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All Yesterday's Parties (Chapter 59)
🕑 Added 2023-10-12 20:23:03 +0000 UTCThe session had approximately reached its mid-way point when Mareby-Roquefort burst through the door of Studio A's control room. Behind him followed Neil Applegate, who entered the room with a look of total indifference, like one walking into a doctor's appointment. Mareby-Roquefort threw out his hands in grand fashion to announce his entrance, but Neil was already walking past him.
“Neil Applegate,” he said, extending a hand out to Vincent. “I'm with A&R at Kyrietone.”
Vincent stood before the mixing desk, leaning his weight forward like a captain on his wheel. The syrupy sounds of a pop melody emanated from through the control room windows— the band were in the middle of a take.
“I had some idea. Pleasure to meet you,” Vincent replied with politesse, accepting his handshake.
Floyd, who had been mumbling incoherent nothings relating to what he saw as the Love You Forevers' flagrant disobedience of Vincent's limitless generosity for the past half-hour, turned white as a sheet at Neil's entrance, and fell to his knees.
“Mr. Applegate, sir, I did not expect you!” he clamored. He scurried forward in a motion which appeared almost as if he were kissing the floor.
Neil turned towards and looked down upon him. A small curving of the lips showed the difference between him and Vincent— he liked the groveling.
“I wanted there to be an air of surprise,” he explained, smiling. “Nothing to be worried about— it's rather normal protocol. I'm just checking in to see how the session is proceeding, see if everything is up to our standards.”
Floyd raised himself suddenly. He was eager to warn him that the band were no different than Brutus, but Vincent saw this coming and disarmed him with a stern look.
Neil, not seeming to notice, walked towards the console, gazing out the control room window as he approached.
The girl with the eyebrows was screaming for all she was worth into the microphone. Several hours into the session and her adrenaline had caught up to her, it seemed, melting away any apprehension and anxiousness. The rest of the band was behind her, keeping rhythm with respectable control.
A tight band, he thought. Their reputation preceded them, and so he had made the unorthodox decision of signing the band without ever having heard them— something he had never done before. He trusted his instinct that such widespread acclaim of their talents had to have some basis in reality, but it was not until hearing them now that he for the first time felt slightly at ease.
In fact, there was a small inkling in him that what he was hearing was actually good— great even.
“Have there been any hiccups so far?” he asked Vincent, not taking his eyes from the band.
Again, a screech from Floyd was silenced.
“No,” Vincent answered. “It's all proceeded rather well, so far. We're slightly ahead of schedule, in fact.”
“Is that so?” Neil mewed, glancing back at him.
“Yes. They're very well practiced. Much better than their first session— I was worried about having to bring a professional drummer for a moment.”
“A what?!” Floyd cried.
As Vincent responded and subsequently began to lecture Floyd on how an actual, professional studio worked (which required musicians who could play in time), Neil continued to listen.
He drew nearer to the window, only being stopped by the mixing desk which drew up against his waist. He wanted to get closer, like he had come across some little treasure that was all his and wanted no one else to know existed. Did they not hear what he was hearing? Were their hearts not thrashing like his?
He realized he was absolutely giddy.
The task of visiting a studio and chaperoning a session was usually such a dismal affair. It always involved him bickering with musicians and staff, who never saw it Kyrietone's way, and always believed their artistic naivety trumped true commercial sense.
He hated the errand and so often delegated it to interns below him, but the Love You Forevers were a special project, and he now considered himself delightfully surprised that this was anything but a dismal affair. Yes, the buzzing he was now feeling within the upper register of his scalp was unmistakable— his tingling sixth sense for hits.
“Would you mind letting me have a listen of what you've recorded so far?” he asked as the band concluded their take.
“Of course,” Vincent replied. “Five minute break,” he announced through the studio PA.
Rummaging through the session notes, he read off the earmarked takes to Samuel, who began to play them in turn.
Neil crossed his arms and stood before the monitors as the takes began to play. From the first melodic motifs, he realized that the tingling within his brain was not mistaken— in fact, it only intensified. This feeling continued with song after song, until it took all of his earthly powers to reel in his senses so as not to explode in excitement right there.
He was speechless for some time. Vincent did not show it— a cool, mature demeanor was always on his face— but the lack of reaction from Neil was simply torture to him.
He did not notify Neil about the absence of cover material, because he had hoped that perhaps upon listening Neil would not notice, or at least not care. He didn't want to think about having to speak to the band and the inevitable war which would ensue if he were forced to include them after all— and moreover he now simply believed that the band's writing was on par with the best contemporary hits, and did himself not want to remove them. His silence was therefore a torment.
Floyd and Mareby-Roquefort were less subtle about their anxiety, and could be seen visibly wincing in the back. With a cartoon-like clamor they scrambled up towards the mixing console, inch by inch, until a disappointed look from Vincent which asked “How old are you?” halted their advance.
After ten long minutes, the takes concluded and a silence fell upon the room. The squealing of Sylvia could be heard below. It seemed the band were engaged in a game of who could throw a drumstick the furthest across the studio floor, which tore Samuel from his seat and out of the control room.
The three remaining men watched Neil with terrible apprehension. “Okay,” he said at last, nodding to himself. With a respectable coolness he paced across the room towards the couch, and picked up a pillow, only to put it to his face and scream for all his worth into it. The very sight of this led Vincent to ponder why everyone who now came into his orbit was insane.
Neil could no longer hang onto decorum, however. Every moment not spent parting this orchard from its fruit was a moment squandered. Oh, how his heart thrashed with miraculous anticipation as the band drew into his sight as he once again approached the mixing desk— the feeling that was never wrong was all inside him now.
—
In explanation for his having forgone lunch-time, Vincent had argued that extra time was needed thanks to the complexity of Aster's arrangements, if they were to have a chance of finishing in time, that is. Aster knew full well that this was as open an endorsement that they were going to get, and couldn't help a stupid grin from bubbling up in face of it.
In an instant, all of the supreme negativity which had been crowding around her, destined to render her a sniveling heap of sorrow on the floor of Studio A had been banished, and a great horizon of promise opened up.
Her head was spinning from the shock. Again the stupid grin impressed itself on her as she contemplated the reality that Vincent really had been smitten by their songs, and this filled her with a sort of invincible feeling. Her bandmates as well, seemed to brighten anew with Vincent at their side. To have an ally in someone that respectable and mature made it seem as though they really could be taken seriously.
When finally the initial disbelief had passed over her, an overwhelming rush— an unbelievable zeal came through her, and the songs, if great before, were propelled by their galvanized performance to approach near mystical quality.
It was as if the band were two separate rows of teeth which had finally found their interlocking groove. The pace had been relentless. It seemed all were aware of what they had struck on and were now moving as quickly as possible to record it, like a rare songbird fleeting through woods that you had to catch before it was too late.
At last a break was called, and Aster's exhaustion came upon her all at once. It was not an uncomfortable feeling, but a satisfying, warm dullness.
She released the strap from her sore shoulders and set her bass on its stand, before walking over to the piano where she poured herself a cup of the tea that was left.
It fell into her throat like honey. Like splashes of water across acrid, broken desert soil it splashed against her sore vocal cords and offered the greatest reprieve for her aching throat.
Fuck, it kills, she thought, conscious of the throbbing in it.
She put a hand to her throat softly, and rubbed at where she felt the pain. A soft soreness emanated under the flesh where she had pressed.
She had not meant to go so hard with her performances, but Aster, although aware of the importance a healthy singing regime and that the voice could fail, had no experience in recording for such long durations, and thus failed to account for pacing herself. Their practices too, had meant that Aster had been singing her hardest for four straight days.
The thought of the residency which started tomorrow terrified her. It distressed her greatly to wonder if her voice would survive. As she had done the past dozen times the thought occurred to her since lunch, she put it out of her mind.
She was now watching Samuel, who had come hurrying down the stairs to disengage Sylvia of the drumstick she was flinging across the studio in her boredom. He arrived too late, and was now standing idly and awkwardly by as Marion held the stick which was in turn held by Sylvia, who was now dangling some inches off the ground.
“Please, let her go,” he was pleading, as Cecil played a ragtime on the Chamberlin. It seemed he had finally given up, the comical rhythm seemed to say— or, had at least been utterly mollified by how unbelievably well the session had been going.
Indeed, it seemed impossible to believe that once this was finished they would have an album. A legitimate, physical representation of their artistry. It took everything within Aster not to start screaming out of sheer excitement. The thought of the album doing something was even more tantalizing. Their Vallerie single had shattered industry records— yet she already thought these songs were better.
“Good afternoon,” a voice suddenly rang out from the PA. It was not the voice of Vincent, Floyd, or Samuel, which caused Aster to look up in great haste and worry.
“Oh, fuck,” started Marion, himself looking up. There, in window of the control room, stood the mustachioed figure of Neil Applegate.
Aster felt as though a cattle prod had struck her heart. She was instantly seized by an electric panic which lit all the nerves on her skin with a fiery nervous sensation which fell beneath the pours and then upon her insides.
Why? she thought, now sweating.
Her racing thoughts were dashed with colors of panic and anger. Panic at all the trouble that would be unleashed once he declared that covers must be included, and anger at the great, cruel, apparent fact that Aster's life could never, under any circumstances, ever have an untouched day of happiness.
The panic was quickly superseded by the anger.
Here, when they had a meeting scheduled with him just days away, he had shown up unannounced. Was he really so neurotic that he to survey them even when recording?
“I would just like to say,” he continued, commanding their attention with the lilting, high tone of his voice. “Excellent job on all you have recorded so far. Really, top notch stuff.” he continued.
Sylvia fell from Marion's grip. Aster's whirring brain was in effect a bicycle wheel which had had a stick driven in between the spokes, so disorienting was the whiplash of reaction.
Her words failed her.
“Thanks!” exclaimed Marion languidly to the window.
The traces of a smile could be seen on Neil's face even with the glare the bright studio lights cast on the window, like his pleasure— and the manifestation of it— was stronger than all that could attempt to erase it.
He proceeded to tell the band his true and steadfast belief— given in secret and allowing impartiality to lapse, of course— that he had never had the experience of surveying a session ever so pleasant before.
His tone was dripping with thinly veiled excitement as he brought the band into an embrace of disarmament, making it clear in no uncertain terms that he wished to do whatever was necessary to support them.
Aster's stomach churned, because although he, like Vincent, had seemed to have had a similar roundabout of heart, Aster could not bring herself to trust the sun-smiling visage in the room before them.
No trustworthy person looks like that, she thought, watching and listening to him bark above them.
And yet the band couldn't say no to a compliment, especially coming from such an unlikely source as Neil Applegate. It was rare sap, from a special tree, which one had to partake in lest one appear too full of oneself. One by one cautious optimism established itself in the band, and its members— primarily Sylvia and Marion— frittered about in anxious bashfulness.
So disarming was it that even Aster, in great confusion, couldn't help but be slightly placated by the glow his words seemed to carry in his short review of what he had heard.
“It will move units,” he said with great staccato, and could be seen visibly chopping the air with each word.
Was this too easy? Aster thought. Did they only need for people to let their songs drift into their ears to ensnare them and their hearts?
"Anyways,” he continued, his tone flattened. “I have a few notes that could improve this all just a bit more—”
Their smiles faded.
“The drums are flat, the guitar arrangement on the third number needs more pizzazz, there's far too few exciting climaxes, the basslines are too active, the pianist is too ornamental, there were no vocal harmonies— harmonies sell, you know?—, the lyrics are cute but I didn't hear 'love' enough, the drummer played too loud, the guitarist smiles too much, the treble was too shrill, the mid was too low, the choruses were too loud— what's with the guitar sounding all fuzzy and noisy? it's distorted!—, and the notes were generally all wrong and a set of construction workers taking their tools to the instruments could have produced a sweeter sound,” is what Aster seemed to hear pouring out forth from the face which she could pummel into unrecognition.
The band, as each member was called out, soured at his rebuke and an uncomfortable air started to fill the studio.
Last but not least were two pieces of advice directed towards Aster, which achieved the critical mass necessary for what could be a legendary meltdown.
“That scowl, sweetheart— you had it the entire time I was watching you. I know there's no audience here, but please try to look a little more peppy. You're the frontwoman, it's that smile we'll sell.”
This advice went out to dead silence. The band were frozen, all three of them suspended in apprehension of whatever was about to ensue.
The change in atmosphere seemingly did not phase Neil Applegate at all, for he continued on with his “advice.”
"Also, there's too much rasp in your voice. Fellas want to hear a sweet voice, not one that sounds like their girl's about to deck them."
He gave a knowing grin to Marion and Cecil, who instantly adverted their eyes. The two young men wanted as much to do with him as a game of hopscotch in a minefield.
Aster was silent, though as was the case with people with a predisposition to silence, this lack of answer spanned a gradient. It could be interpreted as anything from simple disinterest to, as was expected here, a smoldering apoplectic hatred.
Her eyes were where the secret lay, and those little firebuds told of her wish to run up to the booth and kill Neil Applegate right there. So angry was she that her usual expletive-ridden thoughts could not even be enunciated. Like water set to a roiling boil her thoughts spilled over and crowded themselves, and she could discern nothing but a blinding wrath which seemed to heat even her physical body.
The absolute gall of him to treat not just her music, but her own person as a product to gawk at, made her sick with indignation.
You know better than this, Aster, her thoughts reprimanded her. You're more than aware of what the sixties were like.
And though she was aware of the inequalities which plagued the decade, and though she had herself unfortunately experienced it a number of times before this moment, it was this flagrant demand of her to smile which nearly broke her.
The restraint she showed in that moment to not utterly decimate Neil Applegate was a testament to how great and unwavering her desire for pop domination truly was, to say nothing of how much she did not want to let her bandmates down.
For once in her life, Aster had come across someone she could not just simply cuss out. She had no recourse if she did; it was true Kyrietone needed them, but there was only so far she could push. For if Neil Applegate became dissatisfied with them, he could just as easily sign the Cherubs in their place.
This horrifying thought permeated every level of hell in her mind— she imagined a world in which all the tracks they were now laying down— legal property of Kyrietone Recordings— would be eschewed of her vocals and replaced with the Cherubs' voices.
"Covers" of an unnoteworthy band's music, they would be considered for all intents and purposes, but the legal songwriting credits bearing Aster and Cecil's name would be printed in such minuscule font as to resemble a speck of dust on the record jacket, and receive no notice from the customer. The Love You Forevers would fade into oblivion, the songs they were now recording catapulting the Cherubs into the stratosphere, whereby their fame would be significant enough that the professional songwriters of Marzipan Alley could keep them permanently afloat if they themselves could not.
Neil Applegate thus held them like a delicate, golden egg in the palm of his hand, which was itching and aching to close shut at any moment.
—
The next several songs were recorded over the course of two hellish hours in which Neil Applegate had taken total command of the session. An increasingly chilly Vincent kept him within the corner of his eye, but was only able to perform a nominal function such that it didn't appear he had lost total control of his studio. He could not just throw out the leading A&R man of Kyrietone.
But the band's leading woman was now completely, visibly incensed. Her strained voice which had been wearing thin throughout the session's hectic pace was now becoming even spottier as her fury wrangled her vocal cords like a tightly wound towel.
She screamed the songs more than sang them, and Neil Applegate's mood was souring as he could not seem to correct this or even figure out what was happening. He was itching to push for more takes to try and rectify it, but only through the careful maneuvering of Vincent was he diverted.
“We can overdub those,” Vincent had said, not intending in the least to actually go through with it.
Neil had frowned but bought the excuse, and returned to his list of complaints, which he constantly interrupted their takes to read from.
“The guitar is doing too much,” he complained during the pretty arpeggio of “Wanting For A Heart”'s middle eight.
The end result was no different than a chef slowly raising the temperature as he worked, and ended up with takes that were essentially Aster slamming on the bass in fits of rage as she screamed.
Neil, however, seemed at last to have become satisfied. His souring mood had reversed and he exalted the “raw energy” of the recordings, saying “Kids nowadays really love that rough quality,” to the men in the control room. The men in the control room saw no difference between him being there and a cloud of hornets invading the room, and would actually have preferred the latter.
Even Mareby-Roquefort, who had so eagerly loitered outside Cherry Lane that morning so that he could “happen” to run into Mr. Applegate, was now burrowing his thumbs in his eyes every time he heard the man speak.
Two hours had elapsed since he had arrived, and the evening was dawning, when Neil Applegate outdid himself.
"Just remarkable progress," he suddenly declared to the band below. "This is hard work, but it's what all great things are made of. By the way, I'm looking over the notes for the session— there's two songs on here that aren't marked for recording today— I'd like to get to them."
A cry of disbelief from one of the men could be heard down in the studio.
Vincent had been idling in the corner this entire time— arms folded— as was typical of whenever he stood in one place for long. He had been issuing small rectifications during the past couple hours and trying his best to rein in Neil's wishes, but at this he finally had to speak.
"Mr. Applegate, we're pushing them hard enough as it is," he said, stepping over to the mixing desk, which Neil was leaning on as he looked over his notes. Neil turned up at him with a slight look of bother.
"That's quite okay, Vincent— I can take it from here,” he replied disdainfully, waving his hand halfheartedly at him.
Floyd's complexion reddened at the gesture.
"The frontwoman's voice is already giving out,” Vincent continued. “If you push it even further she'll lose it. Is this really so prudent considering they have an engagement after the weekend— a residency?”
Neil frowned.
"This session was booked until ten p.m., correct? If they're ahead of schedule then I see no reason not to take the opportunity to work in the follow up single— why waste a single second?"
Floyd rose from the couch. "Mr. Theodora is right,” he started with a wavering, unsure tone, “The health of Miss Aster's voice should be the primary concern."
Mareby-Roquefort concurred with a nod.
"I'm sorry, but were you asked, Mr. Childress?" Neil Applegate snapped, wearing clearly his exasperation.
Floyd's eyes narrowed. "I'm sorry?"
“I said, were you asked, Mr. Childress?”
“Okay, that's enough,” Mareby-Roquefort shot in response, rising from the couch to stand in front of Floyd.
“Why, I'll break his neck!” Floyd hissed through his teeth as Mareby-Roquefort held him back.
"'Please Say You Do' from the top,” Neil said through the PA, turning his back on Floyd.
"I am the band's manager, for your information," he growled.
“I'm very aware what your role is,” Neil spat back. “And I am the bankroller. I am the lifeblood that courses through your every hope of ever making anything of those people down there. Do you understand what business it is that you are in, Mr. Childress?”
Neil turned away as the band began playing, and walked closer to Floyd. Vincent moved to intercept them.
“You are in a business where nobody will hesitate to rip you to shreds— where virtuosity and even the slightest pretense of remorse will lead to your utter failure.”
He was now addressing both Floyd and Mareby-Roquefort.
“I don't care if you want to masquerade as businessmen— it's as common as the blue in the sky and is even necessary food for the truly promising to eat on their way to the top— but I wish to destroy Magnolia Haus, and I will not let anybody stand in my way. No, not simply pass in the charts, but leave so utterly financially destitute that not even the homeless will squat where their buildings once rested.”
Floyd had been flexing his sweaty palm on his cane, ready to cave in Neil's head, but now found that his voice failed him when his turn had finally come.
"Mr. Applegate, I respect your position,” began Vincent, finally wedging himself in between the two men. “I understand that managing a roster is not at all easy and that a
lot of pressure is placed on you personally to ensure that each act meets the exacting standards of Kyrietone. However, this is my studio and I run it. Furthermore, I again do not see how it is conducive to anything to exhaust the band's efforts in one day instead of allowing time for her voice to properly heal. If you had an orchard, would you pick every tree to death and be done with it?”
A silence came over the room, which was filled with the sounds of “Please Say You Do” below.
Neil eyed the stately man, then stepped back from the mixing console. His gaze fell on and traced Floyd as he then withdrew near the door.
"I want those follow up numbers recorded within two weeks," he said, gesturing with two held up fingers. Vincent nodded, and with that Neil exited, not bothering to take his notes with him.
—
An effect not unlike that of the sun on songbirds after a rainstorm was seen in the band following Neil's exit. At the sight of his departure, the atmosphere immediately relaxed, and Sylvia even whipped a drumstick at the door as soon as it had closed, which caused an at first awkward, then uproarious burst of laughter from everyone including Vincent.
Aster's voice however, had gone, and the remaining numbers had to be eked out with delicacy and softer arrangements than initially planned. The wise idea was floated at some point that her failing vocals could be covered with harmonies from Sylvia and Cecil, who shared vocals on the remaining songs.
Always appreciating a silver lining, Vincent considered this serendipitous in a tragic way, for he felt that the three-part vocal harmonies ornamented the already scrumptious melodies in a way that bordered on dangerously sweet.
“Do you want the good news, or the great news?” asked Mareby-Roquefort at the session's end. The band, physically and emotionally exhausted, had taken their places up in the control room to hear their takes for the first time.
“Neil didn't make it home?” Aster murmured quietly and hoarsely.
“Jesus,” remarked Cecil, the only one who had heard her.
At the same time Sylvia and Marion had answered both “great!” and “good” respectively, which of course brought out the most furious pout in the former.
“If you have Brussels sprouts and chocolate cake, why are you gonna eat the Brussels sprouts last?” Marion tried demonstratively to argue, but Sylvia retorted with the knowledge that she'd never be caught dead eating Brussels sprouts.
“I said good news, not bad,” Mareby-Roquefort interjected, frowning.
“So help me lord, you listen to what we have to say!” Floyd screamed nearly incoherently, still visibly seething even hours later.
“Mr. Floyd, the good news,” Mareby-Roquefort said.
“Yes, right,” he responded, adjusting his petticoat as he tried to choke the anger down. “I have scheduled you,” he began with radio-like oration, “for the first day of your tour— a press conference.”
Aster did not realize she could experience both overwhelming fear and excitement at once.
“A press conference?!” Marion shouted, lighting up. Sylvia clasped her hands, shuddering with excitement as though she were under assault from a thousand tickles. Even Cecil went wide-eyed at the thought.
It's finally come, thought Aster. The moment which she had always simultaneously dreaded and dreamed— the shower of camera clicks and prodding of microphones was now on the horizon. Her heart thrashed with recollections of the dozen faces outside Willie Coopers, of that oppressive wall of strangers drinking in the very sight of her. That stupid, sensitive muscle which mismatched the nervous girl so much seemed poised to bring her almost to blackout, it was now moving so quickly. A fear— a great anxiety which she had never before felt— was now nudging ever so slightly at her. It was like a behemoth beneath the waves, toying with the ship above it— a great black shadow above which could not be discerned, but could only be known with the most primal and intuitive notion to be greater than you could ever hope to defeat. If there were ever a moment Aster would break, it would be there.
Mareby-Roquefort had withdrawn his notepad and was scribbling away various questions he was asking the group, for a small blurb to be printed in the Peppermint Plains Gazette announcing the tour.
One question was directed at Vincent, a petition for a pleasing quote.
“They have a great future in showbiz,” he answered with absolute honesty.
