Again, Laura could not relate to the theme of the piece, really. She was, of course, deliriously happy with her one and only relationship in life, but still... She really does have the most beautiful voice, she could not help but thinking. And she knows how to use it, too.
As they ran through the song three or four times, stopping here and there to make suggestions or to start over due to a minor error, Laura actually found herself humming along with it at times, actually starting to appreciate the depth of the lyrics—although not in any kind of self-reflective fashion.
Celia must have had some messed up relationships in her time to write with that kind of angst, she felt herself thinking, not with contempt or pity, but with respectful understanding.
Between two of the takes, Laura got a little more insight, not only to their talents, but also their professionalism and their composition technique.
“I really think that two-part vocal harmony on the first stanza of each verse and through the chorus repetitions would make it flow much better,” Celia said.
Kingsley thought that over for a moment and then nodded. “I think that would be sweet,” he said. “Do you want to try it with me?”
“No,” she said. “A tenor voice in harmony would not mix well for the expression I’m going for. This is a girly song and a male voice in it just wouldn’t ... you know...”
“Yeah ... I get you,” Kingsley said. He then looked over at Laura. “Do you sing at all, Laura?”
“Me? Heavens no,” she replied, with an honest declaration. “Not unless you want to scare cats away from your garbage cans at night.”
“A pity,” Kingsley said.
“We can just double track you in the studio,” Sharon suggested. “Lay down the first vocal track and then have you record another one while you listen to it. You could harmonize with yourself.”
This was something that Laura had never heard of before. “Harmonize with herself?” she asked. “Is that possible?”
Sharon nodded. “It’s a fairly common recording technique. It serves to accent the vocal style of the singer.”
“It’s usually used to make a weaker voice sound stronger,” Kingsley said. “Celia doesn’t need that kind of help.”
“I agree,” Celia said. “I want there to be two distinct voices on those stanzas and choruses, but both of them can’t be mine. It should be a mezzo-soprano or even a soprano singing with me. Something higher than me to distinguish the harmony, not hide it.”
“We don’t have anybody like that,” Kingsley said.
“Maybe Obie could suggest someone in studio?” the male Nerd put in.
“Are you kidding me?” said Kingsley. “We’re already into that guy for more than we can probably afford. Can you imagine what he would charge us for a backup singer, assuming he even has one we can use?”
“How about we go on a singer hunt?” suggested Mary. “You kids seem to have pretty good luck stumbling across just what you need.”
Celia shook her head. “We don’t have that kind of time,” she said. “We’re already struggling to put everything together as it is. We need to be ready to hit that studio and start putting down tracks by the end of September.”
“What about the harmony then?” asked Cynthia.
“It’ll keep,” said Kingsley. “The tune is solid as is and I think people are going to like it even without the vocal harmony thrown in.”
“True,” Celia said. “I guess two-part harmony is a luxury at this point in time.” She shrugged. “Maybe on the next album.”
They all agreed with this assessment and then ran through Why? a few more times. By then, it was time to break for lunch—it was Mexican food on this day, in honor of it being the end of the workweek, Kingsley said.
After lunch they tried again with Struggle. By now, the tune was very familiar to Laura. She knew the lyrics by heart and she knew the melody she was supposed to play. As much as she hated to admit it to herself, the song was actually growing on her quite a bit. She felt herself tapping her feet to the rhythm, not because it helped her keep time, but because her foot just wanted to tap. This time, when she blew out the melody, her fingers moved with a little more flare. She was able to picture how she wanted to express the music. In short, she started to figure out how to phrase it.
They ran all the way through, even through the bridge and Kingsley’s guitar solo, which, she was surprised to hear, was actually a skillful rendition that matched the emotion of the song quite well—some phrasing of his own.
When the tune ended, she found everyone looking at her.
“What?” she asked, self-consciously, bracing for another scathing round of criticism.
“That was almost un-shitty,” Kingsley told her.
“Right,” Celia said, smiling. “A definite improvement.”
“Though still with a lot of work to be done,” Kingsley added—of course.
They ran through it a few more times and she continued to evolve her phrasing with each repetition. It was still not her best effort—she knew that—but she was starting to sense that she might be able to get behind it after all, at least for this particular piece.
They then played Done With You. Her playing was as flat as ever, even to her ear. She just could not feel that song, could not express through her instrument what Celia wanted her to express.
“I’m sorry,” she told them, surprised to find that she really was sorry. “I just can’t get into it yet. Give me some more time.”
“We really don’t have any other choice,” Celia observed.
They knocked off for that day at four o’clock, an hour earlier than usual. Kingsley explained that this was customary on Saturdays, in honor of their one day weekend.
“Don’t worry though,” he assured her. “We’re still paying you for the extra hour.”
“Oh ... well, thank you,” she said, packing up her horn. “It’ll be nice to go home early and maybe start a little...”
“Oh, you don’t get to go home early,” he interrupted.
“I don’t?”
“You don’t,” he said. “You are required by the unwritten rules of the contract you signed to have some beers with us before you go.”
“It is tradition,” Celia said, patting her companionably on the back.
“Uh ... I’m not really much of a drinker,” she said.
Kingsley scoffed at her. “And you call yourself a musician?” he asked, opening up an ice chest that was sitting on the floor near the drum stand. Funny, she hadn’t noticed it until then. He pulled out a couple of bottles of beer and set them down on the stand. He used an opener to pop the tops off and handed her one. “Fire up,” he commanded.
She took the bottle. It was icy cold, dripping with nearly frozen water from the ice chest. It was a brand she had never heard of before—something called Moosehead. She took a sip to be polite, her plan to sip sparingly out of it until they released her, but as the beverage went down her throat, she found it tasted quite wonderful—as far as beer went anyway. She took a hefty swallow, feeling the soothing sensation on her stomach almost immediately.
“Not bad,” she said with a nod.
“It’s Canadian shit,” Kingsley told her. “If there’s one thing those hosers know how to do, it’s make a decent beer.”
Everyone else grabbed a beer as well—even Kingsley’s and Archer’s mothers. Ted, the drummer, went through two bottles in less than five minutes. It was obvious where that beer belly of his came from. As they drank, they talked of the session they had just had, of the week they had just put in.