Systems, Inc.
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"Listen, Gil, I want to make this perfectly clear -- there's no charge
for any of this. No pressure, no nothing. Congratulations on your coup from
Systems, Inc."
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"Boy," I said to myself as I hung up the phone, "these guys really like
to play hardball. Real hardball. Maybe if they knew what was going
on
here, what I was doing for them, the money I was laying out
for them, maybe then they'd be easier on me -- a touch more
appreciative."
I walked up the stairs at the back of the Studio B Control room, and
out into the chaos and confusion of the construction area. A large,
freshly cut beam of hemlock was being gently lowered into place; guys
ready at each end with hatchets. Electricians were stringing half-inch
diameter metal pipe for the eventual lighting circuits; two audio
technicians were laying their own metal pipe for the microphone cables.
We were going to provide thirty-two channels of audio, strung all the
way around the performing area of the stage. Four country lads from
Spencer were hammering tack strips into the living and recreational
area, preparing for the laying down of a rich red carpet. Billy,
Geoffrey's cousin, was installing an inlaid wood fascia strip across
the front of the stage. Two kids were busy sweeping up sawdust; two
others were scrambling about high overhead on the rickety scaffolding,
vacuuming the ceiling in preparation for an application of sprayed
linseed oil. People were busy.
"Just took delivery of the oak for the stage floor."
It was Geoff Myers, clipboard in one hand, and his extendable metal
rule in the other.
"Two thousand dollars' worth. And we got it cheap. Stuff really costs.
Also, there's a guy right outside in a van, wants to back it up here
and unload some equipment he says you ordered."
"Me? I ordered equipment? Where is this guy?"
"At your service,
Monsieur.
Stan Freeberg, Systems, Inc."
I wheel about and find myself facing a nice-looking young fellow, in
his twenties, I'd say -- my height. He's holding a sheaf of customer
copies of what looked like twenty or so invoices.
"Stan Freeberg, Gil. Systems, Inc. "
"Hi, Stan," I said.
"Listen, I'm sorry I came before reaching you on the phone, but you're
one hell of a guy to get a hold of these days. In any case, I'm here,
and I've got a van full of recording gear for you, courtesy of Systems,
Inc. Absolutely free, Gil. They want the gear on display out here
during the stay of the Rolling Stones, and they don't care if you end
by buying any of it or not. I'm basically the guy bringing you the good
news. And the gear."
Stan motioned to the driver of the van, and it began to inch its way
slowly up the ramp, and into the very heart of Studio C. It stopped,
and its rear doors were thrown open. Inside were many large boxes
bearing familiar names. I suddenly felt like the winner of a TV game
show.
"Here's what you get, Gil. Three sets of professional audio monitors.
Urei Time Aligns, Tannoys, big and small, and a set of JBL 4311's.
Also power amps to make them work. Snell Acoustics has thrown in a pair
of their new high-end audiophile electrostatic speakers. Great for a
highranking guest, and God knows you've got some of them on their way
here."
Stan's arm was now around my shoulders.
"This is just a start. We got the Bryston Amp people in Cambridge to
cough up a couple of Four-B's. I don't have to tell you what those
cost, or how highly they're thought of these days. A wireless mike for
Mick. Don't know whether or not he's happy with what he's using now. A
top-of-the-line Technics broadcast standard turntable, with Denon
cartridge and matching head amp. A brand new Ampex ATR mastering deck.
Eight grand, at least, it'd cost you to buy one of these, if you could
find one. Brand new, you know.
"You'll be needing TV, of course, so we've arranged for a couple of
three-quarter-inch and VHS cassette decks to dress up the Game Room
downstairs a bit. Also a video switcher, and a drop-out compensator in
case people want to make copies of their video cassettes. Bill Wyman is
a video freak, as you know, so you better be prepared. Next, a 27-inch
Sony remote control, professional grade TV set, for whatever bedroom
suite Wyman ends up in. Bill Wyman really likes TV.
"Here," Stan said, "this, too," extending to me a large
jeweler's case,
fully the size of a shoebox. It was covered in brushed black velvet.
"You push the clasp like so to open," Stan said.
The clasp clicked open like a fine machine, built to close tolerances,
and the lid of the box eased upwards all by itself. It smelled like
leather and transistors inside, and I inched forward for a better look,
pulse higher than normal.
"This is is not even
out
yet," Stan said, "Friend of mine picked
it up in Japan from a Sony research lab. It's a prototype."
"A prototype of what, Stan?"
"Super-Walkman," Stan replied. "Portable cassette playback like you've
never heard before. Records, too. Stereo, switchable Dolby-C,
switchable limiting, and built-in stereo mikes. It'll also work with
this miniature radio mike, which will transmit from up to half a mile
away. Extremely high fidelity. Originally designed with the CIA in
mind. It's yours for the duration, Gil, together with these
rechargeable nickel-cadmium batteries to make it work. All courtesy of
Systems, Inc."
"Incredible, Stan," I said. "But can I afford these things?"
"Listen, Gil, I want to make this perfectly clear -- there's no charge
for any of this. No pressure, no nothing. Congratulations on your coup
from Systems, Inc. Now, where do we put all this stuff?"
"Over there, I guess. Right where those kids just finished sweeping.
Stan, I gotta go. I've got another phone call, I think. I think that's
what John's trying to tell me over there. See him? The guy who's waving
his arms? Thanks for the gear. Give me those yellow invoices. I
understand that I'm to pay none of these.
"Who is it on the phone?" I shouted over to John.
"Joe Rascoff. Stones' office in New York. Told me to tell you to come
to the phone with a pencil."
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