“We all had to be into it,” Edgar said.
“It’s different,” I said, hearing frustration in my voice. I was annoyed that I couldn’t even look at them as I tried to argue my point. The old stereotype, I knew, was that singers are all temperamental, and I didn’t want to be that way, but couldn’t they understand that this was completely different than recording a guitar part? I thought of my voice ringing cleanly out in this room, thought of the faces I was going to have to make in order to achieve the vibe I wanted, thought of them all watching me silently, and shuddered with embarrassment.
“Okay, okay,” Ken said. “Well, the rest of you guys can go outside or something and I can stay in here with Rachel. I have to stay here, okay? I will sit with my back to you if it makes you more comfortable, but this is really the only way to get a good vocal take.”
“So . . . all singers have to do it this way?” I said, ashamed, feeling like a true novice.
“In a real recording studio, the singer would go into an isolation booth and everyone else sits outside and hears the voice going along with the music. But that’s because they’re in isolation. We can’t have the mike pick up any sound other than your voice, otherwise it’s going to sound like shit.” Ken didn’t sound frustrated, exactly, but he definitely didn’t have his usual casual tone.
“Okay then.” I looked up at the ceiling, too ashamed of myself to look at my friends. “So do you guys mind waiting outside for a while?”
“Sure,” Fern said agreeably, standing up.
“If that’s what you need,” Edgar said. I could tell he was annoyed.
“We’ll pick up some cheeseburgers,” Socks said.
As they left the room, I flipped through my lyric sheets on the music stand. After the door closed, I felt like I should say something.
“Ken, er — I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a hassle.”
“No, it’s okay,” he replied. “You know, it’s a common thing. I’m not a singer, so I don’t know what it’s like. But, I mean —that’s why the isolation booth exists, right? People don’t like having to sing in a quiet room with everybody watching.”
I didn’t even like the idea of him staying in the room, but he’d promised not to look — god, I felt so stupid, like a little kid. He asked me if I was ready to start, and I told him I was. I put on my headphones. “Blood on My Fist” began. I tried to use the music to empower myself. I couldn’t let a little thing like someone hearing me sing ruin this CD, right? I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and roared as best I could into the first verse, trying to pretend that there was no one else in the room, that I wasn’t in this room at all, that I was somewhere else completely.
xXx