into an amp and started tuning, he said, “We’ve only got until nine because of your big bad date, right, sweetie pie? Can we get started with the recording?”
He’d gotten away with it, for the night anyway. Now it was up to Karston to make it through the recording session. Relieved, Devin flipped the switch that closed the garage door, and they got to it.
It was Torn’s first effort at recording tracks. The method was twenty-first-century crude. Devin had downloaded a mixing program called Track It! for thirty bucks. It would supposedly let them lay down as many different tracks as his laptop’s memory could hold. Then they’d mix down and convert the file to the coveted MP3, which Cheryl, Torn’s webmistress, could upload to their site.
As they worked, the thought of the kids at Argus High School bopping with “Face” in their earbuds got Devin even more excited. With Karston and the new song on hold at least for the moment, they ran through “Face” twice, then recorded it whole hog through a single mike plugged into his laptop. The idea was that then they’d play individually, listening to the control track through the phones. That would give them one instrument or vocal per track, which they could mix to their heart’s content.
As for Karston, maybe his mother’s tongue-lashing had set him straight, because he played through the song all three times flawlessly, or as close to that as he could come. It was always a little easier for him during rehearsal, when he was free to stare down at his fingers the whole time.
As the evening progressed, Devin was thinking that not only had he dodged a bullet, they’d also be finished in plenty of time for his big date with Cheryl. With his folks gone, the band had agreed to split up at nine, to leave the two alone.
But then a technical problem set in. The laptop, wicked cool though it was, couldn’t play back more than four tracks at a time without losing synch, freezing, or crashing. Thinking fast, Devin decided they could mix down the rhythm and drums, add two more tracks, mix them down and so on. It was even cruder than they’d planned, but it could work.
Cheryl and One Word Ben were naturals, knocking out their parts in two takes. Taking this as a challenge, Cody put down a lead in one. It was nothing like what he’d ever played before on the song, but it was great. It was like the guy hated playing the same thing twice.
“Now the bass,” Cody said with a nearly imperceptible sneer.
“No,” Devin said. “I’ll have to mess with the equalizer to get a decent bass sound. How about vocals? With the vocals the settings are practically there already.”
He could see an evil twinkle in Cody’s eye. “You’re the techno-geek.”
The lead vocal was fine in the first take, but Cody insisted on two more, which brought them right up against the nine o’clock deadline with just the harmonies and the bass track to go.
Devin looked at the clock. “And that is time.”
Everyone moaned. Cheryl sighed.
“Dev,” she said sweetly, “nine thirty is just as good as nine for us, isn’t it?”
But Devin was thrilled to have an excuse for separating Cody and Karston. He shook his head. “No, no. Time to pack it in. Karston can come back and add the bass tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Cody echoed with more than a little sarcasm. “Karston is so on.”
“Finish,” One Word Ben chimed in.
Devin shook his head and started shutting down the laptop. “Deal’s a deal.” He was a little hurt that Cheryl didn’t seem as eager as he was to be alone. But what came next made him feel better.
“Don’t worry boys, I’ll handle this,” Cheryl said. She’d dressed in an orange blouse he’d always liked that showed some of her cleavage, and a tight pair of low-cut jeans. As Devin idly clicked a few laptop keys, she walked up, twisted him around, and pressed her lips against his. He felt her tongue poking at the ridge of his teeth in a way that made his head explode.
She pulled back and said again, just as sweetly, “Dev, nine thirty is just as good as nine, isn’t it?”
“Nine thirty is the most amazing thing in the whole world,” Devin answered dreamily. “It’s my favorite time ever.”
Devin moved to kiss her again, but she pulled away. Cody gave her a wicked smile.
“Okay,” Devin said, surrendering. “How about this? We’ll finish recording tonight and mix tomorrow. Why don’t we pack up Cody and Ben and they can take off. You’re driving Cody back, right Ben?”
“Right.”
“Cool. Then Cheryl and I will finish recording Karston. Deal?”
Cody gave Devin another knowing look, but Devin just shrugged in response. Still staring at Devin, he unplugged his axe and moved to put it in the case.
“Dev,” Cody said, too sweetly, “can you help me load up the amp?”
As they walked toward Ben’s minivan, out of earshot of the garage, Cody shook his head. “You get one extra night, that’s all, and it’s just delaying the inevitable, man. He’s killing us.”
“It’ll be fine,” Devin insisted.
“Don’t think I won’t know it if you play the bass for him,” Cody said as he slipped his guitar case into the back.
“It’ll be fine. Come on, you owe me for helping you with the Slits,” Devin said.
Cody chuckled. “More like you owe me. It’s the first thing you ever did with your life.”
The words stuck in Devin’s head as he watched them drive off toward the setting sun. He even waited until they were out of sight before heading back to the garage, fearful Cody might change his mind and come back.
When he finally did return to the ad-hoc studio, quiet, hesitant bass notes filled the air. Karston was deeper in the garage, by the hanging tools near the steel door that led to the house’s interior. He was staring down at his shaking hands as he played his cheap bass.
In the few seconds it had taken Cody and Ben to pack up and leave, Karston’s playing had grown much worse.
Devin raised his voice. “One take, right Karston? You’re in the zone?”
“Yeah,” Karston said, nodding enthusiastically.
He turned to Karston with a reassuring smile. In a week, “Face” would be burning its way through the school, then maybe the town. And his new one was even better, more real.
Despite the attack, it was turning out to be a great night.
What could possibly go wrong?
5
Hours later, the moonlight had long gone and Cheryl, her curfew approaching, was looking half asleep. Devin found his brain echoing the screech of Karston’s mother, wishing the inept bass player had never bought the bass in the first place.
“Take it nice and easy, Karston,” he said, trying really hard to keep his voice calm. “Listen to the control track. Give it a count of four…no, you know what, forget that. You just pick a beat, any beat you want, and start playing. Just play. And don’t stop. You can do it, man.”
Karston nodded. He nodded just like he’d nodded for the last ten takes he’d screwed up. But maybe, maybe even if Karston started early, or late, or in the middle, Devin could slide the track along on the laptop screen and synch it up. All he had to do was play the right notes and the right tempo. In fact, Karston didn’t even have to play
