3 minutes 10 seconds| Obvious respect for bassa nova’s Gilberto, Getz, Astrud, and Jobim. The piece has a view toward early 60s commercial pop sound recording, including a passenger jet airliner loop. The original title was Meanwhile in Coach, which evoked nostaglia for PAN-AM and airline stewardresses of yesteryear
In my experimentations with mixing in May 2019, I used Fly Me To Brazil by Astrud as a reference soundtrack. I was astonished to discover that, by isolating the left and right channels, levels of distortion were detected in each track. Mild distortion was a desired effect in high fidelity recording, but I wonder if this “warming” of the sound was original to the recording or added through post-processing at a later date.
The time stamp is confused on this one, but the original Meanwhile in Coach thumbnail puts the window of completion around 9/14/09.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 43| More of the dream:
Bounding into the house, its forgotten warmth pricked his cheeks. Father had already removed the holiday table leaves from the attic and set it aside in the entryway, while Lucien, having beaten his brother home, crossed off the last school day before Christmas on the calendar.
Lowell fished in the dark closet for a hanger, and here met with more lack of articulation in his hand and what it conceived as its object. The same confusion existed with the coat, since in removing it he still felt its thickness over him. A dog trotted up to him in this interval and brushed his pant’s cuff. It was quickly blurring against the couch skirt, and then darting behind an end table. The son could not recall which family poodle this was, as there had been two at different times. He glanced between the wall and couch in passing and saw tufts of whitish, champagne fur. The table lamp ably reached into this narrow gap, and did not shrink from the prospect of absolute stillness. Cobwebs and dust bunnies were arranged, as by methodical dissolution, to create a burial shroud for the long-deceased pet.
Lowell glanced up, seeing his mother again in the kitchen, only now indirectly by way of a reflection in the darkening glass carport door. The wood door partnered to it had been left open during the afternoon to draw off warmth from the winter sun, but advancing night made the barrier polished and cold. In it, Blythe, stooping, fumbled troublingly over an oven mitt she dropped in the floor. Her perceived vulnerability sent the worried son around the corner separating them, and again she was restored in the bright light of the kitchen.
He landed in his chair opposite his brother at the dinner table, the one facing away from the picture window. The creature encountered in the tree was assumed to lurk close by in a bush, but the boy’s quandary over logistics was interrupted when his father asked, flatly, “How do you plan to eat wearing that costume?”
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