THE SESSION (A Short Story) Read online

  Table of Contents

  THE SESSION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE SESSION

  BY

  MIKE DENNIS

  OTHER BOOKS BY MIKE DENNIS

  The Key West Nocturnes Series

  SETUP ON FRONT STREET

  THE GHOSTS OF HAVANA

  MAN-SLAUGHTER (coming soon)

  Available in digital and paperback

  The Jack Barnett / Las Vegas Series

  TEMPTATION TOWN

  A novelette

  HARD CASH (coming soon)

  Available in digital and paperback

  BLOODSTAINS ON THE WALL

  Three stories from the dark side

  Available in digital and paperback

  THE TAKE

  A novel of human desperation

  Available in digital and paperback

  CADILLAC’S COMIN’

  A rock & roll novel

  Available in digital only

  BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND

  THE DEEP BLUE EYES

  A Las Vegas noir short story

  Available in digital only

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is unintended and entirely coincidental. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Mike Dennis.

  Published by Mike Dennis

  Copyright 2012 by Mike Dennis

  THE SESSION

  by Mike Dennis

  Jeff Dryden never liked to go to bed after an argument with Marsha. Not even after a minor disagreement like the one they had tonight. Going to sleep with negativity between you and your wife set the wrong tone for the following day, he thought. You woke up with a bad vibe in the air, and it was very tough to get rid of it.

  Now, it was closing in on one AM and he lay there wide awake.

  Marsha had fallen asleep almost immediately. She can do that, he thought. She can fall asleep anywhere, anytime. Why can’t I do that?

  He looked at her slumbering figure, noticed her soft, regular breathing. A tiny sliver of street light drifted in through the crack in the bedroom drapes, throwing a thin, whitish haze across her rose-petal skin. Her jawline appeared softer than it had been in recent years, signaling the onset of her aging process. Jeff didn’t care. As she grew older, she had staved off the inevitable up till now, basking in the Indian summer of youth.

  We’ve been together all these years and she’s always believed in me. Even though we had that little spat tonight, I know she’ll stick by me. She still looks stunning to me, the one love of my life.

  His thoughts gathered around their argument. Something about his not wanting to take a vacation. Just because she wants to take a week and go somewhere is no reason they should do it. She knows full well session musicians can’t afford to take a lot of time off. Top players like me can afford it even less.

  Little green numbers on the clock now read two minutes after one. They’d been in bed over an hour, but still, no sleep.

  Top players can’t go anywhere, he told her. You take off and run down to Mexico or even San Diego for a few days, that means turning down recording sessions.

  Or worse, canceling them.

  Once a producer calls you for a big session and you can’t make it, he calls the next guy on his list, and that next guy becomes first call from that moment on. That account, which was yours for so long, which paid so well, will belong to someone else forever. Bank on it.

  And when other top guitar players find out about it, they’ll start dropping hints to producers around town that, unlike you, they are always available, no matter what. Pretty soon, your datebook empties right out.

  Marsha didn’t get it, though. She was dying to go down to Acapulco and get away from all the LA bullshit for a while. Maybe even pick up one of those tans you can’t get anywhere else. She was always going on about those tans like they were some kind of hallmark. Something that lets everyone know they had a lot of money, that they’d made it because she had an Acapulco tan.

  Hell, she didn’t need any stinking tan. She was gorgeous just the way she was.

  One-fifteen. Nowhere near sleepy. God damn it.

  They did have a lot of money, of course. Jeff was one of the three or four guitar players in town who commanded top dollar, often more than union scale, plus leader pay, which was usually almost double the sideman’s pay. Multiply that by around five hundred sessions a year, and he was pulling down a cool three quarters of a million dollars. Every year.

  Add to that royalties from records he played on—and he had played on over four hundred number one hits, not to mention countless hit albums—and his income jumped into the stratosphere. Why, this week alone, he’d made twenty-seven thousand dollars.

  And Marsha wanted to risk it all on a fucking suntan.

  He didn’t want to look at the clock again. Damned clock! Reminding him that he can’t fall asleep. He kept his eyes shut good and tight. He wouldn’t give that clock the satisfaction.

  He rolled over on his back.

  If only Marsha was patient. Maybe in a few years, he could step back a little bit and not worry about losing accounts. Meanwhile, the hungry dogs skulked around out there in the night, fangs drooling filthy foam, grunting and growling impatiently, all of them waiting for him to say, “Honey, you’re right. Let’s go to Acapulco.”

  Oh, and that’s not to mention the young guys coming up. These killer players who arrive in LA in a rinky-dink car with everything they own in the back seat, their guitar in the trunk, fire in their dark eyes. Guys who fall asleep every night sitting in the dark, guitar in their lap, guys who are now serving time in local bars and cheap demo sessions, living in two rooms over a beanery, hoping to string together enough money to keep them going until guys like Jeff either die or get arthritis. Or go to Acapulco on fucking vacation.

  His head turned toward the clock. One-twenty-five.

  Fuck! Why did I look?

  He could almost hear the clock laughing at him, as though someone had tickled it in its sensitive ribs or reeled off a clever one-liner.

  Within minutes, though, he finally managed to put Acapulco behind him, to slow his mind down, clear it of all the waste material of that day. The window started to shut, eyelids growing heavy.

  His breathing deepened. His jaw and tongue relaxed. Then…

  Something. A noise.

  What? What is it?

  The telephone.

  He picked it up on the second ring. Marsha stirred.

  “Jeff? Tommy G over at Ocean Way.”

  Jeff shook the advancing sleep out of his head.

  “Yeah, Tommy. What’s up?”

  “I know I probably woke you up, man, and I’m sorry. But look, I’m really up against it here. I had a guy come down with the flu and I need a lead player for a two o’clock session. Can you make it?”

  “Two…two o’clock?” He turned to his enemy, the clock. One-thirty.

  “Yeah. As in thirty minutes from now. I know you don’t live far away. Can you do it? Pays triple scale.”

  Triple scale? Nearly twelve hundred bucks? And a chance to pick up a new account? God damn right he could do it.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Tommy said, “You’ve got a Gretsch Country Gentleman, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bring it.”

  He swung his legs out of bed. Marsha lifted her delicate head off the pillow.

  “Who was that?”

  “Go back to sleep. I�
��ll be back in a few hours.” He bent down and kissed her. “It’s a session call.”

  • • •

  Fortunately, Ocean Way Studios was less than twenty minutes away. It sat in an unremarkable building on Sunset, not far off the Hollywood Freeway. Next door was the far flashier Technicolor Building, but Ocean Way has a lot more history. Everybody from Frank Sinatra to 50 Cent has recorded there through the years, as well as just about anyone who’s anyone in rock or country or rhythm & blues. Jeff had played sessions there for a lot of the biggies—Michael Jackson, Rod Stewart, Garth Brooks, even Barbra Streisand. He liked the place. State-of-the-art in every way, and Tommy G was their best producer. This would be a good session.

  Jeff pulled around back to park and saw not one, but two limos, drivers lounging against a passenger door, smoking and chatting away.

  He pulled his guitars and effects boxes from the rear of his van. Once he got everything inside, Tommy hurried up to him.

  “Man, Jeff, thank you, thank you, thank you. You’re a lifesaver. Dean called in with the flu. He waited till the last minute, thinking he could be here, but he just couldn’t make it. Believe me, I won’t forget this. Coffee?”

  Jeff said yes and Tommy escorted him to Studio A. Of the four facilities at Ocean Way, this was the big one, able to accommodate a symphony orchestra.

  He pulled out his guitars, put them on stands and just about had his effects out when Tommy brought coffee. Jeff took the welcome first sip, looking for that mellow buzz, enabling him to deliver.

  Tommy was telling him about this new Dominican coffee they were using when a figure passed through the cavernous studio. Sort of short guy, short hair, he looked familiar. Something about him…

  “Tommy, is that…is that Ringo Starr?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jeff smiled to himself. The Beatles were one of his prime influences growing up, one of the reasons he took up guitar in the first place. Their chord structures, their infectious harmonies, their refusal to abide by rules…it’s what got him going so many years ago. The reason he’d spent all those nights playing in dingy bars for short money, hoping for his own record deal that always seemed just beyond his grasp. Eventually, session work beckoned him and he answered. Now, tonight, he’d come full circle, doing a Ringo Starr session.

  He liked this neat, orderly turn in his life. Just as it was meant to be.

  He’d plugged in his tuner when Ringo came up to him.

  “Jeff?”

  He stood up and they shook hands. “Pleasure, Ringo.”

  “No, man. It’s our pleasure. We’re really very happy you could make it on such short notice. And at this hour, too.”

  “No problem, man. I appreciate the opportunity. I’ve got to tell you, the Beatles were my favorite group when I was learning how to play. But I’m sure you hear that all the time.”

  “Yeah, Tommy told us that. Said you knew all those old Fab Four tunes.”

  Jeff chuckled. “Well, not all of them. I do know a lot of them, though.”

  “That’s good. We’re going to be doing a couple of them here tonight, you know.”

  “You are?” Jeff’s eyebrows shot up. “Tonight? In the session?”

  “Yeah. Drive My Car and Day Tripper. If we’ve got time, we’re gonna try and lay down a rhythm track for I Wanna Be Your Man. You know those?”

  “Y-yeah, I do, man, but—” Jeff knew the individual members of the group had never recorded Beatles tunes in their studio albums. What’s more, Ringo was the weakest vocalist among all the Beatles, and that I Wanna Be Your Man was one of the tunes he sung back in the day. The other two songs, though, were way beyond his range. They were sung by—

  Ringo said, “Didn’t Tommy explain what we’re doing tonight?”

  “No, I mean, not really. I mean, he just said Dean came down with the flu and—”

  “Dean? The flu? Here, man. Set your guitar down. Come on.” He took him by the arm.

  They went back to the control room. As they entered, Jeff saw Tommy, as well as the recording engineer, his assistant, a couple of other session players he knew, and Paul McCartney.

  Paul McCartney!

  Ringo introduced Jeff to Paul. Then he said, “He doesn’t quite know what the deal is tonight.”

  Confused, Jeff looked over at Tommy, who said, “Let Paul tell it.” He looked back to the iconic Beatle.

  Paul spoke in an even, unexcited tone. “Jeff, A couple of years ago, Ringo and I started talking about doing a Beatles recording. Recutting some of the old tunes. You know, since we’re the only ones left, and getting older by the minute, we felt maybe we should put something down as Beatles. Once more for auld lang syne, so to speak.”

  Jeff was nearly speechless, but he managed to say, “A Beatles recording?”

  “Yeah. It’s taken us all this time to get it together. You know, get our schedules in sync with one another and all that. Anyway, here we are. We’re going to do a sort of Beatles reunion album and we wanted a kickass guitar player to play on it. Do George’s parts.”

  Jeff’s knees threatened to wobble, but he held them steady. He looked for an empty chair. There wasn’t one. Instead, he leaned up against the console, trying to look casual, trying to still the fluttering deep in his gut. He’d played on some big, big sessions before, with the very biggest artists in the business. But this!

  Paul went on. “I understand Tommy here told you we were originally using Dean Parks and that he got sick at the last moment.” Jeff nodded and Paul said, “That’s not quite true. Actually, we were going to use Eric Clapton.”

  Eric Clapton! With the Beatles? Ho-ly shit!The very mention of the name sent a wave through Jeff’s not-so-jaded soul.

  He took a major hit from his coffee as Paul continued. “We wanted Eric because…well, because we were going to take him with us on a Beatles ‘One More Time’ tour. He was going to play and sing John’s parts on the album and onstage as well.”

  Jeff caught a sidelong glimpse of Ringo at the other end of the console. He was nodding enthusiastically.

  “A Beatles tour?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After more than forty years, the remaining Beatles would be reuniting for a album and then a tour! “A Beatles tour?”

  “That’s right,” Paul said. “We’re arranging it now. Discreetly, of course. We don’t want the word to get out till the album jells. The feeling right now is the tour would start in the spring in Europe, then make its way to the States by summer. Then off to Australia. We felt Eric would fit right in. He’s a very good player, you know.” He chuckled.

  Finally Jeff spoke. “Well, that’s putting it mildly.”

  “Yes, but anyway—and this is one of the reasons this has taken two years to put together—Eric and I have had some differences over the material, the arrangements, and for that matter, the tour itself. In the end, they just couldn’t be ironed out. We tried to get him in here to do the sessions with us, even without going on tour, and he agreed at first. Came all the way to Los Angeles and then backed out earlier tonight. Now, Tommy says you’re a decent singer. Is that right?”

  “Yes, I guess I am.”

  “Can you sing in John’s range? You know, do his harmonies below me?”

  Am I hearing this right? Did Paul McCartney just ask me if I can sing John Lennon’s harmonies with him?

  “I—I think so, sure. I mean, I used to do his parts when I was playing in live bands many years ago.”

  “Excellent, man.”

  Jeff called in all of his composure, saying, “Ringo told me the tunes you want to do. I’m pretty familiar with them. I think we can lay them down like you want.”

  Paul smiled and gave him a single pat on the shoulder. “Good. That’s great, man. Let’s go in there and have at it.”

  • • •

  They did Day Tripper first. Paul, Ringo, Jeff, and a session rhythm guitar player. Jeff led off with the iconic lick, his Country Gentleman guitar tweaked to full George Harrison mode. Paul s
ang a scratch vocal to guide everyone through the song. Three takes and they had a keeper, the instrumental track to the Beatles’ Day Tripper 2012.

  Paul was especially pleased with the whole thing.

  “That’s what we’re talking about, Jeff. You nailed it. Now let’s try a bit of vocals.”

  The vocals were a little tougher. Outside of a few backup vocal sessions, Jeff hadn’t done any serious singing in years, and with the presence of Paul and Ringo, he felt the pressure. On top of that, the song contained very difficult harmonies. He flubbed a couple of lines, missed a few notes, but Paul was patient with him. They’d finished the instrumental track in short order, so they had extra time on the ever-ticking clock. Before long, he fell into the groove and they clicked.

  When they stopped recording, Jeff had surprised himself. I just sang harmonies with Paul McCartney on Day Tripper! God damn, it felt right.

  “These vocals will do for now,” said Paul. “We’ll come back another day and spend some real time on them. You’ve got the right idea, though, Jeff. The blend is right. It’s going to work.”

  Drive My Car took a little over an hour and wasn’t anywhere near finished. Ringo was not at all pleased with the way his drums sounded, and Jeff knew his guitar work needed another take or two. Paul and Ringo didn’t seem to mind, but Jeff knew it wasn’t there yet. Time was passing, though, and they had to let it go for now.

  “We’ll get all this down at the next session, but we’re headed in the proper direction.” Paul said, removing his headphones. He looked toward the control room. “Tommy, we’re going outside for a moment.”

  He beckoned Jeff to follow him and Ringo out back. They each grabbed a bottle of water.

  Outside, the air was cool and fresh. The limo drivers continued chatting with each other. A breeze drifted through the parking lot, rustling Jeff’s hair. He took a deep breath, inhaling LA air which, for a change, seemed remarkably clean. It relaxed him.

  “Nice out tonight, hey?” Ringo said.

  They all agreed it was a pretty night, and Paul said, “Where are you from, Jeff?”

  “Houston. But I’ve been here in LA for about fifteen years.” He swigged on his water. It nourished him going down, but couldn’t still the churning he felt inside from being in a studio parking lot with the remaining Beatles.