Wishing on a Star

by Christina Jones

  ‘Well, don’t look at me,’ said Geoff hurriedly, ‘I can play, but I didn’t do it, why would I?’

  He shifted his gaze to Buff. ‘I’ve got another gig in studio 3 when your album’s done so I can’t afford all this time-wasting. I’m engineering the new Spikes album, so playing silly buggers here isn’t going to help me if things get held back.’ Geoff looked at the band. ‘Besides, when would I’ve been able to do it, the place is either busy or locked down like a nun’s knickers?’ The band fell about laughing. ‘Buff keeps the keys.’

  ‘Look this isn’t getting us anywhere, I can’t explain any of it. We need to get on, the budget won’t run to lost hours and days while we try and figure this shit out,’ said Tristram. ‘Buff, clean the track, again, and let’s get Alex’s vocals down ASAP.’ He sat on the leather sofa, opened the NME and started reading; in the back of his mind he kept wondering where he’d heard that keyboard melody before.

  Alex managed to get his vocals down in two takes, which was a relief to Buff who was feeling exhausted. ‘I’ll leave the track as it is and we can listen again in the morning and see what else needs doing to the vocals. I might add some reverb, I’ll see.’ He gathered up his notes and headed for the door. ‘Come on, out!’ he said firmly, ‘I’m locking up – you can all see me do it – and I’m giving Tristram the keys; he can open up in the morning.’

  Everyone followed him out. Geoff had already left as he wanted to see a mate’s band playing at a local club. ‘It’s a gig to raise money for a local hospice; want to come?’ he asked the others. ‘They do it every Christmas since my mate’s mum died in there.’

  ‘Off to bed; alone,’ said Tristram. ‘Make sure you’re all here at nine tomorrow; time’s money and we’re losing shed loads messing around with bloody phantoms.’ Twister rolled their eyes and Buff turned off the lights, Tristram locked-up and followed the band over to the manor house complex where they all had rooms for the duration of recording – part of the ‘all-in’ package Tristram had negotiated at the world famous studio, which the record company agreed to pay for, all recoupable of course.

  This album was proving to be more expensive than the other two Twister had recorded, even though recording was taking place in England. Even taking into consideration the savings made by not paying additional costs for flights, visas, and work permits, shipping their own gear, and accommodation costs for the band and their crew, it still worked out more expensive because much more time had been allowed for the project than before – and Buff didn’t come cheap.

  Buff usually kept his financial woes to himself. In spite of being a much sought after producer with a superstar profile and reputation, thus commanding huge fees, the time it took for royalties to filter through from around the world made planning his life difficult. His last divorce had cost him dear. ‘I’m only taking this gig to ensure I can cover the amount that bitch Carrie screwed out of me,’ he confided in Geoff when they discussed taking the project. Geoff had been his engineer for years and the two made a formidable team.

  ‘Let’s go for it,’ Geoff agreed reluctantly; he didn’t much care for Twister as people, let alone their music. ‘Besides, if we turn them down it won’t do us much good with the label for future gigs,’ he added wisely.

  ‘It just feels weird,’ Buff told Geoff before he signed the producer contract with Tristram, ‘you know I won’t touch anything I don’t totally get; but needs must as they say.’ They played the band’s albums over and over trying to get a handle on them, and what Buff especially, could do for them. ‘I’ll do it and it will be fucking amazing, but this is the first time I’ve accepted something I can’t get into.’

  ‘It sucks,’ said Geoff, silently rejoicing in being single.

  Tristram and the record company wanted a bigger global hit this time with millions more sales and Buff’s name on the record would help achieve it. Usually Geoff would do the hands-on engineering and Buff, as producer, would instruct and over-see the laying down of the tracks, deciding and directing what went on the tracks, and how; ensuring that the band ‘sounded’ like themselves, enhanced and marketable to the record company – they were paying so they had to get what they wanted – it also had to be acceptable to radio. If radio didn’t like the finished mixes they might refuse to play the record or demand additional and different mixes; costing more ultimately.

  ‘I’ve produced multi-platinum albums for dozens of bands, as you know,’ he told Tristram, ‘and I can and will do it for Twister.’

  Buff had to have vision; he had to get magic out of the band’s performance and on to the record. He was responsible for achieving the main mixes and the tracks ready for final mixes – done elsewhere by a different mix engineer – and eventual mastering, again done by another engineer at a mastering lab. Buff had to work magic; he had to get that magic from the band and translate that into a hit record.

  ‘Yeah, we’re bloody magicians,’ laughed Geoff.

  The following morning Tristram opened up the studio and switched the lights on, dimming them to an acceptable working level. The decorations shimmered, creating a cosy atmosphere – for now. He went to the desk, hit play, and settled back in Buff’s chair, sipping his coffee and waiting for the track to run. He almost choked when the chorus kicked in. Alongside Alex’s vocal he could hear another voice, singing a completely different melody line and it wasn’t Alex. ‘What the fuck?’ he whispered. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms tingled as the high pitched ethereal vocal drifted across Alex’s gutsy rock voice.

  ‘Who’s that you got on my vocal?’ demanded Alex who for once had managed to rouse himself before lunchtime. ‘What the hell’s going on? You trying to push me out, is that it?’

  His manager glared at him, ’Listen, you big girl’s blouse.’ Tristram pointed to the monitors, ‘Who is that? I know that voice, I just can’t make it out.’ He turned back to the desk and hit rewind and then play. The voice drifted over the chorus and in the background a bit lower in the mix, a keyboard was playing a different melody again.

  ‘Shit!’ Alex shook his head. ‘Those bloody keys are still in there. I’ll fuckin’ smack Buff. He’s such a liar, ‘I’ve taken them off,’ yeah, right off by the sounds of it.’

  ‘Alex, will you put a sock in it before I smack you one!’ shouted Tristram. ‘Listen and try keeping your mouth shut and your ears open for a change.’ There was something so familiar about the melody the keys were playing and yet he couldn’t quite drag it from the depths of his memory. Something about that vocal too … what the hell was it? He kept hitting replay and listening hard. Alex sulked on the sofa, bored with the whole keyboard thing and really pissed off after the dressing down he’d got the night before over the girl in his room. Tristram was far from his favourite person this morning, and now this with the vocals.

  Buff and Geoff came in drinking coffee, with packets of sandwiches for their mid-morning snack. Tristram glanced at them and said, ‘Here, listen to this.’ And pressed play.

  Buff froze for a moment before he yelled, ‘Right, that’s it, I’ve fuckin’ had enough of this shit. I don’t care who did it or why, but I want the arsehole out of my studio or I’ll quit. You can replace the prick with a session guy, whoever, I don’t give a toss, but I don’t want to hear the shit again. Got it?’ And he stormed out of the studio, bumping into the rest of Twister as they came in. Geoff remained in the studio, not sure what to do. Some Christmas Eve this was turning into.

  ‘What the hell is up with him?’ asked Kris, concern in his eyes. This whole gig was turning into a fucking nightmare; so much tension. ‘I wish everyone’d just chill.’

  ‘But this is crazy,’ said Gary after they’d listened to the track a dozen times, ‘If you had the studio key, Tristram, what’s going on? Who is that on there?’

  Geoff couldn’t wait to hear this ‘Yes, what the hell is going on, guys?’ He needed to know in case Buff asked him what went down after he’d left. ‘Buff will walk if this isn’t sorted ou
t now.’

  Jet and Jonty exchanged looks. They’d decided the night before that if anything else ‘fuckin’ weird,’ happened again they’d tell what they knew; or at least what they thought they knew. Jonty nodded to Jet, ‘Go on, you tell them.’

  Before he could say another word Alex leapt across the room and grabbed Jet around the throat, ‘It’s you, you did it, you fuckin’ tosser,’ Jonty and Kris tried to pull him off Jet, but not before Gary had chance to take a swipe at Jet too. ‘I’ll kill you, you bastard. You never wanted me in the band, I know you think your stupid idiot of a brother is better than me.’ Alex yelled, kicking out at Jonty and Kris and managing to bash Gary in the mouth with his elbow. ‘This is a trick to get him in and me out.’

  ‘You shut your mouth,’ shouted Jet. ‘You shit-for-brains prick.’ He lashed out at Alex and caught Jonty’s fingers by mistake. ‘My brother’s happy with his own band.’

  Jonty winced and Tristram shouted ‘Fire!’ and everyone stopped dead. Tristram hadn’t moved from Buff’s chair the whole time; the penny had just dropped. The studio went silent except for their laboured breathing. Suddenly the lights flickered and it went dark for a few seconds. ‘Shit, what the hell …?’ Geoff didn’t finish. The track started playing as the lights came back on, brighter than before.

  ‘Turn that off,’ shouted Jet, extricating himself from his bandmates who were still all over him. ‘Tristram, turn that shit off.’

  ‘I didn’t put the bugger on,’ Tristram said slowly. ‘It just came on. I didn’t touch it.’

  Geoff walked to the desk and pressed the button but the track didn’t stop. It got louder and louder until the monitors were jumping off the desk and walls with vibration. ‘It won’t work; button’s stuck I think,’ he yelled as the band gathered behind their manager who was staring at the monitors, his face tight, his brain fuzzy, his thoughts muddled.

  The track grew louder and louder as Geoff and Tristram pressed buttons, slid flying faders, doing everything they could think of to stop the track. The keyboards drowned out the rest of the instruments on the track and the phantom vocal sat right on top of Alex’s.

  ‘Listen, listen to the vocals,’ shouted Jonty, ‘I know who it is; Tristram, Jet, listen up.’

  ‘I said let’s not go there,’ Jet yelled over the top of the track. ‘It’s crazy.’

  ‘No, he’s right, it is, it’s him all right, no bleedin’ doubt.’ Tristram shook his greying hair in disbelief. ‘Penny dropped earlier, but I can’t get my head round it, it’s, it’s bloody insane.’

  ‘Look I can’t shut the fucker up, let’s go outside and I’ll get Buff,’ Geoff opened the studio door and everyone followed him out. ‘Can’t bloody think straight in there.’

  The large kitchen area provided relief from the racket in the studio, the doors sound-proofed and sturdy. They sat at the long wooden table smoking, drinking coffee, and eating mince pies sent over from the housekeeper in the main house. Geoff had gone in search of Buff.

  ‘So, is anyone gonna spill or what?’ asked Kris, deeply disturbed by what he’d witnessed in the studio. ‘Seems you lot know something Gary, Alex, and me don’t.’

  ‘Yeah, we do, mate,’ said Jonty slowly, ‘but let’s see if Geoff finds Buff first and then you’ll know.’ He picked at his mince pie; his chest was so tight he felt he’d explode. ‘Wait a bit longer, agreed?’ He looked at Tristram and Jet. Both nodded, their faces white and troubled.

  ‘Some bloody Christmas this is,’ said Gary miserably. ‘Looks like we’re gonna be here tomorrow after-all. Can’t see us getting a day off now, not after all this crap.’

  ‘We’re all away from our friends and family Gary, not just you,’ Tristram said bitterly. ‘This is the fifth year running that I’ve been away for Christmas, thanks to you guys.’

  ‘Us?’ Alex shouted, ‘No-one makes you work over Christmas, you wanker, your choice, mate, yours not ours.’ He thumped the table hard.

  ‘No, he’s right,’ said Tristram as Jet and Jonty were about to remonstrate with their band mates. ‘I decided to take your guys on, to try and break the band in the US and Asia, I was aware it meant working hard for five or six years. It has to be done. I can’t dictate to the label or radio, or miss opportunities for touring so I can be at home, any more than you can. We have to go where the music takes us and if that means missing holidays and Christmas, well, my wife for one understands. She doesn’t like it, the kids hate it, but we agreed a long time ago.’

  ‘Look, mate, we all appreciate what you and your family does for us, we do, seriously,’ said Jet, feeling bad at the attitude and ingratitude shown by Alex and the others. ‘We don’t have wives and kids, it’s no skin – really it’s not.’ Jonty and Kris nodded. Alex glared.

  Buff walked in looking murderous. ‘What’s this with the track not cutting?’ he asked Tristram who stood, ready to go back into the studio. ‘You lot stay put. Tristram, Geoff, follow me.’

  They left the band looking sullen and pissed off. As they opened the studio door the noise levels were in danger of blowing the speakers and their ears. Buff ran to the desk and pressed the buttons. He didn’t want to pull the plug on the desk before backing up everything on to another track. Normally he’d have done it before leaving the studio, but, given the way he’d left, he hadn’t. Geoff handed out earplugs but the noise was still audible. The monitors were jumping as the bass and drums vibrated. The vocal was at screaming pitch and then suddenly everything stopped.

  ‘What did you do?’ Tristram asked Buff.

  ‘Nothing mate, I wasn’t touching the desk just then.’ He looked at Geoff.

  ‘Nope, me neither.’ Geoff shook his head. He looked confused and bit his bottom lip. ‘Just stopped.’

  A looked passed between Jonty and Jet as the studio door closed. They both noticed that Kris, Gary, and Alex were intent upon their coffee and mince pies, bemoaning the fact that it was Christmas Day tomorrow and they were stuck in the studio.

  ‘Some bloody festive season this is,’ Gary said. ‘Buff was a serious mistake for this album, I don’t care how the stuff got on the track; he is responsible.’ He picked the berries off of a holly decoration placed in the centre of the table and threw them across the kitchen. Jonty nodded at Jet and they slipped into the studio. The noise stopped and the lights flickered on and off just as they closed the door behind them.

  ‘What the hell …?’ Tristram’s voice sounded tight and dry as the studio lights grew bright again before they were once again plunged into total darkness. Gradually the live room began to shimmer and pulsate with bright white light. It filled every corner and nook and cranny. It appeared to emanate from a spot just in front of the mic stand where it was brighter and more translucent. No-one spoke as Tristram’s voice trailed off. He stared agog at the spectacle unfolding before them. The control room, normally in constant need of air-conditioning, seemed to develop a slight breeze starting around shoulder level, yet it didn’t feel like the AC – it was freezing cold. The men shivered and held their breath as the desk lit up and all the faders began to move up and down as if an engineer was operating them. The monitors hissed with white noise for a few seconds and then the phantom keyboardist began to play the now familiar melody, solo, without the other instruments.

  ‘I knew it,’ whispered Jet, ‘I bloody knew it as soon as I heard it the first time.’

  ‘What did you know?’ Buff sounded annoyed, not scared like Jet.

  ‘I think we know who is messing with the tracks, Buff,’ croaked Tristram, finding his voice again. ‘We three know.’

  All of a sudden the music stopped and a voice that sounded not unlike Slade’s Noddy Holder screamed ‘Merry Christmas.’ Buff nearly jumped out of his Spanish leather cowboy boots. ‘What the fuck?’

  The studio door burst open and the rest of the band tramped in, unaware of the drama unfolding in front of the others. ‘Pub time, let’s bugger off down the ….’ Alex’s voice was drowned out by the screaming voice rep
eating ‘Merry Christmas.’ Each time louder and more aggressively.

  Everyone gaped at the desk and monitors, unable to comprehend what was happening. Buff frantically pushed buttons, rode the faders, and eventually Geoff went behind the desk, got underneath it, and fiddled with the Spaghetti Junction of wiring there. He yanked a handful of wires out and the monitors and their channels went dead on the desk; silence.

  ‘What the hell’s that all about?’ Alex looked horrified. Kris and Gary wore similar expressions. Tristram pointed to the door. ‘Follow me. I need a drink.’

  The public bar of The Highwayman was still not full to capacity so they were soon all seated in the snug with their drinks, away from the office colleagues and shop workers having a last lunchtime drink to celebrate Christmas Eve, before heading home to undertake last minute chores for the big day. Bing Crosby was doing his thing with ‘White Christmas,’ again.

  Jonty and Jet sipped silently, conscious of what was about to be revealed and feeling very uncomfortable. Tristram cleared his throat and gazed at Twister, Buff, and Geoff, wondering how to begin. ‘Well, it’s been … I mean it’s … what you should know is …’ but he couldn’t voice what he needed to say. His eyes pleaded across the table where he met Jonty’s troubled gaze. Jonty nodded reluctantly.

  ‘What Tristram wants to tell you, what you need to know is that we know who’s doing this.’ He took a long pull on his beer and wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘We think.’

  ‘I’ll kill the bugger when I get hold of him,’ hissed Buff, ‘bloody messing with my sessions, it’s not on.’ Geoff nodded agreement; he’d like a go at the bastard too.

  ‘You’d have a job mate,’ said Jet. ‘He’s already dead.’ His band mates exchanged looks, not sure what to make of Jet’s statement. ‘Seriously, I kid you not,’ Jet added solemnly.