Chapter 5
darian
. . .
I’m tuning the same string for the fourth time when my hands start shaking.
Tonight.
Eight o’clock.
The Songbird’s songwriter round.
The Martin sits across my lap in the apartment’s single chair, what’s left of the sunlight streams through my windows, leaving a golden glow on the threadbare carpet.
I’ve been playing these three songs for a week straight, polishing them until they gleam.
Except, now I’m not so sure. Every chord progression sounds predictable, every lyric feels forced.
Of course, just in time for my performance. I can feel myself choking already.
The alarm on my phone chimes. I tap the screen to make it stop and sigh heavily, hoping to exercise the demons that fester in my mind.
This band breakup has made me feel like a failure, like I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel for a morsel of semblance in a life I used to love.
Part of me wants to be on top or at least near the top, taking the charts by storm, but the thought of facing the same tired bullshit questions about the band makes me want to retreat.
How long until the dust settles? Until everything blows over and I don’t have to hear about Van and his new band?
Those thoughts plague me and I consider not showing up or cancelling, and I’m about to do it when a text from my brother-in-law comes through.
Levi: Zara didn’t want to bother you, but she wants you to know she’s proud of you. I am as well. I look forward to making some music with you, man.
If that wasn’t enough to get me moving, the picture he sends of Poppy is. My niece looks exactly like Zara, just cuter.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
After packing the Martin up, I grab my keys, guitar case and step out into the hallway. Downstairs, I hear the private door to Rattlesnake Guitars open. At the top of the staircase, I spot Benny at the bottom, looking up.
“Big night?” He motions toward my case. I like that he’s playing coy, but even I know there isn’t a single thing that happens in town that Benny doesn’t know about.
“First time at The Songbird.” The words taste foreign on my tongue. “Songwriter’s round tonight.”
“You seem nervous?”
My hands shake as I grip the case handle tighter. “Terrified. I’ve been on world tours, with the biggest crowds but this shit terrifies me. New crowd. New sound. I don’t have my sister or band to fall back on if shit doesn’t go right.”
“Good. Terror means you give a damn. This is how you’ll find your groove. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” His words follow me onto the street, where my legs carry me toward The Songbird.
I put my ear buds in and listen to the recordings I made.
I have five blocks to figure this out, without second-guessing every lyric I’ve ever written.
One saving grace is I’m not the only one.
I look like a dime a dozen rockers on the street right now.
Each of us is trying to forge a path in an industry that doesn’t give a shit about you.
By the time I reach the venue, my palms are sweating around the handle of my guitar case.
It doesn’t matter how many times I switch hands I can’t get them dry.
I pause outside The Songbird and look through the windows, catching a glimpse of the purple-haired waitress and Rye .
. . the one, who without a doubt, runs this place.
“You Darian?”
I turn at the sound of my name. The bouncer from last week stands there, his staff shirt stretched across his expansive chest.
“Yeah.”
“Gus,” he says as we shake hands. “Follow me. All the talent enters through the alley.”
Talent? Laughable.
Gus holds a metal door, and I step through, with him behind me. I follow him down the hall. He points to the bathroom and a make-shift green room. “Some of the artists sit back here until it’s their turn, but most sit in the audience because they’re all friends.”
Great, I’m an outsider.
Gus pushes through the last door and we’re in the venue. Staff move around, setting up. There are two other artists, turning their guitars in the corner, and then there’s me—standing in the way of staff as they go through the doorway behind me—opening my mouth like I’m gasping for air.
“That’s the boss,” Gus says as he points to Rye.
I knew it.
“You must be Darian.” Rye comes toward me with her hand extended. It’s small, soft, and too delicate to run a place like this. “I’m Rye. Thanks for signing up.”
Up close, she’s smaller than she appeared during Thursday’s songwriter round.
Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, faded jeans and a black tank top.
But it’s her eyes that stop my breath—sharp intelligence mixed with careful assessment, like she’s cataloguing everything about me in the space between heartbeats.
“Looking forward to it.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
Our eyes meet and hold for a beat longer than necessary. Something passes between us—recognition, maybe, or curiosity. She bites her lower lip and then blushes before turning away. After two steps, she turns back. “Sit wherever.” Then she turns back to her work, and I force myself to move.
The other artists look up and nod, I return the gesture and sit at the same table I had last week.
By eight o’clock, the venue is full. Conversations layer over the clink of beer bottles and music playing through the speakers.
The energy I had last week from sitting here is back, but tenfold.
It feels like needles are trying to push through my skin because now my name appears on the chalkboard: Darian Mercer - 3rd slot.
The bartender with purple streaks in her hair approaches my table. “Last week you had beer,” she says as she put my water down. “I’m taking a chance.”
“It’s perfect, thanks.”
She glances at the guitar cases by the stage. “You’re performing tonight, right?”
I nod. “Third slot.”
She grins. “You’ll do fine. This crowd actually listens.” She moves toward the next table, leaving me alone with my nerves and the water I’m too anxious to drink.
The music overhead softens as Rye appears center stage, adjusting the microphone stand.
“Good evening, everyone. Welcome to Thursday’s songwriter round.
We’ve got four incredible writers sharing original music tonight.
” Her voice carries easily through the room, commanding attention without effort.
“Please give them your ears and your respect.”
The first songwriter takes the stage—a young man with a twelve-string guitar who plays Celtic-influenced folk songs with intricate fingerpicking. His voice carries a slight accent that might be Irish or might be a carefully cultivated Nashville mystique. Either way, the room pays attention.
I watch Rye during the performance, noting how she moves through her tasks while keeping one ear tuned to the stage. When someone at a back table starts talking during the quiet bridge, she appears beside them without seeming to hurry, her presence alone enough to restore attention to the music.
The second performer follows—a woman in her thirties with a resonator guitar who plays slide blues with precise technique. Her original compositions blend traditional delta styles with contemporary themes, creating something both familiar and fresh.
Then Rye’s calling my name.
I grab the Martin and walk toward the stage, hyperaware of every eye in the room. The stool sits under a single spotlight. This isn’t new to me, performing in front of people I don’t know, but there’s something about these people, these strangers about to judge whether I deserve to be here.
“Evening,” I say into the microphone, settling onto the stool. “I’m Darian. I’ve got a few songs I’d like to share.”
I launch into the opening chords of “Broken Satellite”—not the radio version with its layers of production, but the original acoustic arrangement. Stripped down to voice and guitar, the song reveals its true skeleton: a meditation on isolation in our hyper-connected world.
The room settles into focused silence. Not the restless quiet of audiences waiting for intermission, but the engaged stillness of people allowing music to work on them. My breathing deepens. My fingers find the fretboard without conscious thought.
Static fills the space between us
Every signal’s breaking down
I’m broadcasting to an empty room
Hoping someone hears the sound
During the bridge, I catch Rye’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
She’s stopped whatever task occupied her hands, standing motionless as she watches the stage.
Not the professional evaluation of a venue manager assessing new talent, but raw attention.
Like the music is reaching places she doesn’t usually let strangers access.
I finish “Broken Satellite” and move directly into the second song, “Learning to Land”—a new composition I’ve been carrying since arriving in Nashville. The lyrics still taste too honest, too much like bleeding in public. But this room makes vulnerability feel sacred instead of stupid.
Found myself in a city of second chances
Where the music’s more honest than the people making it
Where you can start over with nothing but a guitar
And a willingness to listen to what silence has to say
A man near the front leans forward, elbows on knees, absorbing every word.
A woman at table six closes her eyes, swaying almost imperceptibly.
The conversations at peripheral tables die completely.
For three minutes and forty-seven seconds, forty strangers and I inhabit the same emotional territory.
The song builds to its quiet climax—voice and the ring of open strings—and I swear the room holds its breath. Even the air conditioning seems to pause.
I finish and sit in the silence for a heartbeat before starting the final number.
“Ghosts in the Attic” comes from the early Reverend Sister days, before we confused volume with intensity.
The song explores the stories we tell ourselves about our past, how sometimes the only way to stop being haunted is to invite the ghosts for dinner.
They live upstairs and pace at night
Footsteps in the crawl space of my mind
But maybe if I set an extra plate
We could all sit down and dine
By the time I play the final chord, the energy in the room has shifted. Charged with the electricity that happens when live music works properly—when the barrier between performer and audience dissolves into collaboration.
The applause starts scattered, builds to sustained appreciation. Not for entertainment, but for trust. For being allowed into sacred space.
Instead of the adrenaline crash I expect, satisfaction spreads through my chest. The particular contentment that comes from good work. From sharing music that matters instead of music that sells.
I make my way back to my table as the fourth songwriter takes the stage.
She carries a mandolin and launches into bluegrass-influenced folk that has the audience leaning forward again.
Good. This is how the evening should flow—one song building on another, creating narrative instead of disconnected performances.
A few people nod as I pass their tables, offering the respectful recognition you earn by deserving your place in the room. But it’s the figure behind the bar that captures my focus.
Rye wipes down the bar, but when our eyes meet across the room, conversations and mandolin music fade to background static.
She nods once—not a polite acknowledgment for any performer, but personal recognition. Like she saw past the songs to the person singing them.
I nod back, then finish my water and gather my things, not wanting to stay for the last round. I don’t know the other musicians and feel a bit uneasy performing with them.
Outside, music spills from other venues—electric guitars and drum kits, the endless creative engine powering this city. After an hour of acoustic intimacy, the louder sounds feel almost violent.
Welcoming.
I walk slowly toward Rattlesnake Guitars, case bumping my leg with each step. The neighborhood pulses with late-night energy.
My phone buzzes with a text from Zara: How did it go?
An hour ago, I would have admitted to crippling pre-performance anxiety. Now anticipation for the next opportunity courses through my veins.
Better than expected, I type. Remembered why I started writing songs.
Zara: That’s the most hopeful text you’ve sent in months.
I roll my eyes and slip my phone back into my pocket.
Back in my apartment, I make myself a quick dinner and eat it by the window.
The old me—the one who lived in LA—would’ve gone back out and partied.
The thought of being out there though gives me anxiety.
I don’t want to be recognized, at least not yet.
I want to establish a routine before someone figures out, I’m Darian from Reverend Sister.
My anonymity won’t last through, not after tonight.
I shouldn’t have played a song that has been on the radio or used my real name.
The music playing from open windows and reverberating off buildings makes my fingers itch to play. I finally pick my guitar up, and discover a new melody that captures the sensation of being truly seen for the first time in months.
I play for thirty minutes, letting the sequence develop without forcing a destination. I’m thinking about the strangers who trusted me with their attention tonight, and how good that felt.
And I’m thinking about the woman behind the bar who watched like she understood what the songs meant to me.
The melody builds toward a bridge, then circles back to the main progression. Like the song is learning to trust itself the same way I’m learning to trust this version of my musical life.
When I finally set the guitar aside, I realize I’m anticipating next week with a hunger that has nothing to do with career advancement and everything to do with creating another moment like tonight.
Another chance to remember that music, at its best, is just organized honesty.
Another chance to be in the room with Rye–if she’s there when I go sign up.
But if I’m lucky, it’s another chance to see that expression on her face—the one that suggested she was listening not just with her ears, but with parts of herself she doesn’t usually let strangers access.
The thought follows me toward sleep, weaving through dreams of small stages and honest songs and audiences who understand the difference between entertainment and art.
For the first time since leaving California, those dreams don’t taste like nostalgia for lost possibilities. They taste like blueprints for something I might actually build.