Six French doors at each end created a tiled breezeway running from street to garden. On the right, down a short flight of stairs, what I imagined used to be the solarium had been transformed into a recording studio. The control panel ran the length of the room. Tilted my way, its maze of gauges, needles, switches, and slides suggested a NASA moon shot. A stooped guy with waist-length hair and granny glasses was fiddling with the controls. Out in the garden, knots of people wandered in and out of my field of vision, clutching highball glasses and passing joints to the throbbing of the music. Players only love you when they 're playing. Except for the guy in the studio, the house seemed empty. I walked down the three steps and stepped through the open door into the glassed-in control room, which served more as a crowded balcony, hovering over another large room six feet below, where pools of coiled cable surrounded numbered islands of green carpet where the musicians stood. The longhaired guy looked my way as I stepped into the room.
