In Tune

Chapter 1Pax February 13, 2017 Pax got back to his hotel room with just enough time to shower, dress, and finish packing before checkout. His flight to New York was at three, which should put him in his loft by midnight LA time. Along the way, he could clean up all the messages that landed while he was offline the night before. Usually, the Grammy Awards meant a watch party at home: relaxing with some friends, some takeout, and plenty of drinks. It was a whole different experience to be in the audience, trying not to visibly bite his nails until one of the albums he’d produced didn’t win. He was a guy who would say “it’s an honor just to be nominated” and mean it, but it was still a letdown last night when somebody else took the trophy. “You’re only forty,” he told himself out loud, ignoring the curious looks from other people at the gate. He had earbuds in; they probably thought he was on the phone with someone. Whatever. It was good he was going straight into another producing gig. And this one was going to be fun. The sound design was sent on January 20, a month ahead of when they’d go into the recording studio. Pax and headliner Scott Easton had gone back and forth a few times, discussing previous recordings of the songs on the track list and debating the backup instrumentation. Scott said he’d handle booking the musicians. Pax had no idea who that would be, or if anybody he’d recorded before was in that area now; it was going to be an adventure. * * * * February 19 The flight was on time, the cab was clean, and the hotel was completely satisfactory. An oversized suite at a bargain price, with world-class food and entertainment a few snow-free minutes away: Las Vegas in a nutshell. Pax had barely finished unpacking when his phone rang. He snatched it up and tapped to connect. “Easton! What’s the word?” The horn expert answered with a smile in his voice. “Hi, Pax, the word is go. The guys and I have been lining up the rest of our players. You probably know most of them already. Want the list in advance?” “I actually don’t, unless there’s something I really need to know before we’re in the studio. Don’t plan to do much besides eat and sleep tonight.” “I won’t send over the charts then.” “Yeah, don’t do that.” A laugh at the other end. Pax smiled. “You’ve been to the Grammys, right?” “Oh yes.” “One party after another till crazy o’clock, man. Ended up at an all-night diner with some good friends I just met, talking trash about the winners and puffing up our next projects. Some people out there have heard about this one.” Pax wasn’t blowing smoke. The word got around fast when a well-regarded session player, one of only a few jazz trumpet players people knew by name, decided to headline an album. “One question, though.” “What’s that?” “About piano. You decide to get Gloria Louise?” “She said she could come in toward the end, if I need her,” Scott said. “I played her the dirty demo you heard. She’s the one who suggested marimba. They used it on the sessions they just finished with Gino Corsetti.” Pax liked that idea even more now than he did the first time he heard it. “That’ll bring the old bossa nova flavor.” “We’ll see how it works, anyway. If we decide piano is a must-have after we go through the charts, maybe you’ll play for us. Get some sleep, we’ll see you at nine tomorrow.” “You surely will.” Pax didn’t plan to play on this record, but he stayed in practice, and this was his favorite type of project. Kind of nice that Scott made the suggestion. He disconnected, eyed the big tempting bed, then went looking for the room-service menu. * * * * There’s always something like jet lag when you have a good night’s sleep after a week of not enough sleep, but Pax was up on time, raring to go. Because he’d worked on a lot of recordings in facilities ranging from “high school gym” to “R&B star’s palatial home studio,” his first priority was reconnaissance. He needed to know everything about the place they’d be working in for the next three weeks, starting with where to get coffee. An advance email to the facility meant he could get there an hour ahead of any of the players, meet the studio manager and the sound engineer, have a tour, and integrate his gear. As expected, the combo (headliner Scott on trumpet; Oscar, double bass; Ruben, drums) arrived promptly at nine. Once they got done with introductions, Scott handed over the list of players. Pax saw a couple of familiar names, along with one or two he thought he should know. He wouldn’t remember them all until he saw the faces and said the names out loud. For now, he focused on the actual instruments. Another horn player, for trombone; electric bass; electric guitar—”You get a vintage Rickenbacker?” he asked hopefully; Scott said, “You better believe we did;” the second percussionist, for marimba and handhelds and whatever Ruben wasn’t playing; and a reed player, with not three but four different kinds of clarinet. “Contrabass clarinet, what the f**k?” Pax looked up at the headliner, who was grinning back at him as if he knew this was going to blow his producer’s mind. For a change, Scott wasn’t wearing a suit, but he was hitting all the hipster notes with his blond-streaked man bun and glasses. Plus the look of deep contentment Pax had noticed and envied back at New Year’s. Scott said, “We tried him out with Oscar and loved the way those two voices sound together. You’ll see.” Pax wasn’t going to argue; sometimes the odd combinations were the best. Instead he set the list aside, because people were on their way in. Five more hands to be shaken, greetings exchanged, a few words of welcome for a quick chemistry check. It was a manageable number; you could take a minute with each one and not hold things up too long. The first four all seemed like good people, not surprising since they were chosen by Scott. Then the last guy was there. Pax frowned a little at the strangely familiar face. The reed player shook his head with mock sadness. “I know it’s been a while, but not that long, Pax.” He stood back, changed the way he was standing, and said the next words in a less-smooth voice. The voice of a young man, a native New Yorker like Pax, on the cusp of years of concentrated training in musicianship. “If you ain’t playing, you ain’t producing, brother!”