How Evan Broke His Head and Other Secrets (9 page)

She laughs.

“You’ll see more of me, ” she says. She opens the door to the studio and goes in. Evan is confused. He follows her into the room.

“How’s everything going in here?” she calls out. Lars and Dean are there. So are Rod and Tony.“You guys find everything you need?”

Lars shoots up from behind his drum set. He rushes around his ride cymbal and heads toward the girl.

“Ms. Morrison, ” he stammers, his right hand outthrust. “I own every album you’ve ever engineered, and it’s a real honor to be able to work with you.”

“Just call me Mica, ” the girl says.

“This is Tony and this is Rod, ” Lars says, pointing them out. “This is my assistant, Dean. And this is our gem, our shining star, our brilliant guitarist, Evan.”

Mica smiles at Evan.

“We’ve already met, ” she says.

M
ICA ASKS QUESTIONS about the band, their sound, how they want to handle the vocals, and so on. They all agree that they like a live sound, so they’ll play together, in one room, without headphones. Keeping it real. The questions turn to more sophisticated sound issues: overdubbing, reverb, layering of tracks, filtering, boosting. Things that a novice band doesn’t really know about because they haven’t had the exposure. But Evan has had the exposure, having done all of this before, and Lars knows the lingo, so the two of them answer most of the questions.

She frowns when they tell her they don’t have a producer, because that thrusts her into the role of producer pro tem, and she doesn’t like producing, she mutters loud enough for everyone to hear. If she liked producing, she would
be
a producer. Evan looks at his bandmates and knows that they’re feeling intimidated, which is what Billy warned against. He’s feeling intimidated, too, but not by her rapid-fire questions. He’s intimidated because whenever she glances at him his stomach flies into his mouth like he’s on a roller coaster.

“Well, I guess we’ll plow our way through it, ” she says hopefully, heading off to the control room door. “Let me get my panel set while you guys get warmed up.”

She opens the door that leads to the dark room behind the glass wall and steps inside. The door sucks shut behind her.

“I’d like to plow my way through
her
sometime, ” Rod says when she’s gone.

“Dude, ” Lars says, “don’t be an idiot. She can hear you.”

“Oh, shit.”

Lars shakes his head in disgust.“You guys are a bunch of freaking amateurs. She fucking engineers The Rolling Stones. If you can’t act professionally, at least keep your mouths shut.”

“Fuck you, ” Rod snaps.

“Get in line behind your mother, ” Lars fires back.

Dean laughs.

“And what’s with the midget?” Rod asks.“Who invited
him?”

“He’s not a midget, he’s a kid, ” Lars says, standing quickly enough to knock over his throne.“And I invited him. And if you don’t like it, you can fucking come over here and talk to me about it.”

“Guys, guys, ”Tony says quickly, trying to stop the fight before it starts. “Relax. We’re all a little freaked out. Let’s just relax, let her do her thing, and we’ll do our thing.”

Calmed, everyone resumes fidgeting with their equipment.

Evan tries to peer into the control room, but Mica has the lights off inside so the glass wall is nothing but a mirror, reflecting the image of the band back at him.

He sees Lars, of course. Who could miss him? With his silvery crew cut and the dent in his skull he is, somehow, immensely likeable. He and Evan forged a bond the moment they met, and have been good friends from the beginning. The same can’t be said for his relationship with Tony and Rod.

Tony is a good guy deep down, Evan is sure, though he usually walks in the shadow of Rod, the bass player. Tony is the band’s front man, and he looks the part. He’s of average height, but that’s the only thing about him that’s average. He sports a shaved head and a goatee and intense Charles-Mansonesque eyes. He is relatively conservative in terms of piercing—considering the vogue of the time—with only his ears and one eyebrow pierced by modest silver hoops. He’s built like a rock, with massive tattooed arm muscles that are always on display since he never wears a shirt with sleeves, no matter what the weather. He wears tight leather pants and steel-toed boots and his fingers are covered with chunky silver rings that have been cast from the molds of small rodent skulls. He has thick lips and broad, flat cheekbones, and is brutally handsome in a way that attracts teenage girls.

He’s a strange counterpart to Rod, the bass player and puppet master, who is definitely not attractive. If anything, he’s the anti-Tony. He’s a big guy, but Evan thinks he carries himself like a small guy. His face is marked with a permanent scowl that seems carved into his forehead. He wears black horn-rim glasses, plaid fifties shirts and Doc Martens. But it’s Rod’s hair that catches people’s attention the most. It’s dark brown, shoulder length, and matted into long, clumpy fingers—white man’s dreadlocks—that dangle in his face, cover his eyes, and swing to and fro when he shakes his head, which he does often. This combination of styles gives people the impression that Rod is a kind of cross-cultural iconoclast, a Rasta Buddy Holly, and actually makes him seem more fearsome than Lars with his dented forehead, more fearsome than Tony with his bulging arms, and certainly more fearsome than Evan, who’s pretty much the wimp of the group.

“Evan, can you come in here a minute?” a thin, disembodied voice asks. It’s Mica, or at least a metallic facsimile of her voice that comes out of a black speaker mounted over the control room window.

Evan points at himself.“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

He glances at the other guys, who grin at him with various degrees of letch. He goes inside.

The control room is warm and dark, like a cocoon. Its chairs are plush, it feels safe. Mica sits at a twenty-foot-long mixing panel full of dials, knobs, and levers that would make a 747 pilot feel right at home. She manipulates the controls; Evan waits patiently for her. She looks like she knows what she’s doing, flipping switch after switch with ease and dexterity.

“That’s your son?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s your wife?”

“I don’t have a wife.”

“Okay.”Mica nods.“Where’s your son’s mother?”

“She died recently. Automobile accident.”

“Oh, my God, ” Mica says, swiveling her chair around to face Evan. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, ” Evan says.“Me, too.”

“So it’s just you two.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you seem to be getting along okay.”

“We are. We’re getting along very well, thanks.”

They look at each other a moment, both sort of nodding their heads, taking in the gravity of what is in the past, tucking it securely away and gearing up for the future.

“Listen, I’m not a producer, ” she says turning back to the control panel.

“I know.”

“Don’t expect me to produce your demo. I’m not a savior.”

“I know.”

“A lot of people think I’m some magician. They think if they can get me to mix their tracks, they’ll have a hit. That’s not it. I listen to what’s going on, that’s all. I listen to the music and I listen to the producer and I put it together. A lot of what I mix becomes top-forty stuff because I work with really talented people. I just want you to know that.”

“Okay.”

“If you guys don’t have a producer, one of you had better speak up when we listen to playback.”

“Okay.”

She stops working and turns around.

“Whose band is it, anyway?” she asks.

Evan cocks his head, momentarily confused. “It’s ours—”

“Who’s the leader? Just so I know. It’s not Tony and it’s not Lars.”

She looks up at him, waiting for an answer.

“Rod, ” he says.

“The bass?”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting look.”

Evan follows Mica’s eyes out to the studio where Rod is setting up his bass. It’s true, Rod has an interesting look.

“Did he come up with it himself?” Mica asks.

“I think it came to him in a dream.”

“Ha, ” she says, and smiles at him. “You want to get something to eat after this is all over?”

“Sure.”

Now it’s getting confusing. She’s Billy’s girlfriend. Why would she? . . .

“But, my son . . .”

“I don’t mind if he comes, ” she says.“Oh, you mean it’s too late for him?”

“No, no, I— Sure. I mean, I should ask him. But I’m sure he’d love to.”

“Good. I’m asking now so you don’t have to worry that I think you’re a lousy musician or not a nice guy or anything. I kind of have a reputation for being a bitch during a session because I don’t take any crap from anybody and because I know when someone’s trying to get by without playing their best and I’ll call them on it. So if I have to yell at you or something it’s only because maybe I see you can do better. Don’t take it personally. Okay?”

“Okay, ” Evan says.

“One more thing, ” she says.

“Yeah?”

“How’d you get that scar?”

She traces an invisible line on her own slender, unblemished neck that corresponds with Evan’s scar, a thin, two-inch-long horizontal line on his throat just below his Adam’s apple. Hardly noticeable. He’s only been asked about it a handful of times in his life. It’s a difficult scar to see, but once you see it, you can’t forget it. It’s a tracheotomy scar.

He smiles at her and touches his neck so they’re both touching the same spot on themselves. She laughs when she notices what he’s done, but not nervously. She laughs easily.

“I’m sorry, is that too personal?” she asks.

“No, ” he says. “A childhood accident, that’s all.”

She smiles and traces her finger up, over her chin, to her lips, across her cheek and to her ear, where she scratches briefly before taking it away.

“I predict . . .” she says, but leaves it at that.

“You predict what?”

“Hmm?” She pretends she’s already dismissed it.

“What do you predict?”

“Oh. I predict that someday you’ll tell me about that childhood accident. What do you think?”

What does he think? He shakes his head.

“Do you think I’ll get you to talk, Evan? One day?”

“One day, ” he says, “maybe one day you will.”

“Go.”

Evan stares at her a moment longer as she turns back to her gear, rotates dials, flips switches, and stabs at the keyboard of her computer. Then he returns to the studio as if nothing has happened; he doesn’t tell anyone—not a soul—that he’s completely fallen in love with Mica Morrison.

“I
’M TELLING YOU guys, ” Lars says giddily from his drum set, “Ev was hot!”

Tony nods in appreciation, plucking at his strings, tuning by harmonics.“ So now you’re sitting in with the big boys?” he jokes.

Mica comes into the studio and sets up microphones for the drums, guitars, and vocals. She moves with grace and purpose, no hesitation whatsoever. No one dares get in her way.

“It was insane!” Lars continues.“I walk in there, and Ev’s up on stage with Lucky Strike! And he’s walking around like unfrozen caveman guitar player with these guys—these . . . masters of jazz— and then they start to play, right, and Evan gets this look on his face, like suddenly it hits him:
what the hell am I doing up here?
And then it’s time for him to solo, and he slams that guitar, I mean he bashes it for a few bars, just until he’s got everyone’s attention, and everyone in the room is silent at that point—I mean
silent
—you could hear an ice cube tinkle they’re so silent. They’re wondering:
who the hell is this?
And then he starts . . . sculpting . . . this solo, man. He starts weaving a goddamn tapestry of music! And everyone is on the edge of their seats wondering
where the hell is he going next?
Like they
have
to know. They
need
to know! And this is going on for, like, ten minutes.”

“It wasn’t ten minutes, ” Evan corrects.

“How do you know?” Lars shouts. “You were so into it up there, Theo Moody looks out at the audience and makes this face like,
should I stop this guy?
And the audience was like,
no fuck-ing
way!”

“We get the picture, ” Rod grumbles.

Really? Evan doesn’t get that picture. He was just playing. He didn’t see Theo Moody ask the audience anything.

“I swear to God, man, ” Lars continues.“It was like the old days. It was like Eric Clapton when he still did drugs. It was fucked up and amazing at the same time.”

“Yeah, yeah, we get the picture, ”Rod snaps.“Let’s start playing.”

“I’m with Rod, ”Mica says, finishing her mike job.“Why don’t you guys run through your songs. I won’t roll tape. I want to play with the levels and get a feel for your sound.”

“Right on, ”Tony says. He turns to the band. “Let’s start with ‘Wheel Dance’ and then go straight into ‘Rainmaker.’”

“Hold up, ” Evan says.“Can Dean stay in here?”

“For now he can, ”Mica says.“But when we start recording, he should come inside with me.”

Evan nods and reaches into his guitar bag. He pulls out a little plastic container and walks over to where Dean is sitting on an extra amp.

“Put these in.”

“What are they?” Dean asks, eagerly uncorking the little bottle. His eyes are bright and he has a perma-smile on his face.

“Ear plugs, ” Evan says.“I’ve already ruined my ears, no need for you to do the same.”

Dean looks disappointed. Evan frowns at him, and Dean, surprisingly, acquiesces without a fight. He squashes up the little foam plugs and slips them into his ears. He looks up at Evan when he’s finished.

“Did I do it right?” he asks.

“You’re a natural.”

“Let’s get it on, ”Tony says.

And off they go.

THEY PLAY THEIR two songs, and Evan is in a zone. He doesn’t care that the songs they’ve picked aren’t his. He doesn’t care that these two songs don’t showcase his talents as well as other songs do. He has no ego. He just plays. He plays truthfully and honestly. He feels the music in his heart.

He plays the notes, but he doesn’t notice them. He plays the songs, but he isn’t sure where they begin or end or how many times he’s played each. Because what he’s really playing is not notes or songs, he’s playing a cosmic ballad, a universal love song that bridges over any preemptive halts to the music, any miscues, any flubs. He’s playing what he feels, and what he feels is so strange to him. He feels he’s been given two brand new things, two new toys, and he loves playing with them. But he knows he has to give them back. Dean goes back on Sunday, Mica goes back when the session is over. And his music reflects his feelings. It’s joyous, but with an edge of melancholy, a kind of mellow hollowness that informs the music without upstaging it. The guitar solos, which had been locked in for weeks prior, take on a new depth, a new dimension. Not different, but deeper. It surprises his bandmates, and spurs them on. There’s energy to spare. Call it inspired, if you want. The band is playing inspired music, and Evan is leading the way.

What Evan doesn’t know is that behind that mirrored glass wall, in the control room, Mica is receiving all of Evan’s energy, she’s taking it in, and she likes it. She’s there by herself at first. Dean joins her when they begin recording. Then Billy drops in.

“He’s great, ”Mica says to Billy.

“He is, ” Billy confirms.“He is great.”

“Who’s great?” Dean asks from his seat behind the mixing board.

“Your pops, ” Billy answers.

“If he’s so great, why isn’t he famous?”

Billy and Mica exchange a glance.

“There’s a difference between being good and being successful, ” Billy replies. “You need more than talent to make it. It generally helps if you know somebody.
And
you need to get real lucky.”

Dean nods in understanding. “It’s smarter to be lucky than it’s lucky to be smart, ” he says.

Billy cocks his head at Dean, looking for clarification.

“It’s what my Mom used to say, ” Dean explains.

Billy smiles and turns back to the window of the studio. He listens as the band flies through “Wheel Dance.”

“Lars is pretty good, ” Billy says to no one.“A little white bread, but solid.”

“The singer’s voice is decent, ”Mica says after a moment.

“What’s up with the bass player? Is it Halloween already?”

“Apparently it came to him in a dream.”

Billy taps his foot to the beat and stares out at them, leaning over the console. When they finish the song, he stands up.

“Not bad, ” he mutters.

“What are you thinking?” Mica asks.

“I don’t know, ” Billy says.“Maybe I’m thinking it’s smarter to be lucky than it’s lucky to be smart.”