sick.”
“Most guys look pretty sick anyway,” Devi said bitterly. She caught herself. “Excuse me.”
Christa examined her for a moment. Her blue eyes were frank, without judgment. “There is no problem,” she said.
“As far as amps and the rest go,” said Devi, changing the subject, “you’ll have to go to Scott in Guitar. Straight back. Don’t let them give you any bullshit.”
Christa nodded. “I understand.”
And as Christa and Melinda made their way to the back of the store, Devi found herself with the feeling that Christa did indeed understand. A great deal. About almost everything.
But before she could dwell on the thought, she had to help a customer. The tall black man seemed at first a little perplexed by a woman who knew about FM synthesis and digital sampling, but once she had put several keyboards through their paces, he settled down to the serious business of talking music.
While Devi worked with him, though, she was hearing the sound of an amplified guitar from the other end of the store. Shimmering bends, runs that were anything but uncontrolled: the antithesis of the heavy-handed metal she usually heard from the boys. Melinda’s friend?
When her customer tried out one of the synths, she took a moment to peek around the tall speaker enclosures that formed a wall around her department. Christa was standing in front of a cheap amplifier, a light-green guitar in her hands. She played a little, talked with Melinda, adjusted a knob or two, and played a little more. The sounds she made were graceful, lyrical; but Devi detected an edge, as of a hidden threat, behind them. Christa’s sweetness was an illusion.
“Miss?”
“Oops, sorry,” she said, turning back to her customer. She gestured toward Christa. “That’s some guitar player.”
“Yeah, I was listening too.”
Devi made the sale, but she was only half conscious of it. She wanted to hear more of that guitar. She wrote up the ticket, pulled a boxed synth from stock, and, in violation of her custom, absently shook the man’s hand before she sent him up front to pay. She hardly noticed the contact. Nor did she notice the incredulous look that Scott gave her when he saw her in the guitar department.
“What do you think of this, Melinda?” Christa was saying.
Melinda shrugged. “Not sure. It sounds okay, I guess.”
“I can’t help but think that it could be richer. Right here.” She played a flash of notes in the middle register of the guitar. “It’s a little weak.”
“Maybe…”
Devi eased her way over to the counter. Scott was listening. “pretty good, huh?” he said.
“How come you’ve got her on that piece of shit?”
“The DL-5? It’s budget, sure, but it’s good.”
“Not that good.”
“Stay with your keys, woman.”
“You want to make a sale today? She’s not going to take that. She’s hearing the dropout in the midrange. That thing shelves down five dB per octave from one to five kilohertz.”
“What do you want to show her?”
“The Laney A.O.R. Fix her up with a hundred-watt head and a 4-12 cabinet. She’ll love it.”
“What?” He finally stopped looking at Christa and turned to Devi. “She doesn’t want stuff like that.”
“Did she say so?”
“Well… no. But you know that kind. She’s no rocker. Look at the way she’s dressed. She’s probably trying to impress her boyfriend.”
Devi felt herself bristle.
“Or something,” he added quickly.
Devi folded her arms and watched for a few more minutes as Christa tried to force the DL-5 to do something it could not. The midrange simply was not strong enough. Christa finally looked at Melinda and shook her head.
Devi turned to Scott. “Do you want to spell her the Laney half-stack, or shall I?”
“What the hell do you know about guitar amps?”
“Zip. Zilch. But I know sound, I’ve heard what those Laneys can do, and I’ve read the fucking service manuals.”
He shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. Go ahead,
“Most guys look pretty sick anyway,” Devi said bitterly. She caught herself. “Excuse me.”
Christa examined her for a moment. Her blue eyes were frank, without judgment. “There is no problem,” she said.
“As far as amps and the rest go,” said Devi, changing the subject, “you’ll have to go to Scott in Guitar. Straight back. Don’t let them give you any bullshit.”
Christa nodded. “I understand.”
And as Christa and Melinda made their way to the back of the store, Devi found herself with the feeling that Christa did indeed understand. A great deal. About almost everything.
But before she could dwell on the thought, she had to help a customer. The tall black man seemed at first a little perplexed by a woman who knew about FM synthesis and digital sampling, but once she had put several keyboards through their paces, he settled down to the serious business of talking music.
While Devi worked with him, though, she was hearing the sound of an amplified guitar from the other end of the store. Shimmering bends, runs that were anything but uncontrolled: the antithesis of the heavy-handed metal she usually heard from the boys. Melinda’s friend?
When her customer tried out one of the synths, she took a moment to peek around the tall speaker enclosures that formed a wall around her department. Christa was standing in front of a cheap amplifier, a light-green guitar in her hands. She played a little, talked with Melinda, adjusted a knob or two, and played a little more. The sounds she made were graceful, lyrical; but Devi detected an edge, as of a hidden threat, behind them. Christa’s sweetness was an illusion.
“Miss?”
“Oops, sorry,” she said, turning back to her customer. She gestured toward Christa. “That’s some guitar player.”
“Yeah, I was listening too.”
Devi made the sale, but she was only half conscious of it. She wanted to hear more of that guitar. She wrote up the ticket, pulled a boxed synth from stock, and, in violation of her custom, absently shook the man’s hand before she sent him up front to pay. She hardly noticed the contact. Nor did she notice the incredulous look that Scott gave her when he saw her in the guitar department.
“What do you think of this, Melinda?” Christa was saying.
Melinda shrugged. “Not sure. It sounds okay, I guess.”
“I can’t help but think that it could be richer. Right here.” She played a flash of notes in the middle register of the guitar. “It’s a little weak.”
“Maybe…”
Devi eased her way over to the counter. Scott was listening. “pretty good, huh?” he said.
“How come you’ve got her on that piece of shit?”
“The DL-5? It’s budget, sure, but it’s good.”
“Not that good.”
“Stay with your keys, woman.”
“You want to make a sale today? She’s not going to take that. She’s hearing the dropout in the midrange. That thing shelves down five dB per octave from one to five kilohertz.”
“What do you want to show her?”
“The Laney A.O.R. Fix her up with a hundred-watt head and a 4-12 cabinet. She’ll love it.”
“What?” He finally stopped looking at Christa and turned to Devi. “She doesn’t want stuff like that.”
“Did she say so?”
“Well… no. But you know that kind. She’s no rocker. Look at the way she’s dressed. She’s probably trying to impress her boyfriend.”
Devi felt herself bristle.
“Or something,” he added quickly.
Devi folded her arms and watched for a few more minutes as Christa tried to force the DL-5 to do something it could not. The midrange simply was not strong enough. Christa finally looked at Melinda and shook her head.
Devi turned to Scott. “Do you want to spell her the Laney half-stack, or shall I?”
“What the hell do you know about guitar amps?”
“Zip. Zilch. But I know sound, I’ve heard what those Laneys can do, and I’ve read the fucking service manuals.”
He shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. Go ahead,
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