[Chapter 9: Systematic Training]
"Maybe the chorus could use a bit more subtle mixing? Try adding some synth -- I'm not sure which effect would work best... Could those backing vocals be pushed up a little?"
In the studio, after Orlando finished his take, Frank DiLeo made that assessment. His previous job had been Michael Jackson's manager. Jackson's superstardom owed as much to his own creative genius as it did to Frank -- Frank deserved at least a third of the credit. Jackson's moonwalk had been one of Frank's contributions. When it came to music, this manager really knew his stuff.
Orlando had gotten Daisy Cuomo in his corner, and that was why someone at Frank's level had bothered to work with a rookie. Otherwise, an ace manager like Frank would never have taken on a newcomer.
"To achieve stronger effects, we need a professional mixing studio. The equipment we have here can only achieve this level." Joseph shook his head.
"Then contact the mixing studio and I'll cover the costs," Frank said directly.
"All right."
Joseph nodded and looked at Orlando. "Then... Orlando, how about one more take? The earliest we can get a result from the mixing studio is tomorrow."
"No problem."
Orlando thought about it and remembered that the original version of this song had definitely been modified with a lot of electronic music and remixing.
"Maybe we can strengthen the electronic music part," Orlando suggested.
"Then give it a try!"
Frank was straightforward, though he was an agent, he acted more like the highest-ranking music producer in the recording studio.
That was the point of having a top agent: they wielded more control and had the clout to deliver superior services. It could make a new artist feel like an employee facing a boss, but in the early stages, the kind of help a powerhouse manager could provide was something a hundred junior agents couldn't match.
After leaving MJ, Frank DiLeo had gone independent. He'd started working solo, pivoted toward Hollywood, and even tried his hand at acting. Still, his record-industry connections and skills hadn't faded; in that sense he was no worse off than the big firms. Against agencies like CAA or WMA, a newcomer had little bargaining power. In the end, those companies might place a green agent on the case -- someone who last month might have been selling insurance. But because Daisy was involved, Orlando didn't have to worry about that. Even CAA or WMA would treat a well-connected protege of hers seriously.
---
They kept recording all afternoon.
"Let's stick with this version for now," Frank said. He could tell Orlando's voice was getting tired after a full day of takes. There would still be time to tweak things, and Frank thought this cut was already pretty good.
In fact, every take Orlando gave sounded excellent -- almost like listening to a finished record. What the manager didn't know was: this was a song Orlando had been given. If they swapped songs at random, even an easier one, unless it came to him with his powers, the Orlando in the room would have sung it badly enough to make every pro in the studio wince.
Orlando himself knew that. He understood he'd been cheating in a way that let him sing this song so perfectly. But he couldn't live on "revealed" songs forever. If he tried other material, wouldn't he get exposed? And even Frank had said his tone and singing mechanics were good. If Orlando wanted this career, he had to study and improve.
On the ride out of the studio, Orlando brought the idea up.
---
"You want systematic training?" Frank considered it for a moment, then said, "Good. By the way, where did you go to high school?"
"I was still a senior at Tissent High in the Bronx," Orlando answered.
Frank knew the high school ran four years, so being a senior meant Orlando had just turned eighteen. That, and the fact his offense was minor, had likely kept him out of jail and landed him with community service instead.
"Tissent High..." Frank hadn't heard of it, but given Orlando's Bronx background, his orphan status, and that he'd met Daisy after getting community service for a minor crime, Frank guessed it was just a regular public high school in the Bronx. Public schools weren't all bad, but most were mediocre.
"How were your grades?" Frank asked.
"Uh, I--" Orlando began, but Frank cut him off. "Never mind, grades don't matter."
"Listen, boy." By then they were already in Frank's car, a black BMW. Frank started the engine and continued, "If you want formal training, there are two routes. One, once we officially signed with Warner, Warner would send teachers to train you even if we didn't ask. Two, New York has a few good music schools -- Juilliard, the Manhattan School of Music, NYU's music program."
But..." Frank slowed at the second red light on Greenwich Street at 34th, then added, "To get into those schools you'd either need Warner to submit a recommendation, or you could ask Ms. Cuomo to write you one. In Manhattan, she had that kind of pull."
He gave Orlando a wink. "Either way wouldn't be too hard for you."
Let Warner write a letter?
Or have Daisy write a letter?
What's the difference? Daisy had the ability to make Warner hold its nose and accept his joining as an independent record company. So getting Warner write a letter of recommendation is just a piece of cake.
And for Daisy writing it herself? Orlando figured the beautiful older woman who'd been so "electrified" by him that she couldn't get out of bed, would be more than happy to pen a recommendation.
"Actually, you could do both at once," Frank said as the light turned green and he drove on. "You're a senior; in six months you'd normally be headed to college. By then your single should already be out and you'd probably be a star. I bet Juilliard, Manhattan, or NYU would jump at the chance to enroll a celebrity alum. And before that, if our deal with Warner went through, their instructors could start training you."
---
Frank drove Orlando back to Daisy's building on the Upper East Side, near 26th Street. He waved goodbye and Orlando walked into the lobby. He stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the top-floor duplex where Daisy lived.
Just then a young, pretty woman ran up to the elevator from outside, calling, "Wait, wait..."
Orlando hit the door-open button to let her in.
"Thank you, thank you so much," the woman panted, smiling at him as she caught her breath.
*****
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