chance to get Lexi back that will kill me. Every time the
thought enters my head I have to drop to the floor and do push-ups,
or grab the nearest doorway and perform chin pulls to beat it back
out again.
Then
something I didn’t
expect starts to happen. Haley and I talk on the phone and send
messages back and forth for a few days. She sends me some more of her
songs, I press her on how she imagines them getting recorded, the
kind of production she wants. She references albums that are way
beyond her years, cult classics and forgotten masterpieces that I
thought only music buffs and old guys knew about.
“ What’s
Going On, Marvin
Gaye.”
“You
sure?” she says on
the other end of the line, and I can hear her smile.
“I’m
sure. If I was on a desert island, with just one record, that’s
what I’d pick.”
“Wrong
choice,” she says,
laughing.
“How
can it be a wrong choice? Greatest rhythm section of all time. The
most soulful singer ever. Every theme you can imagine, sex, love,
depression, society, life.”
She
giggles, enjoying the sound of me trying to convince her.
“But
it’s a desert
island.”
“So?”
“You’re
on the beach, in the beating sun, the big wide ocean all around you –
you telling me you want to hear
songs about ‘society’
and ‘depression’
out there?”
I
chuckle.
“What
would you choose then?” I
ask, with a smile I’m
sure she can hear this time.
“Bob
Marley. Kaya .”
“Of
course.”
“Sitting
on the beach, sipping juice from a coconut, watching the waves roll
back and forth, singing along to sun
is shining … Paradise.”
“Would
you be wearing a bikini in this scenario?”
“ Brando …”
she says disappointedly, but with
more than a trace of sex in the way she draws my name out.
“Sorry,”
I say, “I
can’t help it.”
We
talk about how weirdly beautiful Nico’s
solo albums were, how underappreciated Laura Nyro is, argue whether
Johnny Marr or Jimi Hendrix is the greatest guitarist of all time (I
say Hendrix but she almost convinces me otherwise).
I
listen past the poor audio quality and shy modesty of her songs and
start hearing things that draw me in. Quirky melodies, interesting
chord changes, powerful lyrics that swim around in my head when I’m
not thinking. She starts talking about music production the way I’ve
only heard grumpy engineers and brilliant geniuses do, picking up on
details that only perfectionists – the
kinds of people who make classic albums – care
about.
I
start to think that this might just work after all.
I
start acting on Haley’s
suggestions, booking a studio in a house in Laurel Canyon. It’s
no hit factory, but it’s
intimate, peaceful, and full of vintage equipment – a
perfect fit for Haley. Next, I bring in Josh Chambers, an old
singer-songwriter that Haley’s
talked about adoringly. He hasn’t
released a record in over thirty years, and he definitely doesn’t
dress as sharply as Baptiste, but you’d
struggle to find a guitar player who hasn’t
stolen at least one of his licks, or a producer who doesn’t
use a bag of tricks that Josh invented before they were even born.
This
time Haley’s already
there when I pull up at the wood and glass house built on a hillside.
She’s sitting on the
porch, smile as big as the coffee cup she’s
clutching between her two hands as she talks casually with Josh. They
stand up and walk toward me as I get out of the car.
“Brando.”
“Josh.”
We
clasp hands, and after a split second end up hugging warmly. Josh is
still good looking, despite his slim face bearing all the lines and
toughness of a life well-lived. He’s
in faded jeans and a well-worn plaid shirt. Nobody would guess that
he’s in his late
fifties, least of all because he’s
more comfortable in his skin than anyone I’ve
ever known.
“It’s
been a long time, man,” he
says in his gravelly, but still tuneful, voice.
“Doesn’t
feel like it,” I
say, nodding toward the
thought enters my head I have to drop to the floor and do push-ups,
or grab the nearest doorway and perform chin pulls to beat it back
out again.
Then
something I didn’t
expect starts to happen. Haley and I talk on the phone and send
messages back and forth for a few days. She sends me some more of her
songs, I press her on how she imagines them getting recorded, the
kind of production she wants. She references albums that are way
beyond her years, cult classics and forgotten masterpieces that I
thought only music buffs and old guys knew about.
“ What’s
Going On, Marvin
Gaye.”
“You
sure?” she says on
the other end of the line, and I can hear her smile.
“I’m
sure. If I was on a desert island, with just one record, that’s
what I’d pick.”
“Wrong
choice,” she says,
laughing.
“How
can it be a wrong choice? Greatest rhythm section of all time. The
most soulful singer ever. Every theme you can imagine, sex, love,
depression, society, life.”
She
giggles, enjoying the sound of me trying to convince her.
“But
it’s a desert
island.”
“So?”
“You’re
on the beach, in the beating sun, the big wide ocean all around you –
you telling me you want to hear
songs about ‘society’
and ‘depression’
out there?”
I
chuckle.
“What
would you choose then?” I
ask, with a smile I’m
sure she can hear this time.
“Bob
Marley. Kaya .”
“Of
course.”
“Sitting
on the beach, sipping juice from a coconut, watching the waves roll
back and forth, singing along to sun
is shining … Paradise.”
“Would
you be wearing a bikini in this scenario?”
“ Brando …”
she says disappointedly, but with
more than a trace of sex in the way she draws my name out.
“Sorry,”
I say, “I
can’t help it.”
We
talk about how weirdly beautiful Nico’s
solo albums were, how underappreciated Laura Nyro is, argue whether
Johnny Marr or Jimi Hendrix is the greatest guitarist of all time (I
say Hendrix but she almost convinces me otherwise).
I
listen past the poor audio quality and shy modesty of her songs and
start hearing things that draw me in. Quirky melodies, interesting
chord changes, powerful lyrics that swim around in my head when I’m
not thinking. She starts talking about music production the way I’ve
only heard grumpy engineers and brilliant geniuses do, picking up on
details that only perfectionists – the
kinds of people who make classic albums – care
about.
I
start to think that this might just work after all.
I
start acting on Haley’s
suggestions, booking a studio in a house in Laurel Canyon. It’s
no hit factory, but it’s
intimate, peaceful, and full of vintage equipment – a
perfect fit for Haley. Next, I bring in Josh Chambers, an old
singer-songwriter that Haley’s
talked about adoringly. He hasn’t
released a record in over thirty years, and he definitely doesn’t
dress as sharply as Baptiste, but you’d
struggle to find a guitar player who hasn’t
stolen at least one of his licks, or a producer who doesn’t
use a bag of tricks that Josh invented before they were even born.
This
time Haley’s already
there when I pull up at the wood and glass house built on a hillside.
She’s sitting on the
porch, smile as big as the coffee cup she’s
clutching between her two hands as she talks casually with Josh. They
stand up and walk toward me as I get out of the car.
“Brando.”
“Josh.”
We
clasp hands, and after a split second end up hugging warmly. Josh is
still good looking, despite his slim face bearing all the lines and
toughness of a life well-lived. He’s
in faded jeans and a well-worn plaid shirt. Nobody would guess that
he’s in his late
fifties, least of all because he’s
more comfortable in his skin than anyone I’ve
ever known.
“It’s
been a long time, man,” he
says in his gravelly, but still tuneful, voice.
“Doesn’t
feel like it,” I
say, nodding toward the
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