My plan to spend the evening avoiding everyone from Ridgewood by indulging in poultry vandalism with Callie was thwarted by my way-too-savvy band director.
“IPAC is supposed to be part of your music education,” Mackey said, arms crossed. We were standing outside of the main ballroom in B-wing, where the showcase concert was about to start. “You don’t get a week away from classes just to come here and hang out in your hotel room.”
“But I—”
“Phoebe,” he interrupted. “I have a sixth sense for high school drama. You’re obviously having some issues with your friends, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know what those issues are.”
I had a sudden, vivid mental image of Scott pulling the triangle beater out of the back of his jeans and cringed. “You definitely don’t.”
“Right. So you want to avoid them. I get it. Come with me.”
He pulled open the door to the ballroom, and I hesitated. “But I was going to …”
But I was going to go up to this random girl’s room and play with some dead turkeys. Yeah, I couldn’t say that. I squeezed my phone in my hand, wishing I hadn’t left Callie’s room after dropping off the Nair and lotion. But I would’ve been in big trouble if I hadn’t checked in with Mackey after dinner.
He arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Nothing.”
I followed him into the ballroom and said a silent prayer of thanks when he turned and walked along the back wall behind the last row. If I had to suffer through this concert, at least I didn’t have to sit with anyone else from Ridgewood. Then Mackey stopped outside a black door and spoke to a skinny guy wearing a black IPAC T-shirt. The guy opened the door to reveal a staircase, and Mackey gestured for me to follow him.
“Where’re we going?” I asked.
“Sound booth.”
My heart lifted a little. And when I stepped into the booth, all thoughts of dead turkeys strutted right out of my head.
A glass window took up most of the far wall, providing a view of the ballroom’s stage and most of the audience. The stage was covered in a sampling of pretty much everything you’d find in the exhibit hall: drum sets, marimbas, vibes, timpani, congas, steel drums, and countless other instruments. Below the window was the biggest mixing board I’d ever seen, flanked by two giant Mac monitors. A woman with graying curly hair sat behind the Mac on the right, scrolling down a bunch of audio tracks. She glanced over her shoulder when we entered, then did a double take.
“Jeff!” she exclaimed, getting to her feet. “How’s it going?”
“Great, you?” Mackey grinned broadly as he crossed the room and shook her hand.
“Same old,” the woman said. “So good to see you again! And this is?”
She glanced over at me, and Mackey waved for me to join them.
“Phoebe Byrd, one of my students.” He pointed at my hands. “Of scalpel fame. Phoebe, this is Giovanne Clark.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “And wait—you really heard about the scalpel thing?”
Giovanne chuckled. “Are you kidding? Kid plays a xylophone solo with scalpels in front of a few hundred drummers … yeah, people have been talking about it.”
For a second, I wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or ashamed. But the way Giovanne was grinning at me said proud, so I stood a little straighter and smiled back.
“Phoebe’s the one I mentioned to you a few months ago,” Mackey told Giovanne. “She helped me out with mixing Ridgewood’s ensemble recording.”
Giovanne’s eyes lit up. “Aha, so this is the girl with the magic ears?”
My eyes widened. “What?”
“Yup, this is her.” Mackey looked amused. “A fact of which she is apparently unaware.”
“Magic ears?”
He laughed. “Maybe not magic. But better than average, at least.” Turning back to Giovanne, he added: “I’ll never forget her first day of band camp. Freshman carrying a drum on the field for the first time. Walks right up to the senior saxophone officer and asks him if he’s telling his section to play that sharp on purpose.”
“They were, though!” I exclaimed as Giovanne cracked up. “Everyone could hear it, but no one was saying it.”
Mackey shook his head. “That’s the thing, Phoebe. Most kids are so worried about their own performance, they don’t notice how everyone else is playing—especially at first. You’ve always been more aware of ensemble sound. Why else would I ask if you wanted to help with that mix, anyway?”
I didn’t know what to say. Mackey always let me use the band’s audio equipment to put together my IPAC summaries, and he’d taught me a lot. But I’d never realized he thought I had an actual talent for this stuff.
“So I was wondering if Phoebe could hang out up here with you during the concert,” Mackey said to Giovanne. “She’s been missing out on participating in the clinics because of her hands, and I’m thinking she could probably learn a thing or two from watching you work.”
“Absolutely!” Giovanne said. “Pull up a chair, Phoebe.”
She settled back down in front of the Mac, and I spotted a folding chair leaning against the wall near the door.
“All right, I’m going to sit with the rest of the group.” Mackey followed me over to the door. “Phoebe, we’re all going to that ice cream place in the hotel lounge after this. If you’d rather head back to your room, that’s fine—but check in with Mrs. Hwang. She’ll be staying behind, too.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
“Anytime. Thanks, Giovanne!” Mackey called before closing the door behind him. I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Callie. Sorry, can’t make it. Gotta stay at this concert and check in w/chaperone later. I’ll come watch tomorrow morning. Going ok so far?
A few seconds later, she replied. No prob. See you tomorrow! I slipped my phone into my pocket and carried my chair over to sit next to Giovanne.
“All right, Miss Magic Ears,” she said, adjusting a few knobs on the board. “They’ll be starting any minute, so let’s do a quick rundown of the channels.”
Giovanne launched into an explanation of which instruments were controlled by which of the rows of knobs on the board, and I did my best to memorize each one. That led immediately to a discussion about how to properly mic various percussion instruments, apparently something a lot of sound people kind of failed at.
“Helps to actually be a percussionist,” Giovanne told me. “Most sound guys only have experience with drum sets. They—ah, here we go!”
The house lights dimmed, and a few spotlights glowed brighter. The audience cheered and clapped as six performers, all dressed in black, walked out on stage and took their places.
The next fifteen minutes passed in a flash. Watching Giovanne was incredible—it was like the mixing board was an instrument itself, and she was a master. She kept up a running monologue as she worked, explaining how she listened not just for volume and balance, but tone and overall blend. When the ensemble finished and the crowd applauded, she tapped a few keys on the keyboard and the audio tracks on the screen disappeared, replaced with one new track.
“Marimba solo’s up next,” she told me. “So all the stuff we’ve been talking about so far, that’s critical listening. But analytical listening is just as important, especially when it comes to crafting an album. Any idea what the difference is?”
“Um … no.”
“Critical listening is the technical stuff,” Giovanne said. “Like how you heard that the saxophones were sharp, right? But analytical listening is about intent. As the sound engineer, part of your job is knowing what a musician means. What she’s trying to say. Take your xylophone solo in that ‘Big Top’ piece. Tons of people have played that part, but they all say something different with it. What were you saying?”
I thought back on my performance. “Uh … please let me get through this without cutting off a finger?”
Giovanne snorted with laughter. “Fair enough. Okay, think about it this way.” She nodded at the glass, and I saw a woman walking out on stage and up to the marimba. “She’s about to play a solo. She isn’t the first person to play these notes and rhythms in this particular combination. But she’s going to own it. Make it her piece. I want you to listen, and tell me what she means.”
I nodded and wiped my hands on my jeans. Honestly? I had no freaking clue what Giovanne was talking about. Even without scalpels, the only thing I ever thought about when I played that xylophone solo was not missing any notes. But Giovanne was awesome and I desperately wanted to impress her, so I had to give this a shot.
I focused on the soloist as she raised her mallets over the keys. The applause died out, and she allowed the silence to stretch over several seconds before she began to play.
The solo started with a rapid but soft ostinato on the high end of the marimba, which quickly crescendoed and led into a chromatic, bluesy run down the keys to the low end. After a dramatic rubato, with tempo abandoned as she pulled and stretched the rhythms like putty, the soloist settled into a minor waltz, her left hand keeping time with a chord progression while her right picked out a melody that was both sweet and haunting.
She was an amazing performer, and even though I still wasn’t sure how to answer Giovanne’s question, I suddenly understood what she’d been talking about. This soloist wasn’t thinking about getting the right notes. She was saying something. But what?
Christina would probably know. I pressed my lips together, eyes glued to the soloist but imagining Christina standing there instead. Her solos always had meaning, too. I’d never thought about it before, but they did.
A short chorale swelled into a key change, this one still bluesy but with a little more levity. This led to a more staccato, almost playful section that gradually tapered off into absolute silence. The soloist’s eyes were closed, mallets still poised over the keys. I held my breath with her, wondering if the piece was over, and hoping it wasn’t.
Then, with a tiny smile, she played the same chromatic run all the way down the keys and settled right into the waltz, but this time faster and in a new key. After a variation on the first melody, she ended with the same ostinato, only this time on the low end of the marimba, softer and softer until it seemed as though her hands were moving but the mallets weren’t even touching the keys. There was a suspended moment during which she must have finally come to a stop, but I couldn’t pinpoint when it happened.
Her eyes opened, she lowered her arms to her side, and the auditorium burst into whistles and applause.
I let out a slow breath as Giovanne saved that track. “Well?” she asked. “Any ideas come to mind?”
I opened my mouth, fully intending to say, No, sorry, that was awesome but I have no idea what it meant. Instead, I said:
“Nostalgia. She was remembering something that made her happy, but she’s sad about it, because she misses it.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt a blush heat up my neck. Because where the actual hell had that come from?
But to my surprise, Giovanne looked impressed. “Now that’s a point of view. So what would you do with that?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You, Miss Magic Ears, future sound engineer. If this was your album you were recording, how would you use that point of view?”
“Er …” I felt incredibly stupid. “I don’t know what you mean. The piece is over, you’ve already got the track.”
“And what comes after you get all the tracks laid down?”
“Oh … mixing?”
“Exactly. That’s when we take what they said, consider what they meant, and then shape it so that their point comes across to the listener as vividly and cohesively as possible.” I watched as she pulled up another set of tracks and fiddled with a few knobs. “When the musicians finish, the engineers are just getting started. If you want to stick around for a bit after the concert, we can talk more about post-production.”
“Sure, I’d love to!”
“Great.” Giovanne smiled at me, then glanced on the stage where the next group of performers was taking their places. “So, ready to try again?”
“Yeah,” I said, pulling my chair closer. “I’m ready.”