Connor busied himself making a fresh pot of coffee. “He’s heard our rendition?”
“I fed the second take through the film set’s sound system. Danny’s dropped everything and is on his way up.”
Ian asked, “It’s good?”
“Good?” Arthur swung around to his board. “Have a listen to this.”
“No,” Ian said. “Please. Not until we’re completely finished.”
Connor asked, “A superstition?”
“Something like that.” In the silence that followed, Ian found himself wanting to offer the truth. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this good about my work. Felt anything at all, really. I’d like to hold on to that for a little while longer.”
Arthur’s response surprised him. The old man stared through the glass wall at the empty recording studio and mused, “The bloke who taught me the ropes was Andy Johns.”
“I know that name,” Connor said.
“And well you should, lad. He recorded the likes of the Stones, Free, Eric Clapton, Jethro Tull. When he was in his cups, Andy liked to talk about the band that gave him his big break. Led Zeppelin.”
Ian found himself able to step away from the strain of partly confessing his secret. He was mesmerized by the sight of this irascible old man putting aside his grumpy mask. Revealing his own quiet passion for the craft.
Connor asked, “What did your friend say it was like?”
“Pretty much what we’ve had here,” Arthur replied, still searching the empty recording studio and the skeleton shadows of mikes and drum set and piano. “Most groups, they show up with a fistful of ideas and half-finished songs. They spend days messing about, trying to find what they’re after.”
Ian had heard of such nightmare scenarios. Big-name groups booking entire orchestras for backup, then forcing them to wait for hours, sometimes days, sometimes even weeks.
Connor asked, “Zeppelin was different?”
“They came in, set up, completed one take, sometimes two, and the song was done and dusted. Mind you, Jimmy Page brought together four blokes who’d spent years working as backup studio musicians. They all knew to watch the ticking clock.”
Leo, the drummer, spoke for the first time. “Go in, set up, shut up, get it done, and leave. That’s how a studio musician survives.”
“There you go,” Arthur said, still watching the empty room. “I suppose I only half believed studio takes could ever run the way Andy always claimed they did with Zeppelin. Until now.”
Ian was so moved by the moment’s quiet intensity, he confessed, “I lost it. The passion. The fire. It’s gone out.”
Connor asked quietly, “When did it happen?”
“Started about fourteen months ago,” Ian replied. “Last month, I finally admitted defeat. I told my manager I was totally burned out and needed to take a year off. But the truth was, I wanted to try and rekindle the passion that had taken me this far.”
Connor guessed, “Your manager didn’t take it well.”
“He screamed at me. For days. When that didn’t work, he stole all he could, including advances on three projects I didn’t even know he’d committed me to handling. Then he fled the country.”
The actor’s response surprised him. Connor leaned back so far, his head collided with the wall. He directed his words to the ceiling. “You mind some advice?”
“I guess. Sure.”
“This comes from the eye of the hurricane. You understand what I’m saying?” When Ian remained silent, Connor asked, “Those three surprise commitments . . . Who is heading the project left in the absolute worst position?”
That required no thought whatsoever. “Kiki Kerkorian, head of the Miami Music Festival.”
“What’s their start-date?”
“Little less than a week.”
“You one of the event’s headliners?”
