texas Tech, I thought there’d be more opportunities out here.” Scott laughed and said, “Dad thought I was crazy to move out here in the ‘Land of Fruits and Nuts.’”
I studied Scott’s face for a moment and asked, “You’ve already graduated from college? I didn’t think you were that old.”
Scott smiled again and said, “I get that a lot. I’m twenty-five. A lot of people think I’m like, seventeen or eighteen.”
“Wow, you’re a lot older than me,” I said.
With a slightly worried look, Scott said, “If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”
“I’m fourteen,” I said honestly.
An ‘Oh shit!’ look crossed Scott’s face. He looked away and said, “Oh. I thought you were about the same age as the others in your band.”
I just said, “Well, girls mature faster than boys.”
Scott just nodded and looked away. Earlier I was afraid that Scott was going to ask me out or something. Thankfully, I had a feeling that that wasn’t going to happen now.
* * *
I was totally nervous and I don’t know why. I’d practiced my song all morning, but now standing in the recording booth, headphones on and staring at the microphone, I was shaking like a leaf. I looked over at the control booth and I could see Mom standing behind Mr. Johnson. She gave me an encouraging wave.
Mr. Johnson’s voice boomed in my headphones, “Okay, Michelle. Let me know when you’re ready; we’ll start the music and I’ll cue you. Okay?”
There was a glass of water on a tab
le nearby. I took a drink and swallowed audibly, “I’m ready Mr. Johnson.”
The music started playing the intro. I watched for Mr. Johnson’s cue… and I came in late. The music stopped in the headphones.
With a patience and a calmness he didn’t have for the band, Mr. Johnson said, “That’s okay, Michelle. I know you’re nervous. Let’s do this just like we rehearsed it. Let’s try it again.”
Looking past Mr. Johnson towards Mom, I said, “I’m ready.” I bit my lip and closed my eyes as the intro played once more. This time I hit it perfect. Mom gave me a thumb’s up as I sang my little heart out. Mr. Johnson smiled and said something to Scott.
I sang through to the end without a glitch. Through the headphones, I heard Mr. Johnson say, “That was great Michelle. Let’s try it one more time, with a bit faster tempo.”
I sang that stupid song about three more times. Each time, Mr. Johnson had said it was great, but then wanted something different. Finally, he was satisfied.
I ran into John as I stepped out of the recording booth. I was beaming and felt lighter than air, “John! Did you hear me? What did you think?”
John shrugged and said, “It was okay I guess. I thought on that last cut you were a little pitchy, but no, it was fine. I guess.”
We both walked into the control booth while Mr. Johnson was talking.
“Now that’s what I was expecting to hear today, Hal.” Mr. Johnson poked a finger into Mr. Winters’ chest, “Finally, someone who has their shit together.”
John’s face twisted into a scowl, and he turned on his heel and stormed out of the control booth. Mom started to say something, but I turned and ran after John.
“John!” I called. “John wait!”
He stopped and spun around to face me. “What the hell do you want?”
Taken aback by his anger, I said, “What’s going on? Why did you get so mad?”
“You don’t know? You can’t guess?” John sputtered. “Little Miss Perfect! ‘Oh, that was great, Michelle… that was perfect Michelle’… bullshit!” His eyes quivered with anger.
I'm with the Band Page 4
