The neighborhood was not run down but definitely had not yet undergone gentrification. It had a very practical feel, like everything there had a function and nothing was for show.
Jack went to the side of a warehouse and used his key to let us into the building. The door was right next to a large roll-up warehouse door. Inside, Jack didn’t bother to turn on lights but went past the roll-up door to a large freight elevator. Inside, he pulled me close to him, pushed the second-floor button and we went up.
When the elevator door opened, for the second time that night I was surprised. I had been expecting a stripped, concrete, bare warehouse space with instruments propped up in a corner. Instead, when Jack turned on the lights, I walked into what looked like a living room. A well-used, tan leather couch sat opposite a navy leather couch that looked just as old, and several comfortable looking armchairs in non-matching fabrics gathered around a coffee table and what looked like an electric fireplace. Heavy drapes clung to the windows and carpet padded the floors, but they didn’t quite overcome the chill of the warehouse. It looked like a great place to relax with friends. On the far side of the space was what looked like a narrow, white-tiled kitchen, sectioned off from the living room by a long counter with bar stools pulled up to it. I could see a refrigerator and stove, so I assumed it was a functioning kitchen space for the band to fix snacks or meals.
What I did not see was any sign of musical gear. I turned to Jack. “This is your practice space? It looks really cozy, but I don’t see any instruments.”
“Oh, no, this is just for chilling. The music happens in there.” He pointed toward a door on the wall to my left that I’d overlooked. He opened it and beckoned me inside.
When he turned on the lights I gasped. The third surprise of the night. This was not at all what I was expecting. My mind had supplied an image of a garage band, using makeshift equipment, stuffed into a tiny space. This looked like a professional recording studio, and it took up fully half of the loft space, based on what I’d seen from the outside.
The floor was a gorgeous, finished hardwood, strewn with area rugs. There was a large drum set on a raised platform in the corner. Next to it was a hardwood rack holding guitars, both acoustic and electric. There were two keyboards and a rack of various percussion instruments. The floor was littered with amps, mikes, and music stands.
Overhead there were unfinished beams from which hung oddly shaped geometric tiles and racks of lights. On the wall was a rack holding multiple iPads that were plugged in, charging.
The far wall had a band of windows across it and a door leading into that space. I went over to peek through one of the windows and saw several boards with sliders and computer monitors, as well as headphones hanging from hooks in the wall.
“Jack, this in incredible! I can’t believe this! It looks so…so…professional.”
“Well, I do like to think of myself as a professional musician, Eve,” he chuckled.
I swatted his arm. “I know that, Jack. It’s just, I don’t know, I didn’t realize how much goes into making music. I just hear it and enjoy it. I don’t think of all this technical stuff going into it.” I pointed over to the windows. “What’s all that in there?”
“That’s where the sound engineer works. All those boards control the speakers around the room and the feed to the headphones we all wear during practice.”
“Wow. Do you do recording in here?”
“Nope. We rent out a pro studio when we’re putting together an album. This isn’t quite good enough for recording. But it’s a goal of mine to turn it into a recording studio someday.”
“Do you think I might be able to come watch you play sometime?”
“Most definitely, Eve.” He turned to look at me, his head cocked to the side. “I just had a thought. I’ve known you less than a month. But how long have you known me?”
“The same, of course.” I left the ‘duh’ unsaid.
“What I mean is, when did you first hear about PRTY? Do you remember the first PRTY song you ever heard? Was it ‘PRTY GRLS’?”
“I might have heard it on the radio, but the first song I really paid attention to was ‘Was I A Fool?’”
He looked stunned. “Eve, you heard that song? No one’s heard of that song.”
“Well, I have. I had just moved to New York and was doing corporate training. I came home one night, kind of overwhelmed, and turned on the radio while I was unpacking. It was so beautiful and so sad. I’d just had a brutal breakup and it was like you’d heard my pain and put it to the most lovely, haunting music. I bawled for an hour and listened to that song for about a month on repeat.”
“I wrote that song after the blow-up with Valentina. I wrote it in the back of a notebook and didn’t do anything with it for years. Then when we were making our second album the producers wanted one more song to round out the album, so I pulled that one out and recorded it solo with piano. It was so out of place with our party theme that the song got almost no airtime. I’m surprised you even heard it.”
“I did and I still love that song. Thank you for making it.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, wrapping an arm around my waist. “It’s a gift to be able to hear how a song has touched someone’s life.” He gave me a smile, then turned to the door and turned off the light, ushering me out.
“Would you like me to make you some hot cocoa?”
I realized that it was way later than I usually stayed up and I was starting to feel sleepy. “Thanks for the offer, Jack, but I think I should head home. It’s way past my bedtime.”
He paused, thoughtfully, then said, “Or…you could stay here.”
I laughed. “Crash on your couch? We each get a couch? Thanks, but I think I’d sleep better in my bed.”
His lips twitched up at the corners and he said, “You could use my bed.”
