“Take the last train to Clarksville! Take the last train to Clarksville . . . ”
Hank Cicalo listened to the clear tenor voice fade as he worked the controls. He had to admit—the kid had a nice voice.
The Monkees had spent the previous three days in a real live studio, officially recording the songs over which they’d labored in small clubs for almost two years. Last Train to Clarksville, Take a Giant Step, Sweet Young Thing, Randy Scouse Git . . .
Andi leaned against the wall behind Hank, watching him finish mixing the songs with an inscrutable expression. “Well, what do you think?”
Hank leaned back in his chair. “I think they’re great. The music really swings and they were really fun to work with. I’m going to go get an empty reel and I’ll make that demo tape for you, okay?”
Andi nodded as he left the small booth. As soon as the sound of his footsteps had receded she slid over to the massive sound board, quickly scanning the hundreds of buttons and switches for the two she was looking for. Her fingers reached out and pushed them; she returned to her spot against the wall just as he returned, a large tape reel under his arm.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Oh, absolutely,” she said, smiling. She waited pensively as Hank ran the reel through the machine and transferred the songs to the long strip of magnetic tape. When it was done he pulled the reel off and tucked it gently into a thick white box.
“There you go, Ms. Dellin,” he said amiably. “You’re just going to take that into a record executive’s office?”
She nodded. “I have an appointment and everything.”
“Well, good luck. I hope those guys meet with success.”
“Thank you,” she said curtly as she exited.
~*~
“Man, I wish they’d c’mon and call,” Mike Nesmith said as he paced back and forth in front of the phone. “It doesn’t even matter if they turn us down—I just want to know what’s goin’ on.”
“Mike, would you sit down? You’re making me dizzy,” Micky said from behind his drums.
“Only if you quit bangin’ on those drums,” Mike said. “You’re givin’ me a headache.”
“Both of you be quiet,” Davy said. “You’re giving me a headache.”
Mike sighed and slumped down on the couch, staring at the obstinately silent phone.
The door opened and Andi entered, looking tired and disheveled. The short white skirt that she had reluctantly donned was wrinkled, and her white blouse was untucked and wrinkled as well. Mike resisted the urge to leap off the couch and bombard her with questions. Besides, the look on her face was enough to tell him what had happened.
“They turned us down, didn’t they?” Mike said.
“Yes,” she sighed. “They didn’t like the sound—said it was too rough and unrefined to be ‘commercially successful.’ I told them they were nuts.”
There was a sharp bang as Micky thumped his snare, then hurled the stick across the Pad. Davy got up and stormed outside, closing the back door with a bang.
“I’m sorry, Mike,” Andi said, leaning wearily on the staircase. “I really am. I guess I wasn’t . . . persuasive enough.”
“It’s okay, And,” Mike said, allowing his body to sag limply against the couch. “You did your best.”
She nodded half-heartedly and climbed the stairs. “I’m getting out of these clothes and taking a shower, and then I’ll fix us something nice for dinner, okay?”
“Okay,” Mike said without much enthusiasm. “Thanks, Andi.”
As the bedroom door closed behind her, Mike twisted around to face Peter, who was curled up in one of the armchairs. He had stayed extremely quiet during their long wait; it didn’t look like the news had hit him yet.
“You okay, Peter?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah. I guess I sort of expected it. I mean, who’d want to sign us?”
“Hey, man, don’t talk like that. We’ll hit it big someday, man. I know it. We just have to find the right company to sign us.”
Peter shrugged. “If you say so, Mike.”
Mike sighed again; Peter was taking it much harder than he was expressing. He still couldn’t get the image of Peter walking into the recording studio out of his mind—his eyes had lit up so bright they were almost painful to look at. His excitement had been infectious and in Mike’s opinion they’d played better than they’d ever played before.
So why had they been turned down?
The phone rang suddenly, causing Mike to jump. He snatched the receiver on the second ring. “Hello? Oh, Mr. Cical—okay, Hank. How’re—oh. Um, yeah, she’s here, but she’s in the shower. Uh huh, well . . . okay, sure, if you think it’s important . . . ” Mike listened intently to the voice on the other end, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Okay, so that means . . . SHE WHAT??? Oh . . . sorry, man, I didn’t mean to—are you sure, Hank? Well because . . . man, she just wouldn’t do that. Uh huh . . . you’re positive, huh? Well, okay. Thanks, Hank.” Mike hung up the phone with a trembling hand. The color had drained from his cheeks, making his dark hair stand out even more vividly.
“Mike? Mike, what is it?” Peter asked. When he got no response he crawled out of the chair and approached the Texan, his features taut with worry. “Mike, you’re scaring me—please tell me what’s wrong.”
“That was . . . Hank. You know, the engineer from the recording session? He said that when Andi picked up the demo tape this morning it sounded just fine, but when he double-checked . . . the sound had been messed with.”
“Messed with?”
“Yeah. He said how it was done but . . . I don’t remember what he told me—didn’t understand it, either. So the recording Andi took with her this morning was . . . altered.”
“But why, Mike? Why . . . who would do that?”
Mike rubbed his eyes, which had started to burn. “Well, Hank said that he was the only one workin’ on our session . . . and the only time he left the room was to get the tape. There was only one person in the room while he was gone, and that’s when our sessions got messed up.”
Peter’s heart leaped into his throat. “Who was it, Mike?”
“Andi.”
On to Chapter Two
Back to Infinite Rider main page
Back to Mich’s Universe
