Page 23 of Washed Up
“So, if you went back to how you envisaged them originally…?”
“Convince Wynter, not me. I’m already there.”
We reach the studio, and he pauses to hold the door open for me. “What if you played them for me? I could be your test audience.”
He scratches his chin as he ushers me forward into the open plan space. “Maybe.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting a recording studio to look like. The room we enter is not dissimilar to the one we just left, only minus the fireplace. There’s a duo of couches, and a large meeting style table with chairs. A tiny kitchenette sits off to one side, and a couple of doors lead off to uncharted areas. The walls of what is clearly a converted barn house a score of risqué Alaric Liddell originals of bands current and past. Some of them put fire into my cheeks.
It makes the camera I’m holding into a grenade again.
What the hell am I supposed to shoot that’s going to impress Ric Liddell?
“Loos. Studio.” Max drags me onwards through the right-hand door to where I gather the magic is supposed to happen. It’s a narrow room lined with equipment, including a huge deck of buttons and sliders that’d be at home in the cockpit of a spaceship. A further door leads into a room visible through a huge window. Wynter and Reid are already in there plugging in amps and shouldering instruments. On the wall behind them is a printed sign that reads, NO FUCKING FUCKING! There’s a doodle beneath it of entwined figures with a huge red cross drawn over it. Someone has stuck another note beneath: YES, THAT FUCKING MEANS YOU, GEIST. DO NOT TEST ME, UNLESS YOU WANT YOUR ARSE ACROSS THE WORLD’S MEDIA. There are tally marks beneath.
I assume Geist is Xane Geist, the lead singer of goth metal superstars, Black Halo. There were rumours of sightings of them in this area up until quite recently. Seems they were true.
Reid catches me looking at the sign and shouts, not that I can hear him thanks to the soundproofing. He makes some wild gestures that get the gist across. Rough translation, you and me, babe. Let’s add a score to the tally.
I wave back no, but I’m not sure he sees it, as Wynter slaps him around the back of the head, and mouths something that might be, “She chose Max, cretin.”
Max, also an observer of this, waits until the pair of them are silent, then hits a button on the console, which allows us to hear what’s inside the room. He pulls a swivel chair over for me to park my bum in, then heads on through to join his bandmates, following a reminder not to touch anything.
I watch them jam for a bit. Eventually, riffs and drums coalesce into songs from their first album. When they play my favourite tune, I get up and sing and dance along. Seems to methey need reminding that they have genuine fans out there who love their stuff.
They keep playing, and I pick up the camera. I can’t really focus on the guys that well, due to the glass between me and them, but I take some shots of pretty reflections and the working environment with them in the background.
They’ve been playing for thirty to forty minutes, when Max starts throwing meaningful looks my way. There’s an intercom button, clearly labelled. I press it. “How about giving me something I’ve not heard yet?”
“We could doTroubled Introduction,” Max suggests, and Reid nods. I realise they’ve been planning this. Rather than waiting for Wynter, Max starts tapping out the rhythm on his drum kit.
Wynter stands frozen, but Reid joins in after a moment, playing the main riff, and eventually, Wynter begins fingering the fretboard of his bass. Man, it’s hooky as hell. That bass especially. It roots its way right under my skin and twangs all the nerve endings there. Where I expect the vocals to start, Wynter stays quiet. Both Reid and Max shoot him looks, but none of them stop playing.
“Come on, man,” Reid mutters. “It’s just Iris. She’s not going to crucify us, even if it’s dreck, which it isn’t.”
They loop the instrumentation. When they get there, Wynter croaks a few hesitant words. By the time they’ve done a third repeat, I’m on edge, my teeth aching in my jaw from clenching them so hard. But, oh, my God, there’s no respite when this time he finds his voice and sings a whole line. He stops. Starts again, stronger. I swear, if I wasn’t already half in love with them all, then I’d be so now. The lyrics delivered in that raspy tone are weighed with pure emotion. I’m literally stunned. By the end of the two-minute masterpiece, every hair on my body is standingon end. I don’t hesitate in bursting through the door to let them know that.
“How? What the fuck, guys! That was amazing. You’re all nuts if you think you don’t have anything to record.” I smack a kiss on Reid’s cheek. “Sheer perfection.” Deliver the same to Max. To Wynter, I say, “Please tell me you’re releasing that. It’ll be the biggest fucking tragedy if you don’t.”
“Bit hyperbolic, Iris” he mutters, but I can see that my words have affected him. There’s a thaw in his eyes that paints an emerald ring about their edges.
“Seriously, Wynter.” I temper my joy. I want him to know I mean this. “I think this is my new favourite from you guys. It builds on everything you delivered on your first album and does so with a punch. And if you don’t think I’m serious about that then just feel.” I grab his hand and hold it, so his palm is pressed to my chest. My heart is racing. It speeds even more at his touch.
“You do seem pretty excited.” He rakes his teeth over his lower lip.
Good grief, Lord of the Understatement! “I’m fucking ecstatic. You’re a genius. Take the compliment.”
“Iris.” He raises his hand so that he’s cupping my cheek. “Please. Be real, eh?”
I laugh at the notion that I could convincingly fake any sort of reaction. An actress I am not. Also, his hands are seriously lovely. Slender, with agile fingers, on which he’s wearing multiple rings, including one on his thumb. “What else have you got? If there’s more, I want to hear it.”
“Forever in Reverse?” Reid suggests.
Wynter winces. I feel it, as he’s still holding me, but I see the flash of anguish fork through his eyes, too. I think he’s about to say no. That the smog of doubt is about to surround him again and steal any sort of mental clarity about their current material.
“For me,” I plead as I squeeze his fingers.
He blinks. “For you?”
