Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders by Bill Fitzhugh

Author:Bill Fitzhugh [Fitzhugh, Bill]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery: Thriller - Humor - Country Music - Nashville
ISBN: 006081523X
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2001-06-05T00:00:00+00:00

38.

Big Bill was in such a high and palmy state after the recording session that he took everybody out to Estella’s. He was hunched over his plate biting a shrimp off at the tail secure in the knowledge that this time next year he wouldn’t have to put up with industry people constantly assaulting him with Barbara Feldon jokes. He looked over toward the jukebox where Eddie was standing with Megan and he smiled. Big Bill Herron wasn’t going to be 99 next year, that was for damn sure.

Estella’s was crowded with its usual late-night congregation. The Staple Singers were on the jukebox endorsing self-respect. A table of hip-hoppers was feeding in one corner while a sloth of legislators was drinking in another. Franklin, Whitney, Big Bill, Porky Vic, and all the session players had pushed a couple of tables together not far from the kitchen. It wasn’t long before Franklin was again arguing the merits of ProTools over Big Bill’s archaic methods. “Now you have to admit, most sessions aren’t as perfect as Eddie’s, right? All I’m saying is the computer saves a lot of time and lets you assemble a perfect take even if you don’t get one in the studio.”

Big Bill was in too good a mood to let Franklin bother him. “That’s true,” Big Bill said, “and if you don’t mind putting out records of performances that never happened and can never be reproduced live, then it’s the way to go. But I like the idea of something more authentic, that’s all. Call me old fashioned.”

Franklin didn’t want to push the ProTools issue too far and spoil the festive mood, but lately he’d taken a couple of weekend seminars on modern recording techniques. Franklin was enamored of the technology and, like anyone else, he liked to talk about things he’d learned.

Just then, Otis slid two shrimp plates across the ledge of the service window and rang the little bell. Estella picked up the plates and shambled over to Big Bill’s table. “Here we go.” She set one plate in front of the pedal steel player and one in front of the fiddler. She pulled a bottle of hot sauce from one apron pocket and a pint of scotch from the other. “Here you are, Mr. Peavy. You need more ice?”

“No. Thank you, Estella,” he said, “I’m fine.” He unscrewed the cap and tipped the bottle over his glass.

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