“All right,” Sharon said. “Go ahead and get us started, Celia.”
Celia began to sing and strum out her portion of the rhythm and sing the final line of the song: “It’s time to say, it’s time to go. I’m finally done with youuuuuuuuuuuuu!”
As she drew out the last syllable, stretching it over a lengthy series of notes, everyone else kicked in. Jake played the distorted guitar chords, Cindy played a flurry of piano keys, Ted pounded out a complex drum arrangement, and Ben kept the time. And then they all switched over to the primary melody of the tune again and the outro began in earnest with Laura blowing out her first solo.
Mary, bow in hand, electric violin on her shoulder, waited without playing until Laura finished up. She then opened up her own first solo of the outro, a fairly simple arrangement that matched the intensity of what Laura had just laid down, but was unique instead of simply a repetition with a different instrument.
Mary finished up, stretching out the last note, and then Laura picked up again, upping the intensity and the complexity for her second solo, almost as if she were challenging Mary to keep up.
Mary rose to the challenge. Even before Laura’s last note was gone, Mary laid down a blistering piece of her own in answer, her arm pumping that bow up and down, changing the angle of attack with each stroke, her fingers flying over her strings, the distorted notes sounding out in their headphones.
Nice, Jake thought from his position. He was playing mechanically, a simple three chord rhythm that repeated over and over, something that did not require intense concentration on his part. He watched as the two women played off of each other, as they both fully immersed themselves into the music, as they bonded together over the piece. Neither of them were looking at their music sheets—they had long since memorized their parts—they were looking at each other through the glass of the isolation booth, occasionally giving each other a little nod of respect and encouragement. It was all Jake could do to keep from shouting out some encouragement to them.
Laura did her final solo of the tune, a lengthier piece that was extremely technical and complex. It flitted up and down, down and up, and then drew out to a finale that she allowed to slowly fade down while Mary started in with her final solo. Hers was no less complex, no less technical. She played a flurry of notes up and down the scale, her tempo changing up and then down as well. And then, when her last note was played, the two of them launched into the harmony section, which was an up-tempo variation of the tune’s primary melody. They ran through the repetition of it three times, varying the key with each repeat, and then closed out with a final cascade that everyone else matched as well.
The sound faded away and the two soloists smiled happily at each other, giving each other the thumbs up.
“That was badass!” Jake yelled. “Holy shit!”
Celia, who couldn’t hear what Jake was saying because she was in the isolation booth, offered some praise of her own. “Madres de Dios!” she told them. “That was intense! You did it!”
“I agree,” said Nerdly’s voice. Since there was no synthesizer in the primary tracks—though there would be some overdubbed in later—he was next to Sharon in the control room. “The challenge and answer methodology of the solos was enhanced by the musical camaraderie that has developed between Mary and Laura.”
“Well put, Bill,” Celia told him.
“Thank you,” Bill said. “And the knowledge that Laura is having non-legally sanctioned intercourse and cohabitation with her son did not seem to affect Mary’s playing a bit.”
“Uh ... right,” Celia said slowly, while both Mary and Laura blushed and Jake looked down at the floor, shaking his head.
“In fact,” Bill added enthusiastically, “I suspect the relationship might have actually helped enhance the basic emotional content of the...”
“We get the idea, Bill,” Sharon interrupted, pulling his microphone away from his mouth.
Jake set his guitar down next to his chair and walked over to his mother. He put his arm around her and gave her a hug. “That was tight, Mom. Seriously. You nailed those solos, you and Laura both.”
“That was rather enjoyable,” Mary admitted. “I think I’m starting to appreciate the emotion of playing with electric distortion. It has a certain ... feel to it.”
Jake smiled and gave her another hug. “Everyone hear that?” he asked loudly. “Mom just got her rock and roll on!”
Mary smiled. “I guess I did, didn’t I?” she asked in wonder.
“It sounded great,” said the voice of Sharon—their heartless taskmaster. “Now let’s do it again. This time with the recorders on. Think you can lay down the rhythm for that in one take?”
That was funny enough that everyone enjoyed a laugh about it.
At one o’clock that same day, in another part of the Blake Studios complex, Pauline was having a meeting with Oren Blake II, aka OB2, aka Obie, in his office. She was there at his request, the subject of the meeting something he had not cared to share with her when requesting it.
“You look like you were rode hard and put away wet, Obie,” Pauline observed as she sat before his desk beneath the gold and platinum records on the wall.
“Thank you for pointing that out,” Obie told her, though it was true. His eyes were red and his beard was a bit frazzled. There were bags under his eyes. “I enjoyed New Year’s Eve perhaps a little more than I should have last night.”
“Yeah,” Pauline said. “A lot of that going around.”
“Can I get you anything?” Obie asked her next. “Some coffee? A little hair of the dog, maybe?”
“I’m good,” Pauline said. “I had three cups of coffee before I came here, and I never have alcohol or anything else mind-altering before a business discussion or meeting.”
“No?” Obie said, raising his eyebrows a bit.
“No,” she confirmed. “A little something I learned from brother dear. It’s served him well in the past, and me too.”
“Interesting,” Obie said. “I’ll have to consider that someday. For now, however...” He reached over to the bar and pulled a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black down. He set it on the desk and then put six ice cubes in a highball glass. He poured a healthy shot of the scotch over the ice and then picked it up and had a sip. “Ahhh,” he said. “That’s heaven.” He looked at her. “How are things going with your boys out on the road? I heard you have had some issues.”
Pauline did not ask how Obie might have heard that. He had connections far and wide throughout the music industry. Not that he would have really needed them for this. Much of Veteran’s issues were finding their way into the entertainment press and even the popular press on occasion.
“It’s a shitshow,” she told him. “I’ve got five guys that don’t really care for each other trying to put together a show night after night while four of them are wasted to the gills. At least twice a week someone threatens to quit. At least once a week two of them get into a fight. And three times now fucking Hamm has been too wasted to go onstage and we had to delay the start of the show while we sobered him up.”
Obie nodded sympathetically. “Sounds like them boys need a little discipline in the ranks,” he observed.
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Pauline said. “Or at least to Aristocrat Records’ ears. They are doing nothing to discourage this behavior. They think it helps sell their albums.”
“Perhaps they have a point?” Obie suggested. “Veteran’s debut album has been number one on the charts for the past month now, right?”
“There is that,” Pauline admitted.
“You’ve already gone platinum and you’re sure to go double platinum by March. Not bad at all.”