[Chapter 8: The Recording Studio]
It was March in New York. The spring wind still carried the Hudson's chill.
Orlando followed his newly signed manager, Frank DiLeo, across the cobblestones of Greenwich Village. A new Madonna Vogue poster was plastered in the corner record store window. A bass line mixed with the footsteps on the street, like someone had cranked up the city's volume knob.
It was Saturday. It was ten in the morning.
"This is the place," Frank said, stopping in front of a redbrick building. A faded wooden plaque hung over the doorway; the gold letters of Flux Studio had worn edges but still looked dignified.
When they pushed the door open, the bell jingled and a warm aroma of old tape and coffee hit them.
"You're finally here!" a blond kid called from behind the console. His jeans were worn through at the knees; his T-shirt had The Rolling Stones' tongue on it. He still held a pencil between his fingers. He brightened when he saw Orlando and stuck out his hand.
"Joseph Cohen, the tuner here. Mr. DiLeo, this is the Orlando you called about this morning, right?"
"Nice to meet you, Joseph." Orlando shook his hand and couldn't help scanning the room.
The outer room was the control room. A dark-brown console took up half the wall, a tangle of knobs like a scattering of stars. A few black tapes were stacked nearby with scribbled song titles on their labels. The sofa in the corner was covered in worn corduroy, and a huge pane of glass looked through to the live room.
Through the glass, the studio appeared: soundproofing foam cut into waves, a lone microphone hanging in the center like a metal bird waiting to sing.
"Let me show you around," Joseph said, walking toward the wall opposite the glass. "This is Flux's pride -- our wall of honors."
Orlando followed his gesture and noticed the wall had been carefully maintained. Dozens of frames hung on dark velvet: some held black-and-white photos -- suit-clad veteran producers clinking glasses with young singers; others held trophies, crystals glowing warm under the lights. Most eye-catching was a row of gold-framed records, lined up neatly from left to right, each with a different number on its plaque.
"Those are RIAA-certified records," Joseph said proudly, running a finger over a shiny gold disc. "Gold means 500,000, platinum is a million, and you only got a diamond if you sold ten million."
Orlando's gaze fixed on the frame in the center. Michael Jackson grinned in a red jacket, holding a trophy; the plaque read Thriller.
"That's Michael's?" Orlando asked.
"Good eye," Joseph raised an eyebrow. "In 1982 DiLeo brought MJ here. He recorded Thriller in that live room. Look at the certification; it started out triple platinum and then went all the way up to diamond."
He paused. "But Bad wasn't recorded here. By then Columbia had snatched him up -- they did that album in their own studios. They even took the studio's diamond plaque for Thriller."
Orlando did mental math. Ten million copies at, say, ten dollars a pop -- that was a hundred million dollars, and that didn't count tours and merch. No wonder Sony scrambled to keep MJ and to get at his rights. This wasn't just a performer. This was a walking, breathing gold mine named Michael Jackson.
"Diamond certification was near impossible to get, right?" he asked, still thinking of MJ's cash machine.
"About as hard as climbing Everest," Joseph said, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. "RIAA had only certified a dozen or so albums at that level. Eagles' Their Greatest Hits topped the list, nearly thirty million; then Thriller at around twenty-nine million; Billy Joel's Greatest Hits Volume I & II was about twenty-five million..."
Orlando noticed something in Joseph's rundown: among those dozen or so diamond albums, there were only two black artists -- Michael at number two and Whitney Houston's self titled album hanging near the end, not even breaking the top five. The rest were white: Eagles, Pink Floyd, AC/DC, Led Zeppelin...
Suddenly Orlando understood why Frank had insisted the night before that he should never openly claim his Black heritage. Michael had been a global superstar, but the mainstream stage in this country still skewed white. That was why the face he showed the world mattered.
Luckily, despite whatever mixed ancestry the original Orlando had, his looks read as convincingly white. That was an advantage.
---
After Orlando finished admiring Flux's trophies, Frank smiled broadly.
"I think you could be the second MJ," he said. "Your look might even edge his."
"Trust me, Orlando," Frank went on. "If you had eighty percent of Michael Jackson's talent -- hell, even fifty -- no, even just a third of it, and with your look..."
Frank beamed like a prospector who'd just struck a mother lode. "You might even be bigger than MJ."
If Orlando hadn't had that strange sixth sense, he would have chalked those words up to the typical flattery. But he felt it: Frank truly believed it. The reason was simple -- the mainstream gatekeepers, the old WASP and conservative power brokers, were uncomfortable with a black performer shining that brightly onstage. If Orlando's songwriting and performance were strong enough, his all-white appearance would win those tastemakers over. That, in Frank's mind, was the real edge Orlando offered.
Joseph, overhearing the praise, rolled his eyes inwardly. He treated the job as a paycheck; Frank happened to be one of his bosses, so he kept his face neutral.
---
After a few more friendly exchanges, Joseph called the band in. The group gathered and began planning the recording session.
The backing track for Old Town Road was actually pretty simple. After a few run-throughs the band said they were ready.
Before they got down to work, Frank treated everyone to lunch. They went out and grabbed a midday meal -- pasta and espresso -- then returned to Flux Studio.
Orlando felt jittery as he stepped into the live room behind the glass. Joseph nudged him with a few directional hand motions from the control room. Orlando calmed himself and started to sing the song from the future.
Neither the previous Orlando nor this version had ever trained as a singer. The original Orlando had been off-key more often than not. But he did have natural advantages: a distinctive, recognizable tone and strong vocal mechanics -- maybe that one-sixth black ancestry helped in some way.
The vision that had come to him didn't just drop lyrics, sheet music, and video images into his head. It had stamped the songs into his body. That meant that whenever one of those songs was in his vision, he performed it instinctively -- like eating, sleeping, or using the bathroom.
Even though it was his first time in a professional studio, the initial take surprised him. He sounded better than he expected. He sang in tune, and the result left him pleasantly stunned.
*****
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