Music history is full of object lessons in the perils—and the necessity—of perfectionism. The 1977 album “Rumours” was both Fleetwood Mac’s magnum opus and its undoing. The record was an inspiration for David Adjmi, the playwright behind “Stereophonic,” which follows a rock band over a full year spent fine-tuning the songs that will cement their fame and decimate their relationships. Peter (Tom Pecinka) is the headstrong guitarist; Diana (Sarah Pidgeon), his on-again, off-again girlfriend, is a singer coming into her own. The keyboardist, Holly (Juliana Canfield), and the bassist, Reg (Will Brill), are in a tempestuous marriage, with the drummer, Simon (Chris Stack), as an imperfect mediator. Two sound engineers, Grover (Eli Gelb) and Charlie (Andrew R. Butler), act as referees, hype men, and, occasionally, therapists.
Adjmi set the story in 1976 and enlisted Will Butler, lately of Arcade Fire, to write the music. It wasn’t enough for it to be period-appropriate; it had to be narratively apt, too—composed with an ear for the guitar riff that could expose a guy’s ego or the high note that pushes a soloist to her breaking point. Butler and Adjmi spent nearly a decade tinkering before “Stereophonic” premièred, in 2023. This spring, it transferred to Broadway, where it earned thirteen Tony nominations.
Recently, the actors met up at a studio in Brooklyn to record the cast album. Their process was less fraught than their fictional counterparts’. “That was really vibe-y,” Will Butler said, encouragingly, at the end of a take. He tapped his sandaled feet, instructed the cast to “noodle,” and took notes on the results. When Pecinka apologized for a wobbly performance, Butler said, “Some of the stuff where you fucked up sounds like fuckin’ Tom Petty!”
Gelb, who has dark, curly hair, sat on a couch. “It’s helpful to be here—you’ll get little nuggets,” he said. He’d picked up tiny gestures and terms of art that informed his character by watching Butler and the show’s music director, Justin Craig, at work. “It’s also just good to be part of the hang-age.”
Andrew Butler chimed in: “We’re the fictional band’s engineers, but the real band’s entourage.”
Someone mentioned “D.I.,” and Gelb rushed to demonstrate his new knowledge. “That stands for ‘direct injection,’ ” he said. “Straight signal from the guitar. The amp has a different quality.”
None of the actors are professional musicians. Before the show opened at Playwrights Horizons, they had just seven weeks of rehearsal to get to grips with their instruments. The first half of each day was devoted to band practice. The engineers would arrive in the afternoon to find the cast mid-jam session, disco lights on, the composer leaping up and down in excitement.
The energy in the studio was similarly jovial, even when a debate broke out over the distinction between “ohh” and “ooh.” Later, mirroring Pidgeon’s “vowel sounds” became a challenge. “ ‘Disappea-yuh’—why did I say it like that?” she asked.
“Is that a Michigan thing?”
“I don’t know what it is.”
After a break, Craig turned to Pidgeon, who had on layered T-shirts and wide-legged trousers. Like the others, she was in her socks, to minimize errant noise. The night before, Craig had stitched together his favorite takes of “Bright,” her character’s breakout song, and he wanted to play it for her.
“This might be it,” Will Butler said. “If it’s not, we could do it at, like, 9 P.M., and you could lie on a carpet.”
“I like that vibe,” Pidgeon said. She closed her eyes as she listened to her own performance: “You’ve been singing / In your sleep again / But the words come out all cluttered.”
“I sound a little timid,” she said. “I kind of want to—I don’t know . . . ”
“Go full witch?” Butler offered.
“Yeah!” she said. “Maybe it’s the version on the ground. Like she’s had two glasses of wine and she’s trying to sing.”
“It’s a work in progress,” Craig said.
Canfield headed to the booth to record backing vocals. “Lady Di, let me know what you think!”
Pidgeon smiled. “I’m gonna love it.”
Canfield whooped, then burst out laughing. “Fuck! I got excited, but I fucked it up.” She slipped into character. “I’ll do it right this time,” she said. “Where’s the Courvoisier?” ♦
