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Wednesday 8:00 a.m.
I wakened to Sharon’s tongue-lashing. “And why haven’t you returned my calls, huh? How the fuck am I supposed to put this show together if you can’t even be bothered to give me a bloody call? You’d better get your ass in gear, Donny, and save the fucking breakdown for later. Got it? Now get your clothes on and get your scrawny ass down here!”
I muttered an apology into the phone and prayed that she would stop. Sharon Munn could tear a strip off a five-star general.
When I arrived at the rehearsal space that Sharon had rented, I felt a burst of hopefulness. The place looked like a real studio, and the air was full of the sound of musicians warming up—guitar riffs and sax squeals, complex drum kit patterns—it was a teenage guitarist’s wet dream. This was a professional operation. Sharon had not exaggerated her abilities.
The bassist in the corner was a cool-looking dude, with spiked blonde hair and pink-tinted glasses, easily in his late forties.
“Tommy Childs,” said Sharon, who had come up behind me. “Worked a lot with April Wine, Kim Mitchell, Big Sea, and second engineer for David Foster. Very stoned right now, but that won’t matter.” She discreetly pointed at the guitarist, a thickset man in his fifties.
“Fred Kaufmann. Don’t be thrown off by the toupée. The man was Bowie’s first pick for every recording session in the last three years. I can’t even list all the bands he’s recorded for. Just don’t look at him. He has a thing about people staring at him.” She shuddered. “He gets a little crazy about that. Oh, and don’t say anything insulting about Buddhists or the Dalai Lama.”
I struggled to take in this bizarre information. I mean, who would have anything insulting to say about Buddhists? Anyways, weren’t Buddhists supposed to be pacifists? How did getting “a little crazy” fit in with that?
Nearest to us, on drums, was a man in his late thirties, with the lean, tattooed physique that one often saw in drummers. He had a shaved head and dark sunglasses.
“Josh Craig. Very shy. Used to date only fifteen-year-olds, but I heard that he had a little trouble with the law, or a parent, or something. Extremely talented.” She saw the look I gave her. “Oh, come on, Boy Scout. This is showbiz, babe. A magical world of opportunity for perverts and freaks of all stripes. I mean, how else are these guys supposed to make a living? Delivering prescriptions for the local pharmacy?” She guffawed at her own joke.
She quietly pointed out a sax player, a trumpeter, several back-up singers and a female Latin percussion player who made Shakira look like a nun.
“Last but not least,” Sharon said, “Stickman.” Stickman was an immensely overweight guy, easily six-foot-nine. He dwarfed the keyboards surrounding him. His close-cropped Afro was bleached, and much of his face was hidden by what appeared to be aviator goggles. He was stone-faced, barely looking at the keys, as his huge, thick fingers danced across them with surprising lightness and speed.
When Stickman spoke, he had a Barry White voice. “Okay, my friends, it’s now ten-fifteen and we need to get started. Sharon, honey, you got the final program order for us?”
Sharon hustled over to give them the final details. We had eventually settled on a great mix of oldies, classic R & B, and rock classics. Steven had always loved that stuff. As I listened to them play through the program, I was exhilarated. It sounded like we were going to be putting on the best concert anyone could ask for.
There was just one thing missing. It didn’t even occur to me until one of the back-up singers, a sexy redhead named Noola, piped up. “Uh, excuse me, Sharon, but where’s our singer? We can’t really polish this material without him.”
Sharon looked calm and in control. “That’s absolutely true, I know, Noola, but he ran into a slowdown at Customs. I’ve been back and forth with him on the phone. He’s on his way. In the meantime, though, why don’t you all take a fifteen-minute break?” She glanced quickly at Tommy and Josh, who were already pulling out a hash pipe and lighter. “But don’t leave the building, folks. And let’s try to make this a healthy break, OK?” She was already linking her arm in Tommy’s, steering him toward a table loaded with cheese trays and fruit.
As she turned to come back to me, I saw the panic in her face. Under her breath, she muttered to me, “If he doesn’t show up soon, we’re going to lose these guys. They’re not idiots. I could pay them twice as much, but if there’s no singer, they’ll walk. Shit!”
There was a sudden rush of cool air, as the door flew open. In swept one of the oddest-looking people I have ever seen. His dyed black hair was molded into an impossibly high pompadour. A silky red cape blew along gracefully behind him. He wore what appeared to be a pirate costume, and sported impeccable but heavy make-up.
“Dear God, sorry I’m late everyone! It’s quite alright now. Maestro Maurice is here!” He glided over to Sharon, holding out his hand. “My darling, darling Sharon,” (he said it with a French accent!) “aren’t you charming in your little frock today? Give Maurice a kiss, darling, before he begins the magic.” He continued to hold out his hand expectantly. Without batting an eyelash, Sharon pecked his huge garnet ring.
“Maurice, I’d like to introduce you to the man who’s financing this show, Donny Love.”
Maurice uttered a discreet shriek of delight. “My dear, dear Donny, you are a man of vision! I just know that we’ll be the bestest of friends. You must tell me everything you can about our lovely Steven McCartney—I want to channel him from every pore on Saturday. We’ll discuss this over a nice bottle of Chardonnay and some seafood.” He already had his arm linked with mine and was attempting to lead me away towards the door.
Effortlessly, Sharon positioned herself between us and the door. In a sweet but firm voice, she said, “Oh no you don’t, boys. We need to give our band the chance to hear Maurice’s silky, soulful sounds. They’ve been waiting for this all morning.”
As soon as he heard the praise, Maurice immediately went into gracious diva mode. “But of course, ma chérie! You are absolutely right! I must simply go warm up in my dressing room, and then we can begin. Do you have the items I requested?”
A smile pasted on her face, Sharon was breathing slowly through her nose. I wondered if she had ever practiced transcendental meditation. “Maurice, darling, there is no actual dressing room here, as this is just a rehearsal studio. Remember how we discussed this on Monday night?” When she saw his furrowing brow, she deftly deflected the salvo. “But I know how important this is to you, so I’m determined to make it up to you. I’ve got Champagne waiting on ice, chocolate strawberries, and a quiet place for you to sit and collect your thoughts.”
Maurice visibly brightened at the mention of the Champagne, but he was not prepared to concede defeat yet. “Sharon, I am an artist. I cannot just haul out my voice like an old handkerchief.” He actually sniffed. “I require a proper dressing room.”
Again, Sharon parried this thrust. “I know, my dearest Maurice, but even when you have not warmed up, your voice is wonderful. I mean, who’s going to know? These studio musicians? Please. I have faith that your immense skill will carry you through this little bump in the road. Come on, you.” Her voice was cajoling, but not too much. Damn, she’s good at this, I thought in admiration. I should get her to speak to Allison for me.
Summoning great inner reserves of graciousness, Maestro Maurice bowed his head in acquiescence. “Sharon, how can I refuse you? I shall sing.” Suddenly, Maurice shifted gears into Schoolmarm. He clapped his hands several times. “Alright, people, time to get working! After all, we’re not being paid to just sit around eating bonbons! Come along!” Maurice snapped his fingers imperiously at the musicians hovering around the snack table.
Ouch! How can you snap your fingers at Stickman and the gang and live to tell the tale? I wondered. But they didn’t even blink at Maurice’s behaviour. I guessed that they had seen it all, over the years. Maurice positioned himself at the mike, tying a sparkly gold scarf around it.
Within minutes, they were into the opening bars of James Brown’s “Sex Machine”. It was rockin’. I felt like bustin’ out a move, myself. But Maurice had other ideas. He had turned to the brass section, hands up in the air.
“Please, gentlemen, please! I am hearing far too much trumpet and not nearly enough sax. And am I hearing bongos, perchance?” He glared accusingly at the sexy percussionist, who shook her head. “Mr. Brown would roll over in his grave, bless him, if we were to play God with his music. Again, please!” He strode back to the mike, already taking in his cleansing breath.
Moments later, he stopped them again, this time more angrily. “There is a humming coming from this amp. Who is our sound technician? You over there? Are you going to fix this? We cannot make music if our equipment is louder than we are!” The gangly young kid nervously crept up to the amp to adjust it.
An hour later, the band had played its way, in spits and spurts, through only three songs. I had not heard a single note out of Maurice. Even the stone-faced Stickman looked as though he wanted to do some harm to the Maestro.
Maurice took on the air of injured party, patient to the end with the thoughtless people who wounded him. He sat on a speaker and addressed us all. “It is quite clear to me that I have arrived just in the nick of time. I will save this show for you, but you must all help me. Sharon,” he said, speaking to her as if she were a distractible six-year-old, “you and I will have to sit down together to discuss this mess and its solutions after rehearsal today. You will need to clear your afternoon schedule.” I could feel Sharon tense up beside me, but her face revealed nothing. “As for the rest of us,” he said sweetly, turning to the band, “I believe that we need a break. We will all spend some time preparing ourselves for rehearsal tomorrow, nine a.m. sharp. Right then, off you go!”
As Maurice strode purposefully toward Sharon and I, she muttered to me, “Have we discussed just how much you’re going to pay me for this?”
