Sharp

By Oscar A McCarthy

PERSPECTIVE IS A FANCY WORD FOR BULLSHIT

It's like entering a forced meditation room I thought the first time I stepped inside the recording studio. The air instantly grew thicker as soon as the door was closed behind me. Every time you spoke it felt as if the sound came out of your mouth and did a swan dive straight to the floor where it was absorbed by the thick rug. Every single time you had to make sure someone actually listened to you because sounds appeared to have a different meaning inside this room. This is, of course, on purpose. The whole point in having a specific place to record music is to have it achieve the best conditions ever. That means killing the room, or in more layman's terms it means to kill off the reverb completely. 

The walls are covered in odd wooden shapes, covered in foam with different sizes and thickness. It looks as though you are entering a contemporary art museum where the art is the museum itself, it's all over the walls. Later this year I would discover that pretty much every single frequency of sound bounces off the wall and comes back in a particular way and so all of those shapes and sizes where meant to kill off as many frequencies as possible. This made it so any talking sound would die out immediately after it being conjured by the windpipe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oscar A McCarthy
• Release date: Apr 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386994060

Book preview

Chapter 1

IT'S LIKE ENTERING a forced meditation room I thought the first time I stepped inside the recording studio. The air instantly grew thicker as soon as the door was closed behind me. Every time you spoke it felt as if the sound came out of your mouth and did a swan dive straight to the floor where it was absorbed by the thick rug. Every single time you had to make sure someone actually listened to you because sounds appeared to have a different meaning inside this room. This is, of course, on purpose. The whole point in having a specific place to record music is to have it achieve the best conditions ever. That means killing the room, or in more layman's terms it means to kill off the reverb completely. 

The walls are covered in odd wooden shapes, covered in foam with different sizes and thickness. It looks as though you are entering a contemporary art museum where the art is the museum itself, it's all over the walls. Later this year I would discover that pretty much every single frequency of sound bounces off the wall and comes back in a particular way and so all of those shapes and sizes where meant to kill off as many frequencies as possible. This made it so any talking sound would die out immediately after it being conjured by the windpipe.

The first time you enter you feel like you are being held there against your will. Anyone with mental issues would go completely mad sooner rather than later. Not anyone is capable of handling being left alone with their thoughts so forcibly. The door that closed behind me was heavy. To open it, or maneuver it any way, meant to use both arms and the strength of your legs. The first time I tried to use one of these doors it took me more than two minutes to get it to open. 

Is this locked? I asked the engineer.

No, just put your back into it.

I put my back into it and felt it move just a tad. Enough to realise that it was indeed unlocked and that I was being a little pussy about it. Once you open the first door there is a second one, not ten centimeters apart that you need to open before you can close the first one. All doors were like this once you reached the actual studio. 

You enter, and you see a drum set assembled in a corner. Opposite it, an acoustic piano, and next to it a couple of guitars stood on their stands as they were supposed to. Fender and Gibson. I don't know much about guitars but I do know those names. Across the room there was another door, or doors which you had to cross to get to the mixing table room. Inside the mixing table room you had a mixing table, as you would expect. It was centered on the room and pushed against a thick window that overlooked the drum set on the earlier room. Two office chairs were set up in front of the table. All those buttons, knobs and potentiometers. Small screens and needles that reacted to every step taken. I felt as if I would pound harder on the floor something would break. I approached the mixing table where the engineer was sitting down, powering up the computer. I know computers. I leaned over the table, carefully investigating and absorbing everything on it. I looked at the engineer, my eyes opened wide and I smiled. 

Yes, I do know what all these buttons do. He beat me to the joke. 

Of course you do, I replied, feeling hurt for not being quick enough.

I stepped away from the mixing table and looked around. To my left was a big whiteboard filled with annotations. In my head this was the easiest way the engineers had to make sure the other ones would continue with the same direction of work and not try and redo everything. It's a simple solution in an otherwise smart and complicated world. 

I turn my back to the mixing table and there are two easy chairs, one on each side of the room. Next to each of them a guitar rack stood with 5 or 6 guitars each. More Fender and more Gibson. Later I would learn that some of these guitars were bass guitars.

Directly across the room from the mixing table was another door.

Where does this lead to? I asked.

Balcony, the engineer replied. By now the computer had booted up and he was in the process of naming the project Sharp Az Attack.

Can I go outside to smoke a cigarette? I asked.

Better out there than in here, he replied.

I fought with the door another two minutes. The thought of joining a gym to be able to look less like a little bitch for the next 6 weeks crossed my mind for the second time today.

As soon as I opened the second door to the balcony sound became normal again. I could scream my lungs out and be completely sure that everyone could listen to me. So I did. I breathed in, deep, and shouted, Good morning, fuckers!

I look down and find a couple of guys looking up at me. They were carrying instruments and I immediately realized that I had just made the best first impression with the people I will be working with for the next weeks. Nice I thought.

I take a cigarette out of the pack and hold it with my lips. I light it. I allow the smoke to fill my lungs before getting out and diluting in the morning's fresh air. It looked like it would be really nice to smoke inside the studio. Listening to the oxygen being consumed as you inhaled the smoke. I thought.

I finish my cigarette and get my head in the game. I need to get back into the forced meditation room and I won't have another excuse to leave for at least twenty minutes. I get in and the two guys that were looking up from the street were standing there, unpacking their instruments. A guitar and a bass guitar.

Hi, guys. I'm the writer, I introduced myself.

Chapter 2

I HAVE ALWAYS CONSIDERED myself less prepotent than a common garden snail. The truth is that the snail, after it rains, stays outside on the sidewalk regardless of whomever passes by. However, if someone should step on it, the snail would not survive to tell the tale. I find similarities between myself and a snail but I also do between myself and a lion, in the way that the lion stays home and the lioness goes out to hunt.

Besides writing I have always been kind of good in anything I tried. I studied hotel management and had a great job offer by the end of my internship which I denied because I could not

see myself serving others for the rest of my life. I went back to college to pursue a more artistic career, in cinema, and that is where I found that I not only enjoyed writing but I was also pretty good at it, or so people told me. And that was more than enough to get me motivated.

During my college years I wrote a small novel. A necessity in my eyes as I am a bit of a control freak. And since my lack of ability to stand up for myself when needed was always a part of my life, I started writing to change certain outcomes or situations to what I wish I had had the will to accomplish at the time. In my writing I would always get the girl, I would kick the living daylights out of the bad guy and in the end get celebrated. In real life I would get bitch slapped by the girl and left alone being mocked by the bad guy and everyone else. This small novel I wrote was to right some wrongs in my love life at the time.

Ever since I graduated I have been keeping a diary with thoughts and hateful words that I never wished anyone to read. My book however, was a high point in my life so I started giving it away to anyone that showed the faintest interest in reading it. I imagine that was how Sean got a hold of it. One day, as I was bitching about people, by myself, in my diary, I got a call.

Hello, I answered the call.

Hello there. My name is Sean Fiddler.

What can I help you with Sean Fiddler?

You can meet me outside your apartment.

I thought it strange, so I went to the balcony and looked down at the street. This short man in a business suit with a big beard waves at me. He was holding a big bottle of water. His face looked familiar.

While holding the phone in one hand and using the other to lean on the balcony I asked, What is this about?

Sean gave me a sign pointing to his cell phone. I put mine next to my ear.

'sorry, what is this about?" I asked.

I want to offer you a job, he said as he took a sip of his bottle of water.

I looked at him again and he waved again.

I will be right down, I replied.

I hung up the phone and put my shoes on. I got out on the street. I meet Sean and he is even shorter than it appeared from up in my balcony. He gave me his hand to shake and pressed it with a great deal of force.

I'm a big fan of your novel, he said.

My novel? How? I asked.

A common acquaintance, he replied firmly.

Ok. I smile. What is this job you want to offer me?

I want you to write a book for me.

About?

Music.

I noticed his beard is perfectly trimmed and the suit perfectly tailored. He looked like a million bucks, probably had them, too.

What about it? I asked.

Let's sit down and have a cup of coffee or something.

'sure, there is a cafe around the corner."

Lead the way.

I turn my back to him and walk around the corner. I sit down on a chair outside and Sean sits next to me. Just before he did sit, though, he emptied his pockets on the table. I guess he is one of those guys. Those guys annoy me.

'so, as I was saying, he continued, the book I want you to write is about music. More specifically I want you to follow the recording sessions of this band I am producing and write a book about the experience."

That sounds cool. But why?

Well, the way I see it, literature is the only art form that truly achieves greatness as music does. One is part of the other just like both legs are a part of a body. In music you have lyrics which are literature when perfectly crafted, and in your line of work one is considered great when one is able to make the words sing out of the page. So I wanted to join them up and see what would come out of it.

In all frankness I was ashamed that I wasn't the one to come up with that thought. It also made me respect him.

'sounds good. And why me?"

Because your book sang to me.

Like a regular Pavarotti, I replied and immediately regretted making fun of a compliment.

More like Lenny Kravitz. I mean, Pavarotti is alright but Lenny is the man.

I believe that might be the most amazing compliment anyone has given me.

'so you will do it?"

It is also not true, I said.

Truth is a matter of perspective, he said.

Perspective is a fancy word for bullshit, I replied.

He starts laughing and the air has some trouble getting into his lungs so he starts coughing. When he catches his breath he smiles at me.

That is exactly what I want from you.

I think I can do that.

Great. Tomorrow let's meet back here. I will bring a contract for you to sign and we will make the deal.

'see you tomorrow then," I say as I get up and walk away.

Sean stays behind for a while picking up his shit from the table and putting them in specific pockets. He makes sure that he has everything on him and then walks away, too.

Chapter 3

THE NEXT DAY I MET Sean at the cafe. When I got there, he was already sitting at the same table we sat the day before. He had a big bottle of water set on the table along with all his belongings.

Hey there, I said.

He looked up and smiled at me. Hey there Mr. Writer Man. Didn't change your mind, I hope.

Nope. I do have a couple of questions for you.

Go ahead. Sit down.

I sit down next to him and order a coffee. 'so, Sean, may I call you Sean?"

That goes without saying.

I got to thinking and I am not sure exactly what type of book you want me to write. Is it a biography on the band?

Not really, no. I was thinking more of setting your main character from your first novel in that environment and see where it goes from there.

So I got creative say in it?

Of course. It's gonna be your book. I just want to give you the setting.

A recording studio session with a band.

Exactly.

What type of band are they?

Old-fashioned rock n' roll. The kind that is dying.

That is very cool.

I pick a cigarette from my pack and light it. I sway the pack in Sean's direction, offering him one which he politely refused.

How long is it? The recording session.

They will be in the studio for 6 weeks. After that you will have 18 more weeks to finish the book.

'so, six months, give or take."

Precisely. Think you are up to the task?

I do. I smile as I take the last drag of my cigarette.

Sean picks up a pack of paper sheets from his briefcase and hands it to me.

This is the contract for you to sign. It is the normal talk about confidentiality, rights, royalties and payment. He then grabs a cd from the table and hands it to me. "This is

the demo tape and also some other songs so that you have an idea of how we want it to sound by the time we are done."

I pick the cd up and on the cover it read: Sharp Az Attack.

I smile.

The band's name comes from the Lead Singer's nickname, Az—sounds like 'as'—and it's supposed to make a wordplay with the expression.

'sharp as a tack, yeah. I got that."

"Recordings start a week from now, Monday. I am gonna need that