Read Online The Jaguar by T. Jefferson Parker - Free Book Online
Authors: T. Jefferson Parker
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studio.
The control room was large and filled with state-of-the-art equipment—a vintage Trident mixing board, Genelec loudspeakers suspended from the ceiling, a pair of NS-10 near-field speakers and Auratones on the board. She saw the two Studer twenty-four-track tape machines, and the racks with the Neve compressor, a near-holy Pultec EQP equalizer, FX, reverb mainframes dat machines, CD players and tape decks, a dedicated Mac. It was cold as control rooms are.As she moved slowly through it, looking at the expensive equipment, she felt no warm spots in the room, and she thought of her first recording sessions in an Austin garage when she was so young her brothers insisted on being there with her: the heat and the terrible acoustics and the troubled wannabe record producer who swilled warm beers and smoked joints and finally fell asleep on the floor mumbling sweet nothings to the cover of an Emmylou Harris long-play.
“Forty-eight tracks of analog,” said Erin. “And a Mac to store the digital. You have all the good toys,” she said.
“I like the warmer sound of the analog.”
“I always have too.”
He nodded. “However the digital has no hissing, and duplication is very convenient. I do the recording. I am a good engineer. I play accordion, but not well. I sing poorly.”
He held open the heavy door and they stepped into the tracking room. The ceilings were high and the rafters exposed and the woodwork and finish were handsome.
“This is more Honduran mahogany,” said Armenta.
Here in the tracking room his voice was flat and clear, as if stripped of nonessential vibration. Erin could tell that the baffles and sound-proofing were excellent, though hidden within the gorgeous woodwork. The air here was lively in a shimmery way—a tuned tracking room, she thought. Beautiful. There was a big drum booth, a piano booth in which a Yamaha grand piano held court, a vocal booth caked with foam from ceiling to floor. She turned and looked at Armenta.
“Los Jaguars de Veracruz have recorded here. And Mara Graco. Do you know Mara Graco?”
“I love Mara Graco.
La Cumbia de Rosas.”
“And
La Casa du tus Sueños.
”
“The House of Your Dreams.”
“Her voice is almost that of a man. It is smoking and rich andhides something sharpened. She plays the piano very well but this talent is not featured on her recordings. Until here. Here Mara Graco played the Yamaha. It was…extraordinary. I want Flaco Jimenez to come here. So
robusto,
his accordion. I have seen him perform many times.”
Erin looked briefly at Armenta. His gray-black hair sprang randomly but his hangdog eyes were intensely focused on her. He seemed flushed by the memory of Mara Graco playing the Yamaha. For a moment his face held a ruddy glow and the hint of a smile. Then these faded and Erin saw the haunted face she had seen before, a man with losses he could not recover and regrets he would not outlive.
“And the Brazilians?” asked Armenta with a small twinkle in his eyes. “Nora Ney? Marisa Monte?”
“Hipnotico,”
said Erin. “I love the Brazilians. They absorb so much and make it all work. I miss the old sambas.”
“I very much love the Irish too,” said Armenta. “And when the Chieftains play together with Los Tigres del Norte—”
“The Irish and the Mexicans together,” said Erin. “Was ‘San Patricio’ a wonder or not? With Ry Cooder!”
“Did you know that the accordions were brought here by the German and the Polish miners? Because they could travel with them. And the Mexicans fell in love with this sound. That is why much of our music is polka music—German polkas played faster and with happiness! Oh, yes, then you mix into this the passionate Irish. I reproduced two hundred and ten thousands of CDs of ‘San Patricio,’ and sold them easily. The Chieftans are excessively popular in Mexico, as are the Celtic Women. I made forty thousands of DVDs of their American PBS special. And the Spanish musicians who are
The control room was large and filled with state-of-the-art equipment—a vintage Trident mixing board, Genelec loudspeakers suspended from the ceiling, a pair of NS-10 near-field speakers and Auratones on the board. She saw the two Studer twenty-four-track tape machines, and the racks with the Neve compressor, a near-holy Pultec EQP equalizer, FX, reverb mainframes dat machines, CD players and tape decks, a dedicated Mac. It was cold as control rooms are.As she moved slowly through it, looking at the expensive equipment, she felt no warm spots in the room, and she thought of her first recording sessions in an Austin garage when she was so young her brothers insisted on being there with her: the heat and the terrible acoustics and the troubled wannabe record producer who swilled warm beers and smoked joints and finally fell asleep on the floor mumbling sweet nothings to the cover of an Emmylou Harris long-play.
“Forty-eight tracks of analog,” said Erin. “And a Mac to store the digital. You have all the good toys,” she said.
“I like the warmer sound of the analog.”
“I always have too.”
He nodded. “However the digital has no hissing, and duplication is very convenient. I do the recording. I am a good engineer. I play accordion, but not well. I sing poorly.”
He held open the heavy door and they stepped into the tracking room. The ceilings were high and the rafters exposed and the woodwork and finish were handsome.
“This is more Honduran mahogany,” said Armenta.
Here in the tracking room his voice was flat and clear, as if stripped of nonessential vibration. Erin could tell that the baffles and sound-proofing were excellent, though hidden within the gorgeous woodwork. The air here was lively in a shimmery way—a tuned tracking room, she thought. Beautiful. There was a big drum booth, a piano booth in which a Yamaha grand piano held court, a vocal booth caked with foam from ceiling to floor. She turned and looked at Armenta.
“Los Jaguars de Veracruz have recorded here. And Mara Graco. Do you know Mara Graco?”
“I love Mara Graco.
La Cumbia de Rosas.”
“And
La Casa du tus Sueños.
”
“The House of Your Dreams.”
“Her voice is almost that of a man. It is smoking and rich andhides something sharpened. She plays the piano very well but this talent is not featured on her recordings. Until here. Here Mara Graco played the Yamaha. It was…extraordinary. I want Flaco Jimenez to come here. So
robusto,
his accordion. I have seen him perform many times.”
Erin looked briefly at Armenta. His gray-black hair sprang randomly but his hangdog eyes were intensely focused on her. He seemed flushed by the memory of Mara Graco playing the Yamaha. For a moment his face held a ruddy glow and the hint of a smile. Then these faded and Erin saw the haunted face she had seen before, a man with losses he could not recover and regrets he would not outlive.
“And the Brazilians?” asked Armenta with a small twinkle in his eyes. “Nora Ney? Marisa Monte?”
“Hipnotico,”
said Erin. “I love the Brazilians. They absorb so much and make it all work. I miss the old sambas.”
“I very much love the Irish too,” said Armenta. “And when the Chieftains play together with Los Tigres del Norte—”
“The Irish and the Mexicans together,” said Erin. “Was ‘San Patricio’ a wonder or not? With Ry Cooder!”
“Did you know that the accordions were brought here by the German and the Polish miners? Because they could travel with them. And the Mexicans fell in love with this sound. That is why much of our music is polka music—German polkas played faster and with happiness! Oh, yes, then you mix into this the passionate Irish. I reproduced two hundred and ten thousands of CDs of ‘San Patricio,’ and sold them easily. The Chieftans are excessively popular in Mexico, as are the Celtic Women. I made forty thousands of DVDs of their American PBS special. And the Spanish musicians who are
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