over his face in concentration,
his slender body loose inside his black shirt and trousers.
Abruptly the music stopped. A conductor
turned to the composer with a query. Gadden was shaking his head.
"He's not satisfied,"
one of the engineers murmured.
"I thought we had it that
time," another replied.
"No. He's right. It's not
quite there."
"Not quite," the second
engineer dutifully chorused.
At that moment the youngest of
the three, a pale teenager with straggly hair and wearing a Jesse Gadden
T-shirt approached her. "I'm sorry, I've only just recognised you. You're
waiting for Jesse, right? He doesn't often invite anyone to his sessions. Would
you like a drink or anything?"
"No, thank you," Kate
replied. Despite herself, she was rather pleased that she should be an
exception. And, as the other engineers considered her, intrigued by her
presence, she looked back into the studio.
Gadden was now standing in the
middle of the orchestra, explaining something. The conductor and every musician
on the floor was watching him, alert, professionally interested. As he stopped
speaking Kerinova appeared and going up to him put her mouth to his ear. She
was so close it looked intimate. But suddenly Gadden span away and looked
straight at Kate.
Embarrassed, feeling that she’d
been observing something she shouldn’t, Kate shrank back in her seat.
But Gadden just smiled. And, even
from this distance, she could see the blue of his eyes.
"I thought you might enjoy seeing
how we make records." It was five in the morning. The session had
finished, with the orchestra leaving quickly and wearily, allowing the
engineers to log the night’s work. Seemingly pleased, Gadden had now flopped
down on a chair alongside Kate.
For several hours she’d listened to the orchestra
play the same sequences over and over, the emphasis of each take often indistinguishable
to her from the preceding one as the singer had sought the sound he wanted. She
would have been happy to have watched from the control room, but, mid-way
through the session, Gadden had insisted she come into the studio and sit to
one side of the violins. And although she'd felt a fraud because she couldn't
play anything or even read music, she had to admit she’d enjoyed being present
at the creation of something people would soon be buying or downloading in
their millions.
"What did you think?"
he asked, relaxing.
"I think…I expected to hear
you singing."
He snorted, amused. "Ah,
you’re all the same. There’s more to making a record than just some fella
singing, you know. You came on the wrong night if that’s what you wanted. First
we put the rhythm tracks down…that's bass and drums. You’ve heard about them,
have you? They’re the foundation to everything we do. Then there’s the guitars.
Tonight we've been working on some overdubs…backing tracks…getting the
orchestra to drown out all our mistakes and add a bit of drama. We’ll need them
for the concert.”
He was now so easy and friendly
Kate was having difficulty reconciling him with the perfectionist she’d been
watching at work. “Your final concert, you mean?”
"The very one.” He looked at her. “To be
honest, I didn't think you'd come.”
"I want that
interview."
"Oh yes, the
interview." He pulled a face as though in discomfort. "Tell me
something, be honest now, is there anything in this entire world as boring as
listening to rock stars talking about themselves."
"They don't have to be boring."
"No? Maybe not. But they
are."
"Not all of them."
"But most. Did you ever hear
Bruce Springsteen being interviewed? Or Madonna? Or Sting? They'd bore the
devil out of hell." He was laughing now, coming on the Irish joker, his
accent much stronger than when he'd addressed the orchestra.
She knew he was deliberately
charming her, but she was enjoying it. "Is that why you don't do
interviews, because you think you might be boring?"
"Let's just say, it saves a
lot of time which can be more
his slender body loose inside his black shirt and trousers.
Abruptly the music stopped. A conductor
turned to the composer with a query. Gadden was shaking his head.
"He's not satisfied,"
one of the engineers murmured.
"I thought we had it that
time," another replied.
"No. He's right. It's not
quite there."
"Not quite," the second
engineer dutifully chorused.
At that moment the youngest of
the three, a pale teenager with straggly hair and wearing a Jesse Gadden
T-shirt approached her. "I'm sorry, I've only just recognised you. You're
waiting for Jesse, right? He doesn't often invite anyone to his sessions. Would
you like a drink or anything?"
"No, thank you," Kate
replied. Despite herself, she was rather pleased that she should be an
exception. And, as the other engineers considered her, intrigued by her
presence, she looked back into the studio.
Gadden was now standing in the
middle of the orchestra, explaining something. The conductor and every musician
on the floor was watching him, alert, professionally interested. As he stopped
speaking Kerinova appeared and going up to him put her mouth to his ear. She
was so close it looked intimate. But suddenly Gadden span away and looked
straight at Kate.
Embarrassed, feeling that she’d
been observing something she shouldn’t, Kate shrank back in her seat.
But Gadden just smiled. And, even
from this distance, she could see the blue of his eyes.
"I thought you might enjoy seeing
how we make records." It was five in the morning. The session had
finished, with the orchestra leaving quickly and wearily, allowing the
engineers to log the night’s work. Seemingly pleased, Gadden had now flopped
down on a chair alongside Kate.
For several hours she’d listened to the orchestra
play the same sequences over and over, the emphasis of each take often indistinguishable
to her from the preceding one as the singer had sought the sound he wanted. She
would have been happy to have watched from the control room, but, mid-way
through the session, Gadden had insisted she come into the studio and sit to
one side of the violins. And although she'd felt a fraud because she couldn't
play anything or even read music, she had to admit she’d enjoyed being present
at the creation of something people would soon be buying or downloading in
their millions.
"What did you think?"
he asked, relaxing.
"I think…I expected to hear
you singing."
He snorted, amused. "Ah,
you’re all the same. There’s more to making a record than just some fella
singing, you know. You came on the wrong night if that’s what you wanted. First
we put the rhythm tracks down…that's bass and drums. You’ve heard about them,
have you? They’re the foundation to everything we do. Then there’s the guitars.
Tonight we've been working on some overdubs…backing tracks…getting the
orchestra to drown out all our mistakes and add a bit of drama. We’ll need them
for the concert.”
He was now so easy and friendly
Kate was having difficulty reconciling him with the perfectionist she’d been
watching at work. “Your final concert, you mean?”
"The very one.” He looked at her. “To be
honest, I didn't think you'd come.”
"I want that
interview."
"Oh yes, the
interview." He pulled a face as though in discomfort. "Tell me
something, be honest now, is there anything in this entire world as boring as
listening to rock stars talking about themselves."
"They don't have to be boring."
"No? Maybe not. But they
are."
"Not all of them."
"But most. Did you ever hear
Bruce Springsteen being interviewed? Or Madonna? Or Sting? They'd bore the
devil out of hell." He was laughing now, coming on the Irish joker, his
accent much stronger than when he'd addressed the orchestra.
She knew he was deliberately
charming her, but she was enjoying it. "Is that why you don't do
interviews, because you think you might be boring?"
"Let's just say, it saves a
lot of time which can be more
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