He stood in the center of the messy hotel room, looking from the tower of dirty clothes on the floor in front of the bathroom to the overflowing ashtray sitting on the balcony railing outside. In a panicked rush the night before, he'd throw out most of the takeout boxes and empty liquor bottles, hoping the shallow improvement would help clear his mind. No such luck.
On the stationary desk in the corner next to the balcony sat all of his recording equipment, everything pieced together and set up, waiting for inspiration. Resting on the wall next to it laid the large black guitar case that Jacob had not disturbed for the entirety of his week at the Marseau. It was perhaps the only thing in the whole room not tainted by Jack Daniels, cigarette ashes, or nacho chip residue. The shiny, fastened hinges reflected the late morning sun, mocking him. The deadline had almost arrived.
A few deep breaths later, Jacob made up his mind. He would lay down one song - just one. He could tell the backers that there was a misunderstanding. One week was not nearly enough time to record an entire album of material. But one week of freedom from the outside world would buy them one perfect gem, something beautiful and true courtesy of Jacob Lyngate. He could explain the outrageous minibar bill later.
The pressure demanded a peek. 11:53. "Shit."
He flung the guitar case open and pulled out Sheila, a slim body Gibson that Jacob had bought with his share of the first advance from his band's old label, Deep Sea Records. He connected to the recording bay and pulled the desk's chair out, sat down with Sheila on his lap, facing as much toward the balcony as the cord would allow. He took another deep breath and hit the record button.
Jacob began strumming a four chord progression he'd come up with around the time he quit his first band, Limited Appeal. He'd never written a melody for the song, but one slowly began to form. Jacob hummed a little, knowing that he could edit out a clunky intro on ProTools later. A lyric occurred to him and a second jumped out to catch the first. It was all coming together. He felt a wave of secure satisfaction wash over him for the first time since he'd laid eyes on his oasis at the Marseau. He leaned into the mic to sing.
And "More Than a Feeling" by Boston rang out.
Jacob stopped playing the guitar and sighed. His cellphone's muffled ringtone was coming from somewhere deep inside the origami folds of the bed's expensive comforter. He sifted through and found it.
MACK GILLIS & ASSOC., the display told him.
Jacob bit his lip and looked outside past the balcony once more. He could see the edge of a pond about half a mile away. The ringtone continued its demand for a response. He craved a cigarette, though it was too early for one.
12:01. Too late.
He swiped the screen to ignore the call. He knew that he had to give them at least one. Maybe he wouldn't lay it down in a posh mid-town hotel room. Maybe he'd book some time with one of the engineers he'd met on the way up, or maybe he'd set it down on a four-track cassette deck in his old bedroom back in Ohio, but he needed one ready for them the next time they spoke.
He placed Sheila back in her case, fastened the hinges, and started to unhook the recording equipment. His cellphone rang again and he took a break from packing to throw it off the balcony.
No comments:
Post a Comment