Chapter Six #2
They had crammed every instrument and suitcase into the back of the van and onto the last bench seat. That left two bench seats, the driver’s seat, and shotgun. With three band members and a tour manager, every seat was taken. The band members took turns driving.
“I’m sure you’d rather be touring with Austin on a nice bus,” Lynda said.
She looked down, staring at her hands. Christine always marveled at the insecurity of some artists.
In her mind, they had it all. The looks, the talent, oftentimes the money.
The things she yearned for. Yet they were as human as everyone else.
“No, this is great. I appreciate you asking me to find songs for you. It’s nice to think from a woman’s perspective again.”
Lynda’s head popped back up and her eyes brightened. “I didn’t think of it that way.”
“Is Lynda Bell your real name? It’s very country,” Christine said.
“I know, right? Like I should live in Mayberry or something.”
“Your music is more rocking country than classic country. It’s a nice dichotomy.”
“Which is why I like the name. My last name is Bellot. I shortened it.”
“It works.”
Christine learned a lot about Lynda on the drive.
She had a sister and brother, and her parents were the perfect couple.
She’d graduated high school and earned a music scholarship to her local college, but, after studying for two years, decided to chase her dream.
She could always go back to college, she’d said, but she was only young once, and now felt like the right time to go for her career.
She moved to Nashville, started hanging out with other singers and songwriters, and got the attention of the right manager, who set up a showcase for some labels.
After that, she was signed. Not an atypical story of most artists who were signed to a label, but she was part of the small percentage of dreamers who got that far.
The van didn’t have nearly the comfort of the bus, but Christine meant what she said.
The opportunity to spend quality time with an artist was invaluable.
So often, she knew an artist from their previous music and interviews but didn’t know them personally.
You couldn’t hide much while traveling in a van, and Christine was happy to see that Lynda’s easygoing public persona, put together by a publicist, no doubt, matched her real personality.
Christine put her headphones on and dug into the ten new songs that writers had recently sent her way.
She always listened to each song at least half a dozen times before forming an opinion.
Some songs hit her upside the head the minute she heard them.
Other songs were like a slow, subtle message working their way into her subconscious and not letting go.
Both types had the ability to be huge hits.
Three gas and bathroom breaks later, and having eaten more truck stop snacks than anyone ever should, they were close to the venue.
She’d noticed two things about guys when it came to truck stop food.
They loved caramel candies and beef jerky.
Three of the guys bought multiple kinds of jerky and then traded them during the rest of the drive.
The odor was an assault on her nasal passages, but she got a kick out of hearing their deep conversation about something she considered so mundane.
The sweet barbeque flavor was the winner.
Lynda went the healthy route with fruit.
It wasn’t easy being an artist on the road trying to eat healthy.
Christine gave in to the lure of M&M’s, telling herself she needed a sugar rush to get her through, but the truth was that she liked M&M’s.
They arrived at the venue, a big field surrounded by food stands, and parked. They piled out of the van and stretched. Christine looked around, taking in the surroundings. There were multiple booths set up, and huge signs touted everything from chili dogs to bratwurst.
“Where are we?” Christine asked.
“The Rocky Mount Sausage Festival,” the tour manager, Tim, said.
“The what?”
“Don’t make me repeat it. Please.” Tim took off for the stage, saying he was in search of the local production team.
“Anyone up for something to eat?” Lynda asked.
“Any chance of a burger?” the drummer asked.
“I’m going out on a limb and saying no,” Christine said, as they headed for the stands.
Half an hour later, deeply regretting the chili dog with onions, Christine called Julianna. She needed to vent.
“I’m living the glam life. I’m at a sausage festival,” Christine said.
“Oh, awesome. I do love a good sausage fest,” Julianna said with a lift in her tone. “Anything look good?”
“Seriously? You’ve been to one of these?”
“Hell yeah. Every chance I get. It’s like a smorgasbord.”
“Of nothing but sausages,” Christine said incredulously.
“And that’s what makes it so delightful. What looks good?” Julianna asked.
“Well, I tried the chili dog, and it was okay, but I should have left off the onions. I guess the bratwurst doesn’t look bad.”
“Huh?”
“The hot dogs and bratwurst. Didn’t you ask me what looked good?” Christine asked.
“Hold on. You’re actually at a sausage festival?” Julianna asked.
“Duh. That’s what I said.”
“I thought you meant you were surrounded by guys,” Julianna said.
“Well, there are a fair amount here, but what does that have to do with a sausage festival?”
“Christine!” Julianna’s voice bellowed into the phone.
“What?”
“A sausage festival is another way of saying you’re in a place with a lot of dudes,” Julianna said.
“I don’t get it.”
“Urban slang. Sausage fest. Sausage, meaning penis. Sausage fest equals penis fest, meaning a festival of hot men.” Julianna’s voice gave away her exasperation.
“Gross,” Christine said.
“Don’t knock it ’til you tried it. Gotta run. Enjoy a sausage for me,” Julianna said.
“That’s disgusting,” Christine said as the call disconnected.
“Sausage fest. Seriously?”
Despite the long van ride, the dusty venue, and being surrounded by hot dog stands, Christine and Lynda spent quality time listening to songs Christine felt would be perfect for her.
Due to Lynda’s contemporary look and her rocking guitar style, Christine wanted the songs to have more of a country feel.
It was okay to have a certain amount of pop or rock elements, but when listeners turned on a country station or streamed a country song, they wanted to know there would be enough country elements in the song to keep them happy.
“I never lean toward that sound for me, but now that you explained it, I hear how it would work with my style,” Lynda said. “My rock edge can come through, but the song tells a story, and that’s straight-up country.”
“That’s the plan, and I think it’ll work. These songs we picked, they’re solid with that thought in mind,” Christine said.
“You have a fantastic ear, Christine.”
“Thank you. As a teen, I’d listen to songs for hours, focusing on the writing technique.
Like a lot of people, I assumed every artist either wrote their own songs or they paid to buy songs from writers.
I had no idea that people were paid to write songs and a career like song plugging existed.
The idea of taking a song and finding a singer who wanted to record it was foreign to me.
When I realized there was such a thing, it was a dream come true. ”
“What a find you were for Austin. It’s amazing how it just takes one artist to create an ‘it’ factor for someone.”
“What do you mean?” Christine asked.
“You’re the new ‘it’ song plugger. All the artists are talking about you.
You’ve taken Austin Garrett from new artist to star, and he trusts you implicitly to find the right songs for him.
Everyone wants a song plugger like that.
The male artists are holding back because they feel like you’re Austin’s girl, but I figured what the heck.
You can’t very well give chick songs to Austin, so why shouldn’t I give your ears a go. And I’m so glad I did.”
Lynda left to change into her show clothes.
Christine was speechless. She’d never been the “it” anything.
She had been a nerd in high school, teased when she wasn’t being ignored.
She was studious in college, nowhere close to being the life of the party.
Now here she was, nearing thirty, and somehow she had the it factor.
She had no idea how it had happened but knew the music business was a fickle friend, and you had to grab the ring when it presented itself.
It didn’t always come around twice. This time, it had come around in a beautiful, talented package named Lynda.
Lynda had dark-blonde hair that fell below her shoulders.
She had the body of a woman who worked out enough to stay in shape but who didn’t seem opposed to a chocolate bar if the mood hit.
Lynda was a perfect combination of gorgeous enough to make men swoon and down-to-earth enough not to threaten women.
It was harder to break into the industry as a new female singer than it was as a male.
It had become the enigma of country radio.
Program directors and consultants battled the fact that songs by females did not research as well as songs by males.
Nobody could firmly put their finger on why, but it had become a challenge for females to break into star status.
Lynda was beginning to break through that barrier, joining the ranks of artists like Lainey Wilson, who had taken country music by storm with her authentic music and bell-bottom-country theme.
Lynda’s show started and Christine walked out into the audience to get the full effect.
The sound quality backstage didn’t do her justice.
Lynda was a talent. Christine already knew that, but seeing her live made that belief even stronger.
She stood out because of her ability to play electric guitar.
Very few females could shred a guitar and take the lead.
Lynda was one of them. When she played a guitar solo, the audience hushed.
Fans brought out their phones to record her.
People moved closer to the stage, their eyes focused on her fingers as they ran across the guitar strings.
Her voice was lower than most females. She didn’t have the range or ability to hit the high notes, but she sounded like melted butter.
It warmed you. The mix of her mellow voice and rousing guitar playing made her a unique artist. Lynda would be an incredible client.
Christine planned to nurture the relationship.
BY THE TIME CHRISTINE ARRIVED back home on Sunday, Lynda had put a hold on two of her company’s songs.
A hold wasn’t a guarantee that Lynda would record the songs, but it meant she wanted to.
And as long as everyone involved in the creative process agreed, from her producer to the label’s artists and repertoire person, it would move from a hold to an actual album cut.
And maybe, if Christine and the songwriters were lucky, a radio single.
It wouldn’t be enough to save the company, but would add favorably to the bottom line.
Christine emailed her boss, who immediately replied with praise and appreciation.
“The sun is shining, Christine. Bail that hay,” she said to herself.
She sifted through a weekend’s worth of mail, wondering why she even bothered to get mail anymore.
She paid her bills online, and, other than communications from her mom, who was Hallmark’s best friend, all her correspondence came via email or text.
Even thank-you notes were sent through email.
So, she was surprised to see what appeared to be a personal letter with her name and address handwritten on the front. She tore it open and gasped.
I strongly suggest you continue going on the road with Lynda and never go out with Austin again. You are pushing your luck and pushing my limits. You’ve been warned.
Her hands started shaking. She tried to remember the communications law course she had taken in college.
She was sure it was a federal crime to threaten someone through the mail.
When she grabbed her phone and googled it, she found she was right—it was a federal crime.
She smiled to herself. She had something concrete to give the police.
As scary as that was, she knew if they ever caught the person, she could nail them with a serious penalty.
For the first time, she felt empowered. “I’ve got you now,” she said. After double-checking that she had locked and bolted her door, she climbed into bed, turned off her light, and fell asleep.