Gigantic.7
Studio Visit
I was waiting tables at an Italian place on West 4th Street. My boss was in turmoil. He’d hired me because he thought I looked good out front, maybe it would be good for business, but clearly I was a crappy waiter. Even if I delivered the food on time and remembered to check in, he’d find something else to yell at me about.
“Empty the ashtrays!”
People smoked in restaurants in 1988.
Anyway, most of the customers seemed to like me. Some people just like to just get out of their apartments, and I was fun to talk to.
A conversation I had more times than I can count:
“You’re an actor, right?”
“No, I’m a waiter.”
“But you’re trying to be an actor?”
“No, I’m trying to be a waiter.”
One woman was either working for the CIA or Liz Smith:
“You can make a lot more money than this,” she said, sotto voce.
“How’s that?” I whispered back.
“You’re the eyes and ears of this city. A lot of people would pay a lot of money for what you know.”
I kept waiting for her to show up again with a plain brown envelope, but that never happened.
One night, a group of guys came in and hid their faces behind their menus.
“You should seat us in the back, we don’t want anyone to recognize us.”
“Uh, who are you?”
They wouldn’t say, only that they were in a band. I didn’t recognize them, to be honest, but you never know. At any rate, we got to talking and, over the course of their dinner, they must’ve figured I was okay.
“Why don’t you come check out the studio?” the singer said.
I may not have been trying to be an actor, but I was still trying to be a musician. I scribbled the address on the back of my order pad.
My shift ended a little after midnight, I walked over to Broadway with address in hand. Plain black door. I pressed the buzzer, figured they were probably either messing with me or long gone, but someone buzzed me in and I went upstairs.
The guys were seemingly glad to see me, welcomed me in. I’d never been in a real recording studio before. The room was dark except for the mixing board, which looked like a vast, glowing city when you’re flying over it in a plane late at night.
The producer’s name was Tom. He could’ve been dismissive, but he was actually welcoming. He had an assistant, and one of the band member’s girlfriends was there too.
I fell into the squishy leather couch with the band and smoked a joint. Tom played the song. It sounded good, catchy. Then he played it again. And again. And again.
Maybe it was because I was high, I had no idea why one version was any better than the last. This was ages before computerization. Maybe the board wasn’t even automated, Tom rode the faders slightly differently with each pass. The band went from excited to ecstatic.
“Oh yeah, oh yeah, THAT’S IT!” they said jumping up off the couch.
Everyone agreed.
“We should call Rick,” the singer said, now that the song was apparently happening.
What followed was a conversation from a Jim Jarmusch film.
“Is Rick coming?”
“I’d love it if Rick came.”
“Rick should come.”
“Yeah, someone call Rick.”
So, someone called Rick.
About half hour later, Rick arrived and turned out to be Rick Derringer, of the Edgar Winter Group, Rock and Roll, Hoochie Koo, etc. Suddenly, the night had star quality.
The song was played again. Rick approved. There was much merriment in the kingdom.
Like everyone else, Rick was inexplicably nice to me. When he passed me a joint, I watched his incoming hand in slow motion thinking to myself:
“How can a guitar hero have such small hands?”
I’m pretty sure we continued to listen to the song repeatedly, refining who knows what, even after Rick had given it his seal of approval and moved on.
By the time I hit the street, the sun was up, the sidewalk packed with people heading to work.
Over the months that followed, I kept my ears open for the song that they were all sure would be a hit. I never did hear it on the radio. I never did hear of the band again, either.
Why did they invite me in, and why were they so nice to me? Maybe they were just proud of their song. And rightly so. Maybe it never broke through. But that night, it sounded like a hit to me.
Postscript:
Checking online to make sure I spelled his name correctly, I found out that Rick Derringer passed away two days ago. R.I.P. Rick.
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Fantastic. And how weird you didn't known about Rick's recent passing when you wrote it. I assumed it was a kind of tribute til I got to the end.
More please.