band jam (part one)
Life in the recording studio, summer jams, and singing for the soul.
I wander over to the other side of the way, barefoot because there’s no reason not to be. Bottle of white wine in my hand. Soft tap on the door.
Kitchen smells like fresh ginger. They hand me a glass. He continues cutting up carrots, she takes the bottle and puts it in the freezer to chill. Only a few minutes before we get into it, the art of it all.
He used to work in the music industry, up north. Tinkers now. We debate what producers are and what they do, discuss how bass players sound when no other instrument is present. Every once in a while, he touches her hair lightly, she places her hand on his shoulder.
On one of our first dates, he brought me flowers and took me to the studio and recorded me singing a song. It was magical.
And they say romance is dead.
Tough industry to stay in, he says. The audio engineers are in the studio all hours of the night. You work when the artist works. It’s not the hours really, it’s the time of day. The not knowing. And sometimes creativity enters the room at midnight. That’s tough to raise a family.
I watch him look at her. Like true love wrapped in a portrait. He chose me. She smiles warmly.
I want to cry.
He checks the chicken, pulls out his phone, shows me a picture of him six years younger next to Daniel Caesar. Plays the song over the speakers. Cat sprawled on the piano, tuxedo colors, fitting. Light shines through the porch, almost the hour before sunset, watermelon salad with mint on the table, marks of a summer evening.
After dinner, we gather in the living room. Cat moves to the top of the speaker. He pulls up his laptop, places it on the coffee table, some recording program with bars and lines and colors I don’t follow. She does some voice exercises, mouth curving into an oval shape. Makes some tea, helps with the chords. Smooth.
This is all we did during Covid. All you can do when it rains all the time. We’re not as creative here, the sun is always out. (The California curse.) I crave this type of love. I see how it kindles their connection, him on the piano, her singing, the mutual creating.
Mic turns on. It’s the same one Billie Eilish uses, he says. She sings something I don’t recognize. Melodic, playful. Like the cutest sitcom episode in the world wrapped up in a song.
What was that thing you wrote? Looks at me, encouraging. I pull up the words on my phone. Scanning for good measure.
everything that’s pretty
you can just buy at the store
lust, call it love
a good fuck then the door
I sing, from the couch, for clarity’s sake. This is how I imagine it to go. We go line-by-line. More emphasis on this word, less on that, I say. He looks at me, confirming, technical jargon. What about this? We draw out the words, I share another verse.
beautiful but not pretty enough i guess
blessed but not special enough i bet
It’s a process I can get behind. The pitter patter between us, finding where each hole fits. He puts his hands on the piano, adagio tempo that ends in a pleading, frantic rhythm. I hear it like this. Us against the world, it’s rare.
We switch to some covers. Practice. She sits on the couch, turns towards me. Pours more wine. Your turn.
Somewhat like running, standing up there. I’m in my body, but I’m not. Initial verses, the trudge through the first chorus. Then, a lightness, bursts of euphoria. No longer about being perceived. My fingers wander over the chords of the microphone stand, I close my eyes. Hand moves to my heart, stomach, up in the air, pointing to this, pointing to that. I don’t know how my voice sounds and if I knew, if I started paying attention, it wouldn’t be my voice. I can’t explain this.
It feels like you’re flying, doesn’t it? She looks at me after the song ends.
It does. It does feel like flying. A glorious feeling that seems hard to come by. Yet, here it is, and coming often. Finding me at the end of the maze I’ve been wandering around in the past two years. Angelus Ave. Pulling me from a state of complacency, lingering sadness. Maybe a God is watching over. I want more of this.
We swap places, we critique, we ponder, we finale. This is real, this is life. The good stuff. She sings an oldie. I sing a couple of random verses from some lyrics I jotted in my notes app when we were walking to the fireworks, felt catchy in the moment. We sway between conversation, music, philosophical pits of life’s meaning. Who you know, not what you know. What we give to each other, what each other brings out, released into the world with meaning. Creativity and community, we decide, only thing we really need.
I welcome, I fear, the idea that moments like this could be my greatest addiction.