Steps from the Spotlight

I’ve never sought the spotlight. I love music more than life and not a day goes by that I am not singing. I teach vocal and piano lessons, sing with the local college and am on call with a recording studio for back-up work. It’s life and it keeps the bills paid. Plus, I am under no illusions about how my appearance is perceived in the music business. I’m heavy, and while that works in the opera world, it’s no good at all if you want to be in the spotlight anywhere else. Perversely enough, it’s all about the look of the thing, even with music.

“Try the new weight loss meds!” urged Vicki, one of my closest friends from conservatory. “They’re amazing! I’ve had to buy a whole new wardrobe!” She was calling from her latest show in New York, off-Broadway, after curtain one night.

“That must be hell on your costume department,” I replied sarcastically. It was late, but Vicki was always on her own schedule.

“Trust me, they’d much rather take in than let out,” she answered, practically. “Besides, they can always sew me into costume if I’m thin.” There were voices in the background. “Listen, Leah, I gotta go. You should come catch the show sometime. Maybe I can get you an audition. You always did have better pipes than me.”

“Can’t get away right now, Vic.” I put as much regret into that statement as I could. “Besides, who would watch the cats?”

“You and those cats,” she tsked. “You’ll never find a man that way.”

“Not looking, Vic,” I reminded her. “Happy with the cats. Besides, you sound like my mom.”

“Perish the thought.” I could hear the eyeroll through the phone. “’Night, you.”

“’Night, you. Break a leg.”

“Don’t you know it.” The connection dropped.

I supposed I was grateful she still thought of me. She was a fixture in the New York music scene. I was an old school friend who once upon a time could sing rings around her but somehow didn’t care to make a fuss about it. We had never been competitive, at least not in any serious way. It made for a friendship, even from miles apart and years out of school.

I had Vicki’s offer on my mind when I finally went to bed that night. I suppose that explains why when my phone rang at the ungodly hour of 2 AM, I assumed it was her. “You’d better be bleeding in a ditch, girlfriend,” I warned her. “I’ll still come get you, but it better be dire.” Another thought occurred to me as I threw the covers off, displacing cats, “Do you need bail?”

A male voice responded, “Well no, now that you mention it, but maybe someday. Are you up, darling?” The voice was raspy, with a heavy southern drawl. It took a minute to adjust my expectations. It was Rick, the head sound engineer at Herald Records in town.

“Damnit Rick, now I am. What is it?”

“How’s your voice tonight?” He sounded entirely too cheerful, given the hour.

“I’m sleeping. It’s been better.” I sat up. “What’s going on?”

“Get yourself down here. It’s a red alert. I’m calling in the big guns.” He rattled off a list of names, all of whom I knew. He wasn’t joking.

“Who’s there?” I scrambled to find my clothes at the foot of the bed. Struggling to get dressed one-handed, I realized I could switch my phone to speaker.

“Some big name. Won’t say. Came in from Europe and sent their manager on ahead. They want to hear some backing vocals. Now.” From the undertone in his voice, I could tell he was annoyed at something or someone, though he was trying hard not to show it.

“Here? All we have is the conservatory. That’s mostly students. What’s a big name want with that?” Socks and shoes now, plus a jacket.

“There’s been a problem with the backup singers, that’s all I know. Now get down here.”

“Lemme make myself decent. 20 minutes, I promise.” I hung up.

I ran my fingers through my purple hair, hoping it wasn’t sticking up too badly. No makeup – if this big name wanted me pretty, they should have woken me at a decent hour. I put some food down for the cats, which they appreciated, and left.

On the way there, I wondered between warm-ups. Who was this mystery artist who could command an entire studio to jump at this time of night? Night gigs meant overtime: double rates. Whoever this was, they didn’t think twice about dropping more than my yearly teaching salary on what felt like a whim. That meant a big name, as Rick had said. Physically, I worked my voice as I had been trained. Mentally, I braced for rejection.

When I got to the studio, I joined about twenty other women and girls in the lobby area. Some, like me, were in grubby sweats, others were in colorful bathrobes and turbans, some even had old fashioned curlers. All of us were practicing vocal warm-ups. It was cacophony, but one I recognized. I knew most of the ladies and nodded politely as I found a place in the room.

Soon Rick came out from the sound booth with a man who reminded me of a weasel. Something in the face wasn’t right. I was not impressed. Looking around, I realized neither were many of the others in the room, including Rick.

“Ladies, your attention, please” Rick tried to call over the sound of twenty women in full voice in a small room. It took a few tries, but eventually people noticed him. “I’d like to introduce Mr. Brooks Tolliver. He’s a manager from out of town who is here to find new backup singers for his artist.”

“What happened to the old ones?” It was Olivia, fearless as always.

Mr. Tolliver was all business. “They’re sick. How soon can we get started?” he asked, glancing at his expensive watch.

“Aren’t we waiting for the artist?” Rick asked. “They should probably be here.”

“I have full authority to make decisions for them.” asserted the manager. “Let’s just get this going. Besides,” he added, “They might show up later.”

“It’s your dime,” Rick shrugged. “All right ladies, we’ll be calling you as we need you.” Rick and the manager ducked back into the recording area. The rest of us waited to be called.

Time passed. Eventually most of us decided we were as prepared as we were going to be and the warm-ups stopped. We sat or stood, as there was room, hydrated, and chatted softly. No one knew who this mysterious artist was. We had plenty of opinions, especially as women were called, performed, and were sent away, sometimes in tears.

I compared who was chosen to who was not and began to sketch a sound profile in my head. I’d get picked if I could match what Tolliver wanted, assuming he knew his artist. Sometimes that was the case, sometimes not, but I was hopeful.

The manager listened to all of us and whittled us down to five. Thin light crept through the grubby windows in the lobby as Rick came to tell us we made it to the final round. This time all of us were going to be in the studio at the same time, in hopes that it would be faster.

Dutifully, we filed back into the studio. The room reeked of old sweat and cigarette smoke from an earlier time. It had been a studio in the vinyl days. The drum set sat in the far corner, with a few other percussion pieces. Microphone stands loomed in another corner. The vocal mic, with its round filter, was suspended in the center of the room.

During the first round, the manager asked for something we knew. I had pulled out an old favorite, something I had long memorized. He had not even bothered to look up, but here I was in the final round. This time the stand with the headphones draped on it had some unfamiliar music as well.

One by one, we were asked to look the piece over, then sing it. It didn’t look difficult, but that proved deceptive. There were some unanticipated intervals in the melody, as well as rhythmic complexity. Still, I thought I got it well enough to make it. I was usually good at sight reading. Not everyone else was, and it showed, especially with that piece.

“All right, thank you,” the manager called in on the mic from the booth. He rattled off four names, none of which were mine. “Leave your info with my assistant here and we’ll be in touch.”

Rick met my eyes from the other side of the glass. He shook his head, his sign that he had just witnessed serious shenanigans. I shrugged. It wasn’t the first time I had been passed over. I turned amid the happy chatter of newly employed singers and headed for the door.

“Wait.” A new voice spoke, resonant, tuneful, and rich like molten milk chocolate. Everything stopped, including me.

“Bastian! I didn’t know you’d come in.” Tolliver had left the mic open.

“You there. What’s your name, love?” The voice belonged to a lanky androgynous person in black with a shock of fair hair and impeccable makeup. Somehow, I was reminded of David Bowie. My brain scrambled for the proper pronoun. It settled on they, to be polite. The artist, Bastian, they, had snuck into the studio while we were singing and were standing in my way.

I wasn’t sure they were talking to me, but I had to answer that voice. “Leah,” I replied, with a deep breath.

“Would you sing that again with me, love?” They strolled to the mic.

“But Bastian…” Tolliver tried to interject, but the artist cut him off.

“Not now, Brooks,” the artist snapped with an impatient wave. They wrapped a colorful silk scarf around their neck and gestured politely. “Please,” they added, gazing intently at me through smoke-colored glasses.

I didn’t let myself think twice. “You got it.” I stepped to the stand, picked up the headphones, took a breath, and sang. Even by my own standards, I sang the hell out of that excerpt the second time. The rich voice joined me, and we wove intricate harmonies in the echoing room. The duet was gorgeous, sparking chills down my spine. There was silence when we were done.

“She’s in,” the edge to the artist’s languid voice brooked no argument.

“But Bastian,” Tolliver fussed, arguing anyway, “she’s too much.”

“Too much what?” From his tone, Tolliver’s boss didn’t appreciate being challenged.

“She’s just too big. Think of the optics. We’re going for a look here.”

There it was: my weight. My singing didn’t matter a damn if I didn’t have the right look. My hopes had risen when the artist had singled me out. Now they crashed to the ground. I waited for the inevitable rejection, a second time.

“You might be going for a look, Brooks. I want a sound. She’s it.” Bastian was adamant. “She sang my piece like she owned it. Even Celeste couldn’t do that.”

“Do you have any more girls?” Tolliver was asking Rick, desperately.

Rick shrugged. “She’s the best we got. Conservatory trained, decades of experience. You need a back-up singer, she’s your gal.”

“I said she’s in,” Bastian repeated firmly. “I’ll take them all, if necessary, but definitely her.” They looked at me. “You want to sing that tune for real, love? Live, with me?” They removed their glasses and met my eyes with a curiously intense look.

A fragment of the duet ran through my head, and something clicked. “Yeah,” I slowly agreed. “I’ll sing with you. Not in the spotlight, though,” I added. “I’m best on backup. Happiest there, too.” Dictating terms was not the best way to deal with a potentially temperamental artist, but I had nothing to lose.

“You have a deal, love. Welcome aboard.” Bastian replaced their glasses and gave a small, encouraging smile.

Later that night, after a nap and a shower, I called Vicki to tell her the news. “So, it’s a tour of the East Coast. They’re a singer/composer whose main focus has been game music and soundtracks. Apparently, they’re a big name in Hollywood. They had just come from a European tour when their whole entourage got sick, including backup singers.” I was curled on the couch with a cup of tea, a warm blanket and a cat.

“Well, I could have told you who Bastian was,” Vicki chided me. “And if you weren’t hiding under a rock, you would have known, too. Congratulations, I hear they’re notoriously picky. What are you doing about the cats? And your lessons?”

“Sarah will take the cats until I get back. And she’ll take most of the lessons. She’s good enough and it’s only for a few weeks. I hate to leave, but it’s a big opportunity.” I guiltily scratched the cat in my lap. They would miss me, but they knew Sarah and liked her. It would be an adventure, for all of us.

“When do you leave? Maybe we can get together.”

“Two weeks. First show is near here in Baltimore, then we’re headed to New York. Maybe then?” I checked my notes on the coffee table.

It’s a date. Gotta go. Break a leg, you.” The connection dropped. Vicki was always in a hurry.

“Break a leg, you.” I echoed, to empty air.

Putting the phone down on the coffee table, I sat, mind whirling. I had a lot to do in the next two weeks, including a show and all the rehearsals. The duet drifted through my mind again and I closed my eyes to savor it. That was the kind of role I had always enjoyed, as opposed to solo work. People argued there was no stress in backup singing, but they were wrong. You had to be on your game as a backup singer - you were replaceable, but the pressure was different. To me, it was a challenge, and the sheer delight of harmonizing with someone else was the reward. Yes, this would be a grand adventure, and I couldn’t wait.