She-Rox: A Rock & Roll Novel Read Free Page B

thing,” Eddie nodded, remembering she had been asked one too many times about her stage name. “You were somebody’s mystical love child.”
    “It’s a far cry from Enola Killough, I’ll give you that.”
    “Enola Killough?”
    “My real name -- My mother’s from the Kitasoo Tribe in British Columbia. Enola means solitary, because I’m the only girl. I have four brothers, and my dad’s Irish. He’s tall and skinny with red hair—freckles all over. Put the two together and this is what you get.”
    “Whatever it is, you’re a knockout.”
    Raven/Enola had silky long, almost black hair that was parted in the middle and went down to her elbows. Her skin was a smooth olive tone and dark almond-shaped eyes—an exotic Canadian that spoke like a Valley Girl.
    “You have to look hot if you want to be in this band,” Raven shot. “I know this is your first day with us, and rumor has it that you’re some kind of musical Svengali, but go easy on Gretchen. She’s feeling pretty whipped right now.”

     
    Monday Morning
     
    Eddie toyed with one of the Katz’s songs called “1-900,” while sitting in Melodic Improvisation, her pencil reworking the parts.
    At the front of class, Mr. Frank Janow, her teacher, wrote Bmi7(b5), E7(b9), Ami7 on the board. When finished, he turned to say, “All right, I got a call from an agency this morning. They need a few tracks recorded. Granted it’s a small job, but whoever is first to give me some brilliant ideas on what to play through these chord changes I wrote up here, gets the gig.” The room fell silent. Mr. Janow pushed, “Did I happen to mention this is a paying gig?”
    The magic words, “paying gig,” got one brave student to suggest, “What about B Mixolydian?”
    Frank challenged, “B Mixolydian—over a minor seven—I don’t think so.”
    “Anyone else?” he pressed.
    Eddie looked up at the board. Contemplating the chords, she said, “Well, it’s a two-five-one in minor, and if you didn’t know the melody you could just play B Locrian.”
    “Yes, you could . . . anything else?” Frank asked.
    “Then go to E Phrygian with a major third to resolve to A harmonic minor . . . even a simple blues scale would work.”
    “See me after class.”

     
    Tuesday Night
     
    Eddie stopped at the security booth of Sunset Recording Studios. The guard asked for her name. After looking down his roster, he gave instructions that she was booked into Building 2, Studio B. She parked her van and spied four men walking out of the studio for a smoke break. Eddie sat in her seat, stalling, watching them smoke and laugh.
    She found her nerve and walked into the studio. A man, seated in a chair, was looking at wave files running across his computer monitor. Eddie gaped at the studio’s huge mixing console. It must have had three thousand buttons, dials and knobs which spanned almost the entire room.
    The man asked, “Who you looking for?”
    “Taz,” Eddie answered.
    “You’re Eddie?”
    “Yep.”
    “Allied Artists sent you?”
    “Well, Frank Janow got me the gig, really.”
    “Frankie?” His eyebrows shot up, checking her out. “Alright,” he said.
    “Where do you want me to set up?”
    “Anywhere in the there,” he said, pointing to the main recording room.
    Eddie left to haul in her keyboards. When she was set up, she said, “I’m ready.”
    Taz dropped his current issue of “MIX” magazine, got her keys hooked up to the huge console, and turned back to the computer. After handing her a set of headphones and pushing a button on his panel he asked, “Can you hear me?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. We have to get a sound check in here, so show me what cha’ got, hot stuff.”
    She blew out a few chops putting to rest any misgivings Taz may have had about her ability.
    “Okay, I got it, I got it,” he said. “I don’t know where Frankie gets you guys, but this oughtta be a cake walk for you. It’s pretty straight forward. All they want is some strings and