When the Music Stops: Discover the most emotional, uplifting new love story for 2020 by Heap Joe

Author:Heap, Joe [Heap, Joe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780008293208
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2020-10-28T16:00:00+00:00

1966

‘I SAY, ARE YOU FREE?’

Ella looks up from the coffee she’s adding creamer to in the deserted green room. Her session, for a BBC sitcom theme tune, is over after just an hour in the studio. She has nothing on for the rest of the day. She’s annoyed – the booking agent had given the impression this would be an all-day thing, and she turned down an evening with a quartet at Ronnie Scott’s.

Ella doesn’t like her own obsession with making money, but it’s good for her to be busy. Money is as good a thing as any to chase after. The voice from the door is the studio manager, Humphrey, an Old Etonian who owns a selection of bowties.

‘Nope. Quiet day for once, Humph.’

‘Have you ever played the electric bass before?’

She shakes her head. Humphrey wrings his hands for a moment, clearly in a bind.

‘But I’m sure I could pick it up quickly. What’s the gig?’

A relieved smile breaks over his face. ‘Oh, nothing difficult – rhythm and blues number, mid-tempo. Their regular electric bass player ate some bad mussels and they want someone who knows their way around the chords … for a demo they’re doing.’

‘A band, then? What are they demoing?’

‘Well, demo might be the wrong word, ahem …’ Humphrey is the only person Ella has met who actually says ‘ahem’. ‘They’re just playing around. They popped in to develop something. I think they’re probably just checking the studio out, to be honest.’

Ella puts down the teaspoon she’s holding. Now she knows something’s up. Regular bands don’t ‘develop’ stuff in the studio, especially not with session musicians. St Augustine might have thought that time didn’t exist, but he never filled in a studio time sheet.

‘What band are we talking about, Humph?’

‘Ah, yes …’ he shuffles a little. ‘Have you heard of The, uh, Rolling Stones?’

* * *

The studio has been set up with sound baffles so it’s hard to see who else is in the room, but Ella is sitting opposite the guitarist – what is his name? – with the shock of raven-black hair. He’s been engrossed in playing something on his unplugged guitar since she got in, so she hasn’t even been introduced. He’s wearing white-framed plastic sunglasses indoors. A smouldering cigarette dangles from his lips. His T-shirt reads:

hit – house

PN

SCHWABING

Which is hard to argue with.

One of the engineers comes and places the electric bass, a Fender Precision, in her lap. It’s heavy, and she quickly realizes how much pressure it takes to hold the strings down. She hopes this session doesn’t go on too long, or she fears for her left hand. The engineer plugs her into a nearby Vox and asks her to play something.

‘I’ll adjust you.’

Ella is wary of being found an imposter. The last twelve years have made little difference to how women musicians get treated, even when they do know what they’re doing. Hardly a session passes without a man ‘helpfully’ writing corrections on a chart that she could have transposed in her head or telling her how the controls on her amp work.

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