“Terrible idiots, the lot,” Arthur said.
“I’ll tell them you said so,” Connor replied. To Ian, “What’s up?”
“The song Danny has slated next, ‘Every Breath You Take.’”
“Sting and his former band. I forget their name . . .”
“The Police,” Arthur said.
“Great song,” Connor said. “What about it?”
Ian addressed Arthur and his deepening frown. “The next major scene is after the breakup, correct?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“You told me.”
“Did I, now?” Arthur picked up his flow-chart, flipped pages, fiddled with his spectacles. “So?”
To Connor, Ian said, “What if we did a slow bluesy-jazz rendition? Say, four takes with different levels of backup. One with just you singing and piano. Another just your voice and my guitar.”
Arthur was aghast. “Tell me you’re not suggesting we dump the selections made by an Academy Award-winning music director.”
“Not dumping,” Ian said. “Reworking. A new version.”
“After the original was approved by the producer. Already edited into the film.”
Connor ignored the editor. “Third take, full team, add a sax solo.”
“Slow and plaintive,” Ian said, liking how they were already in sync. “Maybe bring in some backup singers if it works.”
“Danny will scream bloody murder,” Arthur said. “Rightly so. Especially when he’s faced with extra costs on a project that’s already gone over budget.”
Ian offered, “I’ll give up my share.”
Connor started to object, but Arthur was faster. “No, you bloody won’t. What’s more, you won’t mention any such blasphemy in Danny’s presence. Are we clear on that, mate?” When Ian did not respond, the old man rose to his feet and pointed to the sound room. “Now shift yourselves over and let’s see if we can give him a useful addition to this project.”
Connor remained where he was. “You think the film has potential?”
“I think it’s going to blow the roof off the summer releases. But what do I know? I’m just an old field hand with almost fifty years in the trade.” Arthur made a vague sweeping gesture. “In you go, now. More work, less chatter. That’s my motto.”
* * *
But their first take did not go as planned.
Arthur was busy setting up mikes and sliding in transparent sound baffles for the drum set so they could all play together. Ian and Connor were playing quick segments, talking more than making music, when the song came together. It happened so fast they ran through the first attempt while Arthur shifted back to the controls and set the gains. Then they all had to stop, because Connor’s drummer and bass and sax players had arrived and had to be miked and brought up to speed. They all lent a hand prepping the studio, impatient to begin work on a song that already seemed half done, at least to Ian.
With the drums positioned behind Arthur’s movable glass partitions, the sound was both clear and baffled. This allowed the drummer to play in the same room with them, rather than them having to add his work later. Arthur fiddled with the mikes’ gains and issued a steady stream of complaints over the studio speakers. Connor finally lost patience and ordered the producer to start taping. Arthur responded with more of the same, but Connor walked to the connecting door, leaned in close to the old man, and spoke one word.Enough.
With that first stanza, the drummer set a low heartbeat of a rhythm, using just the tom-tom and bass drum. The stand-up bass player amped the beat, hammering the string with the knuckle of her right thumb, then softly plucking the next three notes. Then hammering again.
In the second stanza, Ian entered in, a soft refrain of minor notes. Three and sometimes four strings together. Timed to match the drummer.
Oh, can’t you see, you belong to me?When Connor began the second refrain, the sax entered. The sax player blew just a few quiet reedy notes, little more than a rasping confirmation of Connor’s sorrow. Ian thought the sax sounded like a strong man trying hard not to weep.
Three takes and the song was done.
When they filed back into the control room, Arthur asked Connor, “Could you hang about a bit longer? Danny wants to have a word.”
