The estate was California modern and contained several single-story structures of stone and wood and glass. A bespectacled man in his late sixties or early seventies stood on the flagstone walk, his ratty sweater buttoned up incorrectly, reading glasses dangling from a cord around his neck. He scowled as Ian rose from the car, then said, “I suppose we might as well get this over with.”
Ian collected his guitar case from the trunk and followed the man past a narrow lap pool to a cottage by the rear wall. Its stone façade was almost lost behind a veil of some climbing flower that Ian did not recognize.
According to Danny, Arthur Rowe was a highly successful editor of big-budget films. He had retired to Miramar and now treated Danny Byrd’s projects as a well-paid hobby. Danny considered himself the most fortunate of producers and treated the editor with the reverence Arthur expected and probably deserved.
Arthur unlocked the front door and said, “I suppose you’ll be wanting tea or coffee or some such. Don’t go asking for champagne, because you won’t bloody get it.”
“Coffee would be great.” Ian stepped through the entrance and gaped. “Whoa.”
The structure contained a full-scale recording, mixing, and editing studio. Its two rooms were divided by a glass wall, along which ran a digital mixing board, four massive flat-screens, two freestanding keyboards, and an array of electronic editing equipment. This front room also featured a kitchenette, sofa, leather captain’s chairs, and a long table. Speakers shaped like narrow pyramids rose on either side of the mixing board, while four JBL professional-grade boxes hung from the room’s four corners. Two rear windows overlooked a steep descent, the town of Miramar and, farther out, the glistening Pacific waters.
The second room, the recording studio, held more equipment. Everything had been laid out with a delicate precision. Ian took in the dozens of mikes and stands, the movable walls for either singers or drums, the Steinway grand. “This is an amazing setup.”
Arthur busied himself at the coffee maker. “This is hardly the first project that’s entered into last-minute meltdown.”
“I’ve recorded albums in worse studios.”
The old man was clearly pleased. “I very much doubt that.”
“With a full symphonic orchestra.”
“Now I know you’re pulling my arthritic leg.” Arthur kept his back to the room as he continued, “You do understand we won’t be using everything you play.”
“Of course.”
“And there’s no score for you to work off.”
“Right.”
“We’re after secondary melodies. Musical bridges that come and go as the story requires. Woven into the film’s tapestry. A gentle pastel thread that’s always heard but seldom consciously acknowledged.”
“That is beautifully put,” Ian replied.
“I’ve wanted to say that for such a long time.” Arthur handed Ian a mug. “Sit yourself down and let me play the initial songs we’ve selected.”
The first was Pink’s “What About Us,” a melody Ian had loved from the very first hearing. The second was Major Lazer’s “Lean On,” sung by Elise Trouw and backed by the Scary Pockets studio band. Long before the second song ended, Ian understood why Danny’s former music director had selected both the tunes and the order. The two songs shared a distinct harmony and the tempo trended upward, hopefully drawing the audience with it.
When the second song finished, Arthur asked, “Again?”
“Not yet. How long is the gap between those key scenes?”
Arthur studied him a long moment, then replied, “Nine minutes, eleven seconds. Too long for the score to go silent.”
“How long should my filler run?”
“No idea, lad. Can’t answer that until we hear whether you’re able to give us something we can use.”
Ian nodded. That made sense. “Can I hear the other songs?”
Ian drank his coffee and listened as the soundtrack took shape. Arthur’s only comments were to offer the time between melodies. Moxura’s “Love of My Life” was followed by Joss Stone’s edgy version of “I Put a Spell on You.” Then came Paul Carrack’s “How Long.” Several more melodies followed, ending with Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way.”
When the room went quiet, Arthur asked, “You want the story?”
“Not really. But it would help if you could give me the emotional threads between those first two songs. I’d like to focus on that initial bridge, please.”
Arthur tapped a keyboard, drew up a script with his notes in yellow along the side. “The first song begins inside a mounting emotional storm. The two main characters come as close as they possibly can to an almost torrid love scene. They both want to get it on. Desperately. But there are issues. So in the end they don’t.”
“Got it.” Ian rose from his chair. Unlatched his guitar case. “And the setting for the second melody?”
