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It's A Hit	By : luna65 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 731 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Pink Floyd. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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IV: us vs. them
Nick stuck his head in the doorway of Studio Two. “Python’s on!” he announced.

The rest of the band followed him out to the lounge. Alan and Peter remained in the control room, but took a moment to slouch in their chairs and rub their eyes.

“I dreamt about ‘Us And Them’ last night,” Peter confessed to his nominal boss. “I kept hearing it, like it just never stopped playing.”

“Sometimes I get my best ideas in a dream,” Alan said, staring at the ceiling.

“I wish they’d never dreamt up that bloody delay,” Peter retorted. “Seems like we’ll never get it right. And why does it need it anyway, particularly?”

“Why don’t we work on it now, you and me? I think we might actually accomplish something without the puppet show,” Alan quipped.

“Punch and Judy is right, never let those two have actual weapons.”

“Oh sarcasm is effective enough, me boy. I swear I saw Gilmour bleeding the other night when Roger said his fingers were so thick he didn’t need mittens in the winter.”

“I believe the term he used was ‘thick-fingered bastard,’ wasn’t it?”

They were careful to look around the room before breaking into uncontrolled laughter.

“So who’s going to break this tie, then?” Roger asked wearily.

“You pick it, Rick,” David entreated.

Rick stood up and stood roughly center in their grouping.

He pointed at Roger. “Georgie”
A long-suffering sigh.

Then David. “Porgy”
David stuck his tongue out.

Then himself. “Puddin”

Then Nick. “Pie.”
A round of chuckles.

He pointed at David. “Kissed”
A smack from the legendary lips.

Then himself. “the”

Then Nick. “girls”
Nick smiled broadly.

“and made them”
Then Roger. “cry.”

The famous withering glance which could only exist courtesy of an abundance of flint-like bone structure.

“Sod it,” David proclaimed. “I’m choosing.”

“I’m ‘it!’” Roger retorted. “It’s been ordained.”

Nick did his best to imitate a chorus of angels.

“Oh I’ll fucking ordain you,” David countered. “I’m not eating at the fucking caf three bloody nights in a row!”

“Fine, we’ll go to that sodding Italian place where the meatballs might as well be made of lead!”

“I –“ Nick began, and Rick all but clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Fine then,” David said, “last one seated has to buy the wine.”

Rick lagged behind in the wake of their departure, and Nick motioned to him with emphatic hand-waving.

“C’mon then, you don’t want to front the vino, do you?”

“You’ve seen Dave run, haven’t you? I’m not worried.”

“Ah. And why did you stop me? I don’t particularly like spaghetti and such.”

Rick sighed and patted their drummer on the back. “Nick, you’re a dear thing, but don’t you realize it’s got nothing to do with spaghetti?”

Alan wondered how many standoffs could possibly occur, as they listened to Roger’s rough mix of “Lunatic” coupled with “Eclipse.” It had been established that the two would be discrete pieces which were then segued together, as it had been originally performed. At least that much had been agreed upon between the warring factions, which is to say Roger and David. As the ambience of the end faded out, Roger suddenly sat straight up in his chair.

“What on earth is that odd metallic sound?” he asked.

“A what?” David replied, giving his bandmate a look entirely keeping with the theme of the piece.

Alan blanched, clearing his throat and looking at the floor. “It’s the heartbeat.”

He then looked up, facing four perplexed expressions.

“It’s been dubbed and looped so many times the original sound has decayed. It has a buzz.”

Rick crinkled his forehead as if he couldn’t quite understand. “A buzz?”

“Yes. I’ve been trying to fix it, but the problem is that it’s so embedded in the overall layering it’s difficult to isolate it now. It’s not as if I could just take it out and replace it altogether. If I got rid of it something else would go as well.”

Roger hung his head between his knees, seeming about to vomit.

“Well that’s a right pickle then, innit?” Nick quipped.

David was attempting to remain calm, he swiveled his chair to face Alan, his fingers steepled.

“How long have you known about this?” he asked quietly.

“I noticed it a few days ago, when we were working on the travel sequence. At first I thought it a stray signal from the VC, but it wasn’t on any of those tracks.”

“Why didn’t you say anything then?” David continued.

Alan flushed, wondering if he should tell the truth. He decided a half-truth would work just as well.

“To be honest I wasn’t sure if you’d actually be able to hear it too.”

Roger seemed to lurch out of his chair, coming right up on Alan who was leaning up against the console.

“I am pleased to inform you,” he said, in a clipped and menacing tone, “that my hearing is excellent.”

“Yes, yes of course it is,” Alan demurred, not meeting his eyes.

“So what do we do then?” Rick asked.

“Well we could start by giving someone the sack,” Roger snapped.

“Calm down,” David chided.

“It’s only noticeable in certain parts,” Alan explained. “I’ve been concentrating my efforts, as it were, on those particular tracks. You must have gotten ahold of the original tape for your mix.”

“Here’s a task, then. We will listen to this again tomorrow morning and there will be a noticeable improvement,” Roger commanded.

Alan nodded, and wryly mused that if he was able to substitute his own recorded heartbeat at that moment the problem could be solved.

“We’ll leave you to it, then,” David said. His tone was neutral, but Alan imagined he was also likely upset, though never one to throw a fit unless under extreme duress. He and Roger filed out into the corridor, their voices suddenly rising in volume as soon as they had exited. Rick made a long-suffering face and rose up resigned, his footsteps as slow as a man on his way to the gallows.

Nick came over and put a comforting hand on Alan’s shoulder.

“Buck up, laddie. We know you’ll do your best,” he said.

“I will give it my all, of course.” Alan tried to sound as earnest as possible without displaying the terror which was also wholly present.

“And I’ll tell you something – Roger really is the only one who can hear everything. He’ll hear all the things you never want him to.”

As he watched Nick leave the control room he suddenly felt sorry for three specific people, but saved the largest portion of pity for himself, running his hands over his face and through his hair.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered.

“So I hear we’re at a bit of an impasse, gents,” Steve said. It was the most diplomatic thing he could think to say, given the situation.

Roger and David sat sulking like two boys called into the headmaster’s office.

“We are experiencing a fundamental disagreement regarding the final mix,” Roger informed him.

Steve looked at David. “Is that what it is?”

“More or less,” David deadpanned.

“So you can’t just let Alan be, to do a version?”

“No!” they exclaimed in unison.

“That twit is incapable of making the types of decisions worthy of our art,” Roger insisted.

“And I hear you’re being rather hard on the lad. He looks like he’s been through the wars,” Steve noted.

Roger scowled. “Is he sayin’ I’m a bloody fascist then?”

David raised a perfectly-shaped eyebrow. “How did you extrapolate accusations of totalitarianism from that?”

“How do we solve this then?” Steve interjected. He felt like he’d wandered into the middle of a debate in the House of Commons. Or into a cage of hungry lions.

“We need someone else to do the final mix,” Roger answered.

“Someone who doesn’t know us,” David added. “Who would just do what’s best for the record.”

“And who would that be?” Steve asked. “I need a shortlist, or something.”

“Nobody in-house,” Roger answered. “Start inquiring as to whoever is available.”

Roger had a way of phrasing which tended to imply that it was altogether obvious and therefore not worth his response in the first place. Steve looked off into the space above their heads, considering that he had no idea how to find a producer; after all, the Floyd had been assigned to Norman Smith at the beginning of their recording career, and since kindly but firmly giving him the nudge, had looked after themselves. It was doubtful they’d approve of anyone else even if it was their idea.

Steve needed advice. And suddenly he realized that the absolute best mentor was literally under his nose. Or nearly: the person in question had a new studio on Oxford Street now.

“Ah. . .okay. Let me get to work then.”

“That’s it? No, ‘The label is going to kill me!’ rubbish?” David chided.

“They very well might, but they want the finished product, don’t they?” Steve replied.

“It is suspicious,” Roger noted, turning to David, “his agreeing all quick-like.”

“Would it do any good to protest?” asked Steve, almost rhetorically.

“No,” they said together, and Steve nearly laughed at how quickly they were unified once again.

“Then get the hell out of me office then!” he cried, waving his arms about with exaggerated bluster.

“We don’t know what you’re up to,” Roger said, standing up and looking down his nose at their manager, “but we’ll find out. We always do.” David, who was holding the door open for his bandmate, gave an affirming nod.

Steve chuckled to himself as he looked through his Filofax for a particular phone number. It never failed to amuse him how those two could tear each other apart in seconds, but as soon as they had a common goal they were thick as thieves.

Chris had insisted upon first listening to the rough mix alone; he usually made notes and developed a plan from his initial instincts which were generally best. When he emerged from the control room after an hour he found Alan waiting outside the door like a cat left out in the cold.

“Oh there you are. So you’re going to be lending me a hand then?”

Alan tried to look neutral and uncaring but stopped short of doomed resignation as he followed the ringer back inside. “If I’m allowed.”

“We’ll sort it out. I guess they want me to start tonight?”

“If not sooner. It’s down to the wire.”

“It’s not what I expected. I mean, it’s not really avant-garde at all.”

“Well, it has some interesting things going on, but it’s no Ummagumma if that’s what you mean.”

“It is incredibly dense, isn’t it?”

Alan nodded wearily. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“I mean, I can see making it more –“ he trailed off, spreading his hands to articulate his point. “But otherwise it’s all there, it’s not really lacking as far as I can tell. In fact it’s bloody good for what it is.”

“I agree. Even if I hadn’t worked on it I would say it’s their best record yet.”

“Steve told me I’m to talk to Roger and David –“

“Do it separately. You’ll thank me later.”

“So what’s the deal then?”

“They each have their own ideas about the final mix, and refuse to budge.”

“Oh lovely,” Chris deadpanned. “So how did the actual recording work out?”

“Well enough. There were lots of sarcastic exchanges and sullen silences, punctuated by the occasional agreement. Oh, and lots of trips to the lounge to watch Monty Python. Or grumbling about how they’d rather be watching Monty Python or going to an Arsenal match instead of spending the entire day trying to create one bloody sound effect.”

“Well I’d be apt to agree with that.”

“Yes but, it was their fucking idea in the first place!”

Chris laughed. “Oh yes, don’t you bloody love it when a musician says, ‘make it sound like this,’ but they’ve got no fucking clue what it actually takes to create their crazy idea!”

“More than you’ll ever know,” Alan said, displaying the distinct stone-faced stoicism which is the hallmark of English sarcasm.

“So what have they got lined up for you after this debacle?” Chris asked.

“Dunno, but whatever it is will be easier than this.”

“But will it be as good?”

Alan sighed, with the faint regret of wondering if his best work was already behind him. “Well that’s the eternal question, isn’t it?”

Epilogue:
It was the long dark midst of a winter’s night and two men who probably should have been in their respective homes asleep next to their chosen women were instead lying naked together on a mattress in an otherwise empty flat in Chelsea sharing a post-coital joint and basking in the afterglow of a job well done…in more ways than one. Their faces shone with smug satisfaction in the glow of a nearby streetlamp spilling through an uncurtained window.

“S’gonna be mega,” David enthused, but in a soft whisper, as if he were truly afraid to say it. “Absolutely fucking mega.”

Roger gave him an odd look. “Let’s not cart all our apples away at once, eh?”

“And everyone will know.”

An eyebrow shot up into the dark fringe. “Know what?”

“That we’re amazing.”

The way in which David was staring at him made Roger feel as though they had embarked upon a completely different conversation.

“We said we weren’t going to think like that.”

“Sometimes it can’t be helped.”

Those eyes, those crystalline eyes, whenever David looked at Roger with his direct azure gaze it was as if he could see all the way inside: past the bluster and ego, past the self-doubt and guilt, all the way into the yearning, dreaming center of Roger’s heart. And knew very well what lay within, desiring to bring it to light.

“Stop,” Roger whispered, the heart in question suddenly pounding hard against the cage of his bones.

“I know you despise my optimism,” David said, without complaint. “But we’ve worked too hard to be so fucking dour all the time.”

“S’why I don’t like copping a buzz with you, Gilmour,” Roger said, taking the roach from him. “You become such a typical Piscean, mooning about and such.”

“Sod off, you argumentative prat.” He reclaimed the roach and took another hit.

“I don’t want to move, otherwise I’d leave you bereft of my most excellent company.”

“You’re a most excellent fuck, I’ll give you that.”

“S’right charitable of you.”

“I have my moments.”

Roger turned on his side and kissed his bete noir (in a manner of speaking) on the tip of his enviable nose. “You certainly do.”

The fact that Roger could acknowledge these moments instead of always focusing on whatever was yet to occur meant that the work – for better or worse, it was difficult to tell – had indeed transformed him on a distinctly personal level. But what it meant for the world beyond their sleepy secretive embrace was a mystery as indomitable as the inscrutable yet compelling packaging it would appear in, straight into the hands of the collective unconscious hopefully eager to discover its’ textures and nuance.
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It's A Hit