Arthur was watching him now. “Our poor lad grows suspicious that things aren’t what they seem.”
“Tough.”
“He certainly thinks so. As the story develops, things go from bad to worse. Then the lady gets herself into a truly desperate pickle, which is when he finds out he had the whole thing wrong. There’s a great deal of drama going on, mind. Action and risk and some very nasty types.” Arthur was watching him as Ian tuned the instrument. “Shall I run through the songs a second time?”
“Let’s go ahead and get me miked,” Ian replied. “Then play me just the first song.”
Arthur cocked his head to one side. As if needing to inspect Ian from a different angle. “Sure about that, are you?”
“I am, yes.” He opened the door leading to the recording studio. “Soon as you’re ready, why don’t we take this music for a stroll?”
* * *
Ian settled onto the padded stool at the center of the recording studio and positioned the three mikes according to Arthur’s directions: One was directly in front of his instrument and not quite touching the central sound hole. The second was a foot farther back, while the third was positioned ten feet away, high up and pointed straight at the ceiling. The result would be a deeply resonant sound, one Ian had loved from the very first time his music had been taped.
Arthur was seated behind the mixing board on the glass wall’s other side. He insisted on minute adjustments to both the mikes and Ian’s tuning until his guitar completely matched the song’s harmonics. Ian came to admire the editor’s professional demeanor. Gone was the caustic grumpiness. They were moving in sync. Like they had worked together for years. Which was both good and bad. Good because Ian assumed whatever he played would be precisely recorded. Bad because the work pushed Ian further and further into unwanted memories. He knew there was nothing to be done about it. He endured as best he could until finally Arthur said, “Ready for take one.”
“Play the first song.”
“And the second?”
“Not necessary.” Ian tapped the side of his headphones. “Play it only through these. Go ahead and start recording now.”
Arthur’s glare returned. “Ordering me about now, are we?”
Ian was almost grateful for the need to retreat from all the hard memories. “Let’s pretend I inserted a ‘please’ where you think best.”
“Right, then.” Arthur’s hands became busy with his board’s many controls. “Take one, beginning in three, two . . .”
* * *
Ian had identified three riffs, or repeated musical patterns, that formed the key emotional threads to that first song. When the melody ended and his headphones went silent, he began repeating them. First one, then the other, then the third. They were simple enough to form a background to his rising memories. He did not welcome the recollections, but here on this hallowed ground, he did not even try to push them away.
Originally, a riff was known as an ostinato. In classical music this formed a subtle repetitive phrase intended to help the listener feel comfortable with the symphony’s more complex structure. The ostinato would be played by one instrument after another and would remain in the background until the final climactic movement, when it was taken up by the entire orchestra and shouted in farewell.
The termriffwas first used by jazz musicians in the twenties. These musical patterns were usually less than four bars long and were intended to stand out from the very beginning. Riffs formed the foundation for most instrumental solos, as well as becoming a key element that was repeated by the singer, often in the refrain.
When he was ready, Ian returned to the first riff and began weaving a tapestry of his own.What about us? Pink sang in his head, and he formed contrasting patterns in response.What about us?He tried to focus on his music and succeeded at least a little. The memories remained a soft chorus in the background, but for this brief period, they remained free of their heavy emotional burden. Still vivid enough to call across the years. Drawing him back to the early days.
Seven years old, in second grade at the boarding school where his grandparents had deposited him. His class trooped dutifully into the music room. The previous year, they had endured hours of musical appreciation in this classroom, listening to classical music, which most students hated, being interrupted by lectures, which they hated even more. The teacher, Monsieur Lachard, was an acerbic Huguenot who drank. Most of the students loathed Mon-Sewer. The feeling was mutual.
Today the front table was lined with a variety of instruments. Ian endured a dozen or so students who trooped dutifully to the piano in the corner and hammered their way through one awful melody or another. A few others then selected instruments and were defeated by the violin or the flute or the trumpet.
Ian waited.
Finally, the class was dismissed. Ian remained seated as the students gleefully departed. When it was just the two of them, Lachard began wiping down the instruments and packing them away. Then he pretended to notice Ian. “You there in the back. What’s your name, boy?”
“Ian Hart, sir.”
“I suppose you want to torture me, as well, eh?”
Ian nodded and pointed to the miniature six-string guitar propped on its stand. Waiting patiently in the corner, almost hidden by the portable blackboard on rollers.
Lachard glanced at the instrument, snorted softly, then went back to cleaning the trumpet’s mouthpiece. “Go on, then.”
The music room was always open, as Lachard’s piano students were required to practice at least three hours each week. Ian came before breakfast, when the classrooms were empty and the halls silent. His love for the guitar was already a living, visceral thing. Now he touched the strings one by one, making sure they were still in tune.
That alone was enough to turn Lachard around.
