Time To Shine

 

Chapter 3

 

        Quinn looked around the unfamiliar room, uncertain whether he had really awoken from his dream. It was a strange dream, one in which he was being chased by a large man who resembled his father. He couldn’t be sure whether his father was simply trying to keep up with him or whether he was running away from his father. In the end he found himself confused, exhausted and alone.

        Slowly the memory of the previous night returned. He switched on the bedside lamp and was surprised to find his clothes, cleaned and pressed, just inside the door. Sue must be up, he thought. He pushed off the perfumed sheets and crimson duvet that perfectly matched the autumn highlights of the décor. He put on his clothes, walked over to the window and threw open the drapes. The brilliant morning sun took him by surprise. He covered his eyes and realized he had slept in. Probably the whiskey. Slowly he grew accustomed to the light. He gazed across the manicured lawns and pruned hedges that seemed to extend to the horizon. I could use another whiskey, he thought before opening the door and heading down for breakfast.

        “It’s about time,” Susan commented, not bothering to turn away from the stove. “Help yourself to some coffee,” she nodded towards the coffee pot, “or some milk,” she joked as an afterthought.

        “Coffee’s fine,” Quinn mumbled.

        “How do you take it?” she asked.

        “Uhmm … I’m not sure.”

        Susan turned and smiled,then poured him a glass of milk. “How do you like your eggs? And don’t tell me you’re not sure.”

        Quinn laughed. “Over easy.”

        “Tom should be down any mo – oh, there you are. Good morning darling.”

        “Morning Suze,” he said before kissing her on the forehead and hugging her close. He let her go and she poured him a cup of black coffee before returning to the stove. “How’d you sleep?” he asked, and then turned towards Quinn.

        Quinn hesitated for a moment, wondering whether Susan was supposed to reply, before answering, “fine.”

        “I like your tape,” Tom said bluntly, seating himself across from Quinn. “I stayed up and listened to it several times.”

        “Why thank you,” he replied.

        “Tell me about it.” It was more a command than a request. Tom sipped his coffee and waited for Quinn to begin.

        Quinn had assumed that the audition tape was all he would ever need but now he understood that this morning was the real audition. "Well,” he began awkwardly, “it’s a collection of my music … and …”

        “You wrote the songs?” Tom interjected, impatient for the facts.

        “Yes.”

        “And I suppose you represent the band?”

        “Band? What band?” Quinn asked.

        Susan abruptly stopped cooking. She put the burner on low, poured herself a coffee and took a seat at the table.

        “The band,” Tom said. “Tthe musicians who accompanied you.”

        Quinn was flustered. “No one accompanied me.”

        “But the saxophone, and the French horn,” Susan blurted, “those were you?”       Quinn nodded.

        “And the violins and the bass and the keyboards and the drums?” Again he nodded. Susan was about to rhyme off another string of instruments but Tom put his hand on her arm.

        “Explain,” he said.

        “Well,” Quinn began, his eyes staring down at the floor, “I couldn’t afford to hire musicians. I could barely afford the studio time, and that’s only because my uncle has a friend who worked there.”

        “But how did you learn to play all of those instruments?” Susan asked, removing Tom’s hand from her arm.

        Quinn shrugged. “I don’t think that I play them all properly, but I have a good ear for music. It’s a gift,” he said flatly.

        Tom sat back in his chair. “Go on.”

        “Well, I’ve always liked playing the guitar, ever since I got one at Christmas when I was ten. It wasn’t a new one. In fact it was quite beat up but it was one of Eric Clapton’s old guitars.”

        Tom and Susan raised their eyebrows and Quinn laughed.

        “At least that’s what my uncle told me, but he finally fessed up that he’d just signed it. My mom used to make me take piano lessons, down at the church. It meant having to learn all of the hymns, but sometimes after choir rehearsal I’d stay behind and try to play pop songs. Mom didn’t like that but Reverend Johnson was pretty cool about it.” Quinn paused and smiled but didn’t elaborate. “Anyway, I used to sit under our oak tree in the back yard and try to play the same songs on the guitar. After awhile I got pretty good.”

        Susan leaned forward. “OK, but how did you learn to play the other instruments?”

        “Oh,” Quinn laughed, “that was my uncle. You know, the one who gave me the guitar at Christmas. He owns a music store. Mostly used instruments but he has everything!” Quinn exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with the memory of it. “Some weeks my parents would drop me off at the store on Saturday while they did their shopping. If my uncle wasn’t busy, which was usually the case, I’d ask him about an instrument. ‘Oh, that’s an oboe,’ he’d say. I’d ask him what it sounded like. He’d play a bit … not too well … and then I’d ask for a turn. He’d always let me keep playing so long as there weren’t any customers. I guess he was afraid I’d drive them away.”

        Quinn took a gulp of milk.

        “Go on,” Susan said.

        “One day this girl came into the store with her parents,” Quinn said, slamming the glass a little too hard on the table. “I hadn’t noticed ‘cause I was blowing a mean storm on the trumpet. My uncle grabbed my arm and quickly apologized to the family. The parents said they were interested in buying a violin for their daughter. My uncle walked them over to the other side of the store, but the girl didn’t follow. She wanted to give the trumpet a try. I wiped the mouthpiece on my shirt and then handed it to her. Well her mom just flew across that room. She grabbed the trumpet and gave that girl a lecture on germs. She didn’t come out and say it but I’m pretty sure she was especially worried about black germs.”

        Quinn took another drink of milk. “That girl had a mind of her own though. She wasn’t going to look at a violin until she had tried the trumpet. My uncle suggested she play another one while he showed them violins. That worked. I spent a half hour with her, showing her the fingering and how to blow. She sounded awful at first, which pleased her mom, but by the end she was getting the hang of it. When her mom came back with a violin that girl put up one helluva fight.”

        “So what happened?

        “They bought a trumpet,” Quinn grinned. “Once they’d left, my uncle got an idea. ‘What’s a music store without music?’ he said. ‘A music store should have music playing. And live music at that,’ he said, and then he winked at me. That’s when he offered me a job. Every Saturday I got to play in the store … anything I wanted,” Quinn said and his eyes lit up. “I used to set my alarm especially early so that I’d be there on time. At first I just played in the store, but that wasn’t attracting enough customers so he’d have me play on the street. Once someone tossed me a quarter. My uncle ran out and gave it back to the man. After that I had to wear a special T-shirt with the store name on it. And my uncle got one too.” Quinn laughed again.

        “What’s so funny?”

        “One day I was showing someone how to play guitar when my uncle comes over. ‘Yes, my nephew can play anything. It’s a natural gift, praise God,’ he’s saying. But he’s holding the brightly coloured innards of a vacuum cleaner. ‘And the bagpipes really aren’t that hard, even for a child,’ he says, looking at this scared red-haired kid. Then he gives the dusty thing to me. I look up at my uncle, then over at the man, then back at my uncle and he’s nodding to go ahead and play it. Well I take a deep breath, and I’m praying to God to give me that gift he was talking about and then I blew into that thing with all my might.”

        “And?” Susan demanded.

        “And you’ve never seen a kid run so fast! That bagpipe sounded like a hundred alley cats in heat.” Quinn laughed. “The man was so disgusted. He grabbed the bagpipe and then started to play it properly. It still sounded horrible, but that was more the bagpipe’s fault. Then everybody cleared out of the store. I thought I was in trouble but my uncle just laughed. He said the man wasn’t going to buy anything anyway. ‘You need a crowbar, or a cross, to pry money from a Scotsman’s hand,’ he said. But the bagpipes made him realize that he shouldn’t expect miracles from me.  He decided I needed regular practise time so he gave me bus money and a key and I had the store to myself after church on Sundays.” Quinn smiled. “Sundays were the best. That’s when I started banging the drums and working on my guitar riffs.”

        “How did you end up here?” Tom asked.

        “Well,” Quinn began in his most businessman-like tone that he learned from his uncle, “I made a deal with my parents. They’d let me keep working in the music store so long as I kept up my marks. And I made a deal with my uncle as well. Once I got good I didn’t need to be coming to the store to practise on Sundays. I told him about some songs I’d been writing and how I wanted to record them. He’s got a friend who was starting his own recording studio. My uncle arranged to take me there on Sundays, instead of practising at his store.”

        “And your parents didn’t know?” Susan asked.

        “They didn’t need to!” Quinn protested. “I was keeping up my marks. That was the deal.”

        Susan was taken aback by the strength of his protests.

        Quinn saw the shock and apologized for his outburst. “I worked so hard, recording the tracks over and over. And my uncle would take me home and then go back to the studio Sunday nights. He’d pick out the best version of each track. Then he’d layer them over top of each other … bass, guitar, drums, piano, vocals. Some nights he’d stay there until the studio opened in the morning. You see, I didn’t want to tell my parents until it was complete.”

        Susan reached over and put her hand on his arm. “Didn’t want to tell them what?”

        “That I didn’t want to go to college. They’ve been saving for years so that I could get an education and have a decent job. But that’s their dream, I told them. It’s not mine. My dad got real mad – I’ve never seen him get so angry. He started talking about sacrifice … and … and how I didn’t understand sacrifice. ‘You don’t think I understand sacrifice?’ I yelled. ‘What about playing the guitar until my fingers bled so that I could get the song sounding right. What about not playing football, or seeing my friends, so I could keep up my grades. What about working at the music store every Saturday? What about laying down tracks over and over again at the studio on Sunday?’ I screamed.”

        Quinn was silent for a moment. “That’s when I found out how angry my dad could really get. I didn’t mind the tongue-lashing or the grounding, but I felt bad that I got my uncle in trouble. I guess my dad and my uncle never saw eye to eye.” Quinn took another swig of milk. “My mom was cool, though. She helped to smooth things over. She told me that dad was always worried that my uncle was taking me away from him. I never saw it that way, but I guess he was in some ways. While my dad was busy laying down rules and saving for my college, my uncle was showing me a bright new world. In the end I made a deal with my mom. If I couldn’t make a name for myself within two years then I’d give up hoping for a life in music and I’d go to college.”

        “How did your dad take it?” Susan asked.

        “I don’t know.” Quinn couldn’t look her in the eye. “I left that night. Mom was sure she could smooth things over.”

        “Why did you come here?” Tom asked.

        “It was my uncle’s idea. I’d always said that I wanted to work with the best. And you’ve won two Grammies for Producer of the Year. So my uncle said, ‘Then find out where he lives.’ And so I did.”

        Susan shot an inquisitive look towards Tom. She filled up his coffee mug and gave him another look that said Well?

        Tom took a sip of the hot java to give him time to collect his thoughts. “There’s no doubt that you have talent, raw talent,” he added. Susan wanted to pipe in that a great producer could refine, but to her credit she held her tongue. This was business – Tom’s area of expertise. He took another drink of coffee. “There are a couple of record execs that might be interested in one or two of the songs but we’d have to polish that demo.”

        Susan began to smile.

        “One or two songs?” Quinn cried. “But you don’t see. These songs are just part of the whole concept.”

        “What concept?” Susan piped in.

        Quinn’s eyes lit up. 60’s and 70’s. I want to juxtapose the free love, feel good, passionate times of the 60’s with the synthetic, jaded, greedy reality of the 70’s. You see the 60’s songs will be like William Blake’s Songs of Innocence”

        “And the 70’s would be Songs of Experience,” Susan said, nodding her head.

        “Just how many songs are we talking about?” Tom asked.

        “Probably thirty or so. I’ve got twenty written but I’m sure I’ll come up with more as I go along.”

        Tom just stared at Quinn as their guest explained to Susan how I Wander from the demo tape would be a 60’s song and I’m Lost would be a 70’s song. He let them talk for a few minutes before he brought them around to reality.         “Quinn, this is the 90’s. Companies can’t afford to take a chance on such an ambitious project with an unknown talent. I think it’s a great idea. But not for your first recording. Look, why don’t we try pitching Waking To A Dream? It’s the best song on the demo and with a little work it could be a hit. Now I don’t normally do this but I’d be willing to work with you to develop it. I’ve gotta start working with a new band in two weeks but that would give us enough time to polish it. Then we let it rise up the charts. By the time it’s a hit I’d be finished with my record and we could look at following up the hit with, say, a ten song collection.”

 

        Susan couldn’t believe that Tom was going to do it. She glanced at Quinn to see his reaction.

 

        Quinn was silent. He paused for a moment and then stood up. “Mr. Freisen, Sue, thank you for your hospitality. If I could just have my tape I’ll be on my way.”