Jam Session by Robert C. Eccles (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) Skip had just engineered a recording session for a cookie-cutter teen pop starlet. He couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to music. What passed for music today consisted of two or three chords, a lot of electronics and no feeling whatsoever. Recording gigs like these made Skip sick to his stomach. Sure, they paid the bills, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy them. He was making sure everything in the booth was shut down for the night when he thought he heard drums. He cocked his head to the side, and yes, he was sure he heard drums. The sound was very faint, but getting louder. Skip looked at the control board and saw one of the faders inching its way up by itself. He glanced into the studio, where a drum kit materialized. A man with short, dark hair, a thick mouth and a cigarette dangling between his lips was hunched over the drums, laying down an unmistakable jazz time signature. Skip blinked, expecting the drummer to disappear, but when he opened his eyes the drummer was still there. And Skip was sure he recognized him. “Buddy Rich?” Skip mumbled. The drummer nodded and smiled as he executed a masterful crossover riff. Buddy Rich had died of heart failure in 1987. But here he was, beatin’ the skins in Skip’s studio. Suddenly, Skip heard a woman singing, quietly at first, then louder and louder. The woman scatted, mimicking the sound of instruments with her wonderful voice. There was no mistaking that voice. As Skip watched another fader on the console move up on its own, he saw Ella Fitzgerald fade into view in the studio. “Don’t look so surprised, sugar,” Ella said. “You’d better close your mouth, or you’re gonna draw flies.” “But…” That was all Skip could manage. Ella Fitzgerald had been dead since 1996. Despite this fact she kept singing, exhibiting her amazing vocal talents. Another fader started to move, and Skip heard a saxophone. It was an alto sax, and from the bebop style, there was no question who was playing it. As Skip watched, a large man in a shiny suit and colorful tie appeared. Skip was smiling broadly now. “Bird? Is that you?” Charlie Parker, who had died in 1955, bowed in Skip’s direction and continued to play. Two more faders slid up, and Skip could hear a stand-up bass and a trumpet fading in. He watched the studio like a kid on Christmas morning as Charles Mingus appeared behind his bass and Miles Davis materialized on the trumpet. Mingus’s hand was a blur on the finger board, and Davis blew soulful, low-register notes behind his dark sunglasses. Mingus had left this world in 1979, and Davis had followed in 1991. Yet here they were, jamming with Buddy Rich and Ella Fitzgerald. All of a sudden, Skip remembered where he was and smacked himself on the forehead. He ran over to the big reel-to-reel tape deck and fired it up. The red record light glowed, the reels turned, and the needles on the VU meters bounced back and forth in time with the music. Ella Fitzgerald spoke: “Let’s play one for the Duke, boys, what do you say?” The band members nodded their agreement, and launched seamlessly into It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing). Skip plopped into a chair, overwhelmed. He sat there, mouth open, eyes wide, toe tapping through the last note of the song. He stood up, went to the tape deck and stopped it. “I guess I should’ve kept this rolling in case you wanted to play another tune,” he said, turning around. The studio was empty. Skip peered through the glass, searching the corners of the studio. There was no one there. He rewound the tape to the beginning and hit play. There was nothing but a low hiss. The tape was blank.
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