The greatest sound man in the world
When I was a kid, Steve Huntley used to ask me, "Who is the greatest sound man in the world?"
This was a loaded question, especially for a five-year-old. Most of the people who worked at Best Audio in those days (along with many of Dad's competitors) would've answered, Larry Estrin. At that point, he had worked for the President of the United States, Elvis, and most impressive of all, at least from a child's perspective, Disneyland.
But Steve was my favorite sound man. He would play with Allison and me whenever we came to the shop. He'd let us hang out in the mixing booth at shows, where we picked up some colorful language, along with the basics of the mixing console—a wondrous board loaded with buttons, knobs, lights, and faders. We'd listen to the production radio channels and imitate our Dad calling Steve over the walkie-talkie: "Huntley-Huntley, Larry." To us, Steve personified cool.
So, who's the greatest sound man in the world? I spent most of my childhood trading off. When Dad asked, I'd say, Larry Estrin. When Steve asked, I'd say, Steve Huntley.
Time passed. I grew older. Steve and I lost touch. The question—who's the greatest sound man in the world—faded into memory.
Then a few years ago, Dad passed away. It hurt like hell, but I had this idea that every time I heard a Larry story, it might hurt a little less. So, I put out a request on Facebook for people to share Larry stories. The story Steve shared was like magic—the right combination of words, arranged just so. If I closed my eyes, I could see my Dad, hear his voice, feel his presence.
So, here's the story, as told by Steve to me on a terrible day, when were both missing Larry.
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When you were about five we got a job in San Diego to do the opening of the San Diego Opera House. I was going to drive the truck down to San Diego on Thursday, so we could set the sound system up on Friday for the opening on Saturday night.
Your Dad was going to fly down with your family Thursday night and make a family vacation out of this job. You were enamored with the truck. Every time you would come to the shop I would put you in the cab of the truck, and you would turn the steering wheel. The steering wheel was as big as you were. You stood up on the seat and pulled the air horn. That was your favorite.
On Wednesday before the San Diego job, your Dad came to me to ask if I would be willing to take you with me in the truck. You really wanted to take a trip in the truck and Linda had agreed to let you go with me, if I promised not to say any swear words when you were with me.
So, all day Wednesday everyone was supposed to report to your Dad if I said any swear words. This really pissed me off. I threw a fit. Larry called me into his office. He said he trusted me. But your Mom was worried. You looked up to me, your Dad explained. Your Mom didn't want you to pick up my habit of saying "shit" all the time.
So I developed a plan....
The whole way down to San Diego you where in heaven. I would let you sit in my lap and drive. You were talking and asking questions the entire time. To keep you occupied, I would ask you: "Who is the greatest sound man in the whole world?"
The first time you said, "I don't know." So, I taught you to answer, "Steve Huntley." Then I sang you this song.
I don't go out with girls anymore
I don't intend to marry
I just go out with guys that I like
Wee I'm a fairy
I repeated the question and the song every ten minutes for the entire three-hour trip.
When we showed up at the Opera House, your family was there waiting for us. Your Mom grabbed you to check for damage. You were talking a million miles a minute, telling your parents all about the trip.
Your Mom came to me and hugged and kissed me and thanked me for making you so happy. I started to feel real bad about what I had done the whole way down and prayed that you wouldn't start in with the song and the greatest sound man in the world stuff. Thankfully, you wouldn't shut up about how you were a truck driver "like Steve Huntley."
About three weeks later, your Dad called me at 7am on a Saturday morning. I was beat because I had been up all night doing a party at the Century Plaza Hotel that went until 2am. After that, I had to tear the sound system out, load it into the truck, and drive back to the shop. I got in bed about 5:30am. Ninety minutes later, your Dad was on the phone telling me that the people who were using the same ballroom I was in the night before wanted our sound system back in there for Saturday night. Needless to say, I was tired and not in the mood to go back to work.
Larry told me he would have three fresh guys waiting at the shop for me at 9am. Then he started praising me. He didn't do that very often. I hated him for that at the time. But, now I think that was the greatest gift Larry ever gave me. To this day, I give 150 percent in anything I do. I'm very proud of that, and that attitude comes from Larry.
Anyway, your Dad was telling me that I am the best, that I can do this. Then he said something he never said. "I'll pay you double-time."
That's when I heard your voice in the background. Your Dad stopped singing my praises for a moment. He told you to sit down and eat your cereal. Then he said, "We're going to go help
Steve Huntley load the truck, and you can ride with him."
Well, I couldn't resist. The timing felt perfect.
"Larry, ask Michael who the greatest sound man in the world is."
I heard him ask you, and without missing a beat, you said, "Steve Huntley!"
Oh my god. I have never heard your Dad laugh so hard. He spent the entire day retraining you to say "My Dad" whenever anyone asked you who the greatest sound man in the world was.
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The strange thing about Steve's story, for me anyway, is that the question at the heart of it is the only thing I really remember. I recall that I loved to play in the Best Audio truck, but I don't remember holding the wheel on the freeway (how crazy-cool-dangerous-awesome was that?) I remember that Dad usually combined work trips with family vacations, and that San Diego was our go-to destination, but the Opera House gig escapes me. In a way, Steve's story was the missing context to a question that had been lodged in my mind more than three decades earlier.
Of course, the story was more than the resolution of a minor mystery. In so many words, Steve brought Dad back to me when I needed him most. That's the gift of a story—a magical alchemy that animates the past and brings the dead to life. All you need to do to receive this gift is to open your heart, let your imagination out for a run, and see where the journey takes you.