Chapter SeventeenPARAMOUNT STUDIOS, ROY POMEROY’S SOUND STUDIO,
December 15, 1928
“All right, Miss Bow. You can begin.”
Having studied sound technology, the sound engineer, Roy Pomeroy, was full of the weight of his own importance—a dictatorial horse’s ass with a pretentious British accent. His hairline was somewhere around the crown of his head, and due to the cut of his dark moustache he always looked like he was smelling something bad. He surrounded himself with fancy Western Electric equipment and ruled the studio like a king. Word was, if he didn’t like you, he could change you from a tenor to a soprano with one twiddle of a knob. And there went your career.
Engineers now had to record films in a hot, noise-proofed box called the sound booth, and the equipment picked up all kinds
