Read Online The Godfather Returns by Mark Winegardner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Winegardner
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Johnny jerked a thumb toward the microphone, and Milner nodded.
Milner mumbled directions to his engineer and then took the podium. The musicians reached for their instruments. Milner took off his coat, raised his brawny arms, and flicked his baton. Johnny was in front of the mike and ready to go.
“C’mon, gents,” he said. But that was all he said.
Johnny hit the song hard from the first note, and the orchestra—Eddie Neils’s people every one—surged lushly behind him. It was like old times. He felt himself riding over the top of the song. He could still do this. Just like riding a bicycle.
When they finished, the people in the booth clapped soundlessly.
Milner sat down at a stool. Johnny asked him what he thought. Milner said he was thinking. Johnny asked if he thought they should do it again. Milner said nothing. He just stood and raised his arms. They did it again. Milner sat back down and started making notes.
“What are you doing?”
Milner shook his head but said nothing else. Johnny looked at Phil, who got the message and brought them all into the booth together.
“We’re getting rid of two thirds of the orchestra,” Milner said.
Not “we should” or “maybe we should”; just the flat statement. Johnny snapped. This was exactly the kind of orchestra he’d used on his biggest hits, exactly the sound people yearned for.
Milner stood his ground, expressionless, absorbing Johnny’s tirade.
Finally Milner handed Phil a slip of paper. On it was the list of people to take off the clock and send home. Phil arched an eyebrow, then pointed at himself. Milner said he didn’t care who did it.
“Hell,” Johnny said. “Do what you need to do.” He sat down heavily on a leather chair.
Milner was the one who sent the men packing. Johnny sat and looked over the list of songs he’d chosen, compared the charts Neils had done and the ones Milner had done. Milner’s were written fast, dotted with sloppily filled notes. There was nothing like the old days about this.
Moments later, Johnny was back behind the microphone, staring down at the sheet music on the stand in front of him. Milner’s this time. An old Cole Porter number that he’d recorded once before, way back when. He wanted to both kill this Milner and hug him. He’d love to prove the man wrong. He prayed that the man was right.
People who’d seen Johnny Fontane in clubs, or even those who’d seen him record ten years ago, wouldn’t have recognized the coiled, brooding man now breathing evenly behind the microphone. The remaining musicians took their places. The engineer wanted a mike check. Just as they were getting ready, some kid came in and asked where he should put Mr. Fontane’s tea. Johnny pointed but did not talk, rocked slowly in place but did not otherwise move, kept his eyes fixed on the music but did not really look at it. This all took only a few moments, but to Johnny it felt like hours and also like no time at all. He closed his eyes. The last time he’d sung this song, his voice had been as clear as rainwater and, as far as he was concerned, about as interesting.
Johnny was hardly aware of the song starting. His breath control was so built up from all that time in the pool, he was barely aware he was singing. The arrangement was everywhere and nowhere, kicking in when he wanted it, staying out of his way without needing to learn how. One verse in, and all Johnny was aware of was that bum in the song, trying to use pretty words and jokes to convince himself he could survive without the woman who’d left him. By the time Johnny hit the first chorus, he
was
that bum. He wasn’t singing to the other people who might be hearing him, in the studio, on the radio, in the privacy of their living room with a bottle of whiskey emptying out far faster than it should. He was singing to and for himself, telling truths so private they could burn holes through stone. There was nothing that anyone who really heard the music could
Milner mumbled directions to his engineer and then took the podium. The musicians reached for their instruments. Milner took off his coat, raised his brawny arms, and flicked his baton. Johnny was in front of the mike and ready to go.
“C’mon, gents,” he said. But that was all he said.
Johnny hit the song hard from the first note, and the orchestra—Eddie Neils’s people every one—surged lushly behind him. It was like old times. He felt himself riding over the top of the song. He could still do this. Just like riding a bicycle.
When they finished, the people in the booth clapped soundlessly.
Milner sat down at a stool. Johnny asked him what he thought. Milner said he was thinking. Johnny asked if he thought they should do it again. Milner said nothing. He just stood and raised his arms. They did it again. Milner sat back down and started making notes.
“What are you doing?”
Milner shook his head but said nothing else. Johnny looked at Phil, who got the message and brought them all into the booth together.
“We’re getting rid of two thirds of the orchestra,” Milner said.
Not “we should” or “maybe we should”; just the flat statement. Johnny snapped. This was exactly the kind of orchestra he’d used on his biggest hits, exactly the sound people yearned for.
Milner stood his ground, expressionless, absorbing Johnny’s tirade.
Finally Milner handed Phil a slip of paper. On it was the list of people to take off the clock and send home. Phil arched an eyebrow, then pointed at himself. Milner said he didn’t care who did it.
“Hell,” Johnny said. “Do what you need to do.” He sat down heavily on a leather chair.
Milner was the one who sent the men packing. Johnny sat and looked over the list of songs he’d chosen, compared the charts Neils had done and the ones Milner had done. Milner’s were written fast, dotted with sloppily filled notes. There was nothing like the old days about this.
Moments later, Johnny was back behind the microphone, staring down at the sheet music on the stand in front of him. Milner’s this time. An old Cole Porter number that he’d recorded once before, way back when. He wanted to both kill this Milner and hug him. He’d love to prove the man wrong. He prayed that the man was right.
People who’d seen Johnny Fontane in clubs, or even those who’d seen him record ten years ago, wouldn’t have recognized the coiled, brooding man now breathing evenly behind the microphone. The remaining musicians took their places. The engineer wanted a mike check. Just as they were getting ready, some kid came in and asked where he should put Mr. Fontane’s tea. Johnny pointed but did not talk, rocked slowly in place but did not otherwise move, kept his eyes fixed on the music but did not really look at it. This all took only a few moments, but to Johnny it felt like hours and also like no time at all. He closed his eyes. The last time he’d sung this song, his voice had been as clear as rainwater and, as far as he was concerned, about as interesting.
Johnny was hardly aware of the song starting. His breath control was so built up from all that time in the pool, he was barely aware he was singing. The arrangement was everywhere and nowhere, kicking in when he wanted it, staying out of his way without needing to learn how. One verse in, and all Johnny was aware of was that bum in the song, trying to use pretty words and jokes to convince himself he could survive without the woman who’d left him. By the time Johnny hit the first chorus, he
was
that bum. He wasn’t singing to the other people who might be hearing him, in the studio, on the radio, in the privacy of their living room with a bottle of whiskey emptying out far faster than it should. He was singing to and for himself, telling truths so private they could burn holes through stone. There was nothing that anyone who really heard the music could
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