Page 32 of Your Echo
9Heatwave || Julian Taylor Band
ACE
“One more take.”
Everyone in the recording studio groans.
“Ace, we’ve got this,” Matt pleads. “We had thisthreetakes ago.”
I shake my head, angling away from the huge microphone in front of my face.
“It’s not right yet. One more take.”
“You know,” Cole grumbles as he adjusts his bass, “while you were busy being an apathetic jerk-off, I forgot what a pain in the ass you are when you actually give a shit about something. I don’t know which one I dislike more.”
He sounds pissed, but anyone who really knows him is aware that the true sign of Cole’s anger is silence. It’s only when he’s pleased about something that he insults people.
He has enough reasons to be happy right now. The results of me agreeing to meditation coaching were almost instant. Atlas booked us in for a recording session right away and snagged a superstar producer we’d been trying and failing to get in touch with ourselves. Working with the biggest label in the country does occasionally have some benefits.
We’ve been working non-stop on ‘Nevermore.’ Deep down, I know we’re probably ready to wrap and start production on the next track, but I want to make sure this is fucking perfect. I want to make sure the sounds tearing through my head and throbbing in my chest are the same ones people hear when they listen to this album.
After some more bitching from the guys, we finish our last take of the day.
“God, finally,” Matt groans, ripping his headphones off and pocketing his sticks. “I need food and I need it now.”
We didn’t break for lunch today. JP is already bounding out the door without looking back. He has a borderline religious relationship with eating and probably already has a pizza guy waiting out on the street.
I have a few words with our producer and respond to some waves from the rest of the team as they file out. Cole is long gone by the time I make it out of the building, but I find Matt standing next to the double doors.
“Shit, it’s hot,” I complain. My t-shirt feels like it’s sticking to me already. I can almost see the heat waves rising off the asphalt of the crowded downtown street we’re on.
“Yeah, they said the temperature is supposed to drop in a day or two.”
We’re not the kind of guys who stand around talking about the weather. Matt clearly has something to say.
“What is it?” I ask.
He taps out a beat on his thigh. “I was just, uh, wondering how it’s going. The meditation thing. Is it...helping?”
“It got us into the studio, so yeah, I’d say it’s helping.”
Matt shakes his head. “Not like that. I meant is it helpingyou? You know, with...things?”
“If you want to accuse me of being an alcoholic you can just come right out and say it.”
He grunts and starts pacing the sidewalk beside me. “You know that’s not what I meant either. I just spent two months living on a bus with you this summer. I know you don’t sleep. I know you just...fucking...stareat things sometimes. We don’t talk about your family much, but—”
“We don’t talk about my familyever,” I cut in, doing my best not to shout. “I don’t have a family to talk about.”
He tries to hide it, but I know hearing that stings.
“You and the guys are all I’ve got,” I amend. “That’s all anyone needs to know.”
That’s not all Mattknows, though. We shared a dorm room during my first and only full year at McGill. He was a small town boy, a fucking country bumpkin from northern Ontario, and I showed him big city life. At first it was more inevitable proximity than actual friendship, but once we started playing music together we became like brothers. Sometimes sound forms ties stronger than blood.
Then one night when I drank too much, Matt dragged me to the ER and learned way more about me than I ever wanted anyone to.
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Whatever you say. Just checking in.”
