Cherry Tones

Following a cold, brisk city block's walk they arrived at an alley, which Floyd turned down and beckoned them onward. The group balked, declaring the absolute lack of sunlight which permeated it as unsafe and the overwhelming stench that ebbed from it as unbearable.

“Floyd, what is in there that you want to show us,” Cecil protested, holding his nose.

Marion echoed his sentiments, placing himself furthest back in the group. “We're going to get mugged man.”

Floyd was of no mood to deal with them. He laid his cane down with rapturous hit on the scum covered alleyway ground and looked onto the group. “The recording studio is at the end of this— do you or do you not wish to record your song?”

Aster needn't not reply— she broke from the group, and entered the alleyway, following Floyd's lead. The rest quickly acquiesced, but kept up their complaints for the length of the journey.

“Cherry Tones”, read Marion from the sign above the building that lie at the end of the alley, the letters in their faint glow stylized in already dated fifties iconography.

“Where do you find these places?” Cecil sighed as he opened the door ahead of the rest, the resistance of its old frame apparent in the rusted groan that uttered forth as he pushed it open for the group.

Inside the studio, furnishings of the same tacky fifties vintage decorated the room. The walls, in their hideous fake wood paneling held off-centered hangings of framed records. It's what Aster would have referred to as 'Americana', but that was a term she didn't dare utter in this simulated world.

A barely mopped, black and white checkerboard floor pattern led down the room to meet the shining leather shoes of none other than the portly man himself— Johnny Vallerie. He was clad in a gaudy white outfit and a suit two sizes too tight, with his smile radiating almost as brightly as the plethora of jewelry which hung from him.

“'Bout time y'all got here!” he cawed with a laugh that set Aster's blood aflame, beckoning them into a room far down the hall that was already incensed with the wafting clouds of cigar smoke.

“Aster, Aster, it's really him!” Sylvia whispered in delirious excitement as they followed behind. Aster turned to her in confusion.

“Yeah, it is. Are you a fan or something, Sylvia?” she whispered back.

“Am I a fan?! I love him! It was his records that made me want to learn guitar!” she chirped as he held the studio door wide open and invited them in.

Aster stepped into the room, stymieing a cough as she looked around the studio in a similar childlike wonderment that couldn't be tempered by the disdainful look she instinctively gave every time Johnny glanced at her.

An actual, completely simulated studio, she marveled in glee. She walked over to the stacks of tweed amplifiers and consoles that lie up against a wall, their wiring running roughshod throughout the small, soundproofed room— itself permanently stained in a yellow, ill glow.

She looked on further with intense delight and curiosity at the giant glass pane that lie across the room— the monolithic console board it held beyond taunting her inquisitiveness with the innumerable array of buttons of and switches it held. A warm, crackle-spattered hum of tape was audibly buzzing from it, which filtered through the small, faux-wood speakers high above the left and right of the room.

It's all analog, she thought practically giggling with joy. There's no plugins. There's no soundbanks. Just music being recorded in the flesh, she marveled, absolutely captivated.

She hopped to and fro, her eyes hungrily running over every little device, drunk on simulated vintage hardware as the band assembled and began to get their equipment in place.

“She's definitely a rambunctious one, isn't she?” Johnny chuckled to Cecil, as the sound of their tuning up started to fill the room.

“You have no idea what you're dealing with,” he mumbled in reply, walking over to warm up on the smoke-stained keys of the honky tonk piano that laid in the corner.

“Floyd, look at these things,” Marion groaned, hitting the toms demonstratively in a display of their unappealing, out of tune sound. “This hi-hat sounds like a fucking trash can man,” he cried, striking it, which temporarily drowned out the rest of the room in its hideous splash.

“Well I am sorry Marion but we could not exactly lug that kit of yours through the streets of Cherryaire could we? Maybe ease of transport should have been a concern when picking out the biggest, priciest things in there,” he quipped, whipping himself and his cane around as he suddenly made his exit from the room.

Johnny Vallerie stood in the middle of the studio, eyes on the door as it shut behind Floyd, the awful auditory-grimace of Marion's drums and Cecil's tuning of the rarely played honky tonk swelling around him, as he lit a cigar.

“So,” he began to speak, puffing once as he turned to the band. “The band and I have been going through a little bit of a rough patch,” he started, Cecil audibly groaning as he threw his head back at the piano. “Well, that is to say we have parted ways,” he continued, following this up with another long drag of his cigar. “I don't really have any material to work with,” he finished curtly, billowing the gray cloud forward.

“There we go,” mumbled Cecil, leaning into the keys as Sylvia, Marion, and Aster exchanged glances.

“Aster, Aster!” Sylvia whispered, waving her over. “This is our chance! This is the chance to show him all we've got!” she exclaimed. Aster looked onto the sight of unsightly self-aggrandization as she listened, frowning as she considered the thought.

“Mr. Floyd told me earlier anyways, to try and get him to sing on one of our songs. This could be really big for us if he does!” she argued, her ever infectious enthusiasm bleeding into Aster's slight scowl. Sylvia's brow furrowed in a look of determination as she hung on expectation for Aster's response.

If the Cherubs can get signed, there's no reason I can't, she thought, turning to face Johnny Vallerie.

“Okay,” she began as quiet as a mouse. Johnny puffed away at his cigarette. “We have a song for you,” she declared, plugging in her bass and striking the root note of the song as the amp warmed up, its analog buzz filling the room in a living sense of comfort for her.

“I want you to sing it like it would make you a superstar all over again,” she said, handing the chimney of a man a page of hastily scribbled lyrics as he put out his cigar. He approached the microphone stand with slow paces, signaling to the recording engineers to start the session.

“Always been one, girl,” he remarked dryly, his voice feeding through the speakers into the room as Aster let the first note crash in with a scowl.

The band stumbled through the paces of the song, never having played it before. Most of the first take was reserved for Aster demonstrating the lead melody to Johnny on her bass as the rest of the band did their best to improvise and learn their parts on the fly. In the end, Marion missed a beat, causing the rhythm section to veer off course, at which point the song unceremoniously tapered off.

Aster looked around, watching everyone get back into their positions as the recording engineer announced over the intercom, “Take two.”

She struck the intro note again, this time harder still, as they traversed the song— a clean verse, a slightly shaky chorus, before Johnny Vallerie hit a bum note on the bridge, causing the band to once again halt suddenly.

“You know, this is actually damn good,” Johnny remarked, squinting at the lyric sheet. His arrogant air was for a moment slightly curbed by genuine enthusiasm. “Actually, this is fuckin' fantastic,” he declared, signaling to the engineer for another take. Aster's heart surged, and she held her shoulders high as she struck the intro note again, determined to lead her group to victory.

And strike that note she did— fifteen more times in all, as the afternoon wore on. The rest of band soon adorned a sheen of sweat as their takes grew increasingly solid, finally landing the song on the seventeenth try.

Holy fucking shit, Aster thought, wiping away the sweat from her forehead as she watched her fatigued band members high five one another. You know what? Fuck analog! she whined, spoiled from a future in which recording was digital and instantaneous, allowing mistakes to be edited on a whim. My fucking hand kills.

Johnny turned to the group, giving a small, unconcerned clap as he stepped away from the microphone, relighting the cigar he had left to rest on an amp.

“I think that was really something special,” he chuckled, to which Sylvia's eyes sparkled like the virgin night.

“It was an honor playing with you!” she peeped.

“No, the honor is mine for being allowed to sing on this song,” he smirked, making his way towards the door.

He turned to Aster, his smug look still resting upon his face. “You guys are really something,” he remarked, and shut the door behind him.

Each of the band gave the other a silent look, before their joy bubbled over.

“That's it!” the sang in self congratulations to each other. “This is the song! We're going to be famous Aster!”