sympathetic looks from everyone at school.)
The session started at noon on Sunday. Or rather, it would have started at noon if we’d realized that the studio was in the basement of a crumbling craftsman cottage. Instead, we drove back and forth through the funky neighborhood of Fremont a dozen times, looking for the snazzy building with tinted windows that turned out to exist only in our imaginations.
There was no doubt whatsoever that the man who emerged from the house a minute later was Baz Firkin. He sported a worn paisley shirt and faded black jeans, a ragged gray-brown ponytail floating down his back like a trail of smoke still lingering from the 1980s. I wondered how he’d made it through prison in one piece.
“Greetings, young ones,” he exclaimed as he glided toward us, although he seemed to be addressing only me. (Maybe he was distracted by my hearing aids—I noticed his eyes lingering on my ears as we shook hands.) “And may I say what a beautiful beast of a machine that is,” he added, pointing to USS Immovable . “I used to have one just like it. That was back when velour seats came standard, of course, not as an extra.”
Baz led us to a basement door, unlocking it with a rusty key. As he yanked it toward him, flakes of paint fell off.
“Et voila!” he cried, leaning back to afford us an uninterrupted view of the narrow hallway beyond.
No one spoke.
“Now, don’t mind the standing water,” said Baz calmly. “I’ve just laid rat traps.”
Ed followed Baz inside, pressing himself against the least mold-ridden wall, as if that might reduce his chances of contracting something contagious.
Baz retrieved another key, this one glinting like solid gold. He slid it into the lock on a second door, pushed the door open, and stood back once more.
I don’t know if anyone else spoke, but I’m pretty sure that I gasped.
Behind the door was a studio control room—a real one, with banks of electronic equipment that looked like it had been lifted from NASA headquarters. Behind the controls, separated by at least a couple panes of glass, was the studio. True, it had a peculiar odor, but it was a real studio with microphones on stands, and headphones for the musicians.
I looked at Dumb, and for a split second I could tell we were all thinking the same thing: We’d arrived .
Baz ushered the band inside, told them where to sit and how he’d control things like balance and reverb from the control room. To deter him from involving me in decisions about the band’s sound, I retreated to the corner of the control room and studied his notice board. One of the notices was for KSFT-FM, a local radio station looking for new bands to promote, so I scribbled down the e-mail address. Then I began snapping more artistic black-and-white photos of Will sweeping his hair back, and Josh manhandling two microphones at once—the kind of pics that would be collector’s items once Dumb became a household name (ha!).
It was 12:30 before Dumb was ready to begin recording, by which time Baz’s effervescent exterior had cooled somewhat. He signaled that I should stop taking photos, and indicated that my place was on a chair beside him. Then he closed the door and began relaying instructions to the players on the other side of the window. I wondered if their hearts were beating as quickly as mine.
I was delighted to discover that the control room was completely soundproofed, which had the advantage that I could hear Baz surprisingly well as long as he spoke up. I understood his commands, his approach, and what he wanted from the band. I even began to wonder if I was a natural in the recording studio.
Ten minutes later, I was aware of what a dis advantage it was to be able to hear Baz. I understood perfectly his confusion, bemusement, and general disgust. I was also able to decode at least one in three of his expletives, which equated to about one every ten seconds.
And it wasn’t exactly hard to see why he was so
The session started at noon on Sunday. Or rather, it would have started at noon if we’d realized that the studio was in the basement of a crumbling craftsman cottage. Instead, we drove back and forth through the funky neighborhood of Fremont a dozen times, looking for the snazzy building with tinted windows that turned out to exist only in our imaginations.
There was no doubt whatsoever that the man who emerged from the house a minute later was Baz Firkin. He sported a worn paisley shirt and faded black jeans, a ragged gray-brown ponytail floating down his back like a trail of smoke still lingering from the 1980s. I wondered how he’d made it through prison in one piece.
“Greetings, young ones,” he exclaimed as he glided toward us, although he seemed to be addressing only me. (Maybe he was distracted by my hearing aids—I noticed his eyes lingering on my ears as we shook hands.) “And may I say what a beautiful beast of a machine that is,” he added, pointing to USS Immovable . “I used to have one just like it. That was back when velour seats came standard, of course, not as an extra.”
Baz led us to a basement door, unlocking it with a rusty key. As he yanked it toward him, flakes of paint fell off.
“Et voila!” he cried, leaning back to afford us an uninterrupted view of the narrow hallway beyond.
No one spoke.
“Now, don’t mind the standing water,” said Baz calmly. “I’ve just laid rat traps.”
Ed followed Baz inside, pressing himself against the least mold-ridden wall, as if that might reduce his chances of contracting something contagious.
Baz retrieved another key, this one glinting like solid gold. He slid it into the lock on a second door, pushed the door open, and stood back once more.
I don’t know if anyone else spoke, but I’m pretty sure that I gasped.
Behind the door was a studio control room—a real one, with banks of electronic equipment that looked like it had been lifted from NASA headquarters. Behind the controls, separated by at least a couple panes of glass, was the studio. True, it had a peculiar odor, but it was a real studio with microphones on stands, and headphones for the musicians.
I looked at Dumb, and for a split second I could tell we were all thinking the same thing: We’d arrived .
Baz ushered the band inside, told them where to sit and how he’d control things like balance and reverb from the control room. To deter him from involving me in decisions about the band’s sound, I retreated to the corner of the control room and studied his notice board. One of the notices was for KSFT-FM, a local radio station looking for new bands to promote, so I scribbled down the e-mail address. Then I began snapping more artistic black-and-white photos of Will sweeping his hair back, and Josh manhandling two microphones at once—the kind of pics that would be collector’s items once Dumb became a household name (ha!).
It was 12:30 before Dumb was ready to begin recording, by which time Baz’s effervescent exterior had cooled somewhat. He signaled that I should stop taking photos, and indicated that my place was on a chair beside him. Then he closed the door and began relaying instructions to the players on the other side of the window. I wondered if their hearts were beating as quickly as mine.
I was delighted to discover that the control room was completely soundproofed, which had the advantage that I could hear Baz surprisingly well as long as he spoke up. I understood his commands, his approach, and what he wanted from the band. I even began to wonder if I was a natural in the recording studio.
Ten minutes later, I was aware of what a dis advantage it was to be able to hear Baz. I understood perfectly his confusion, bemusement, and general disgust. I was also able to decode at least one in three of his expletives, which equated to about one every ten seconds.
And it wasn’t exactly hard to see why he was so
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