Chapter 17 #3
The car stops outside a small, dark grey brick building that looks like it’s seen better days. The sign above it is painted on and simply says Bar. Is that its official name? Not even The Bar? Just . . . Bar.
Inside, I find Jeremy, Glasses Guy, Blue Blouse, and a couple of other people I didn’t meet today crowded around a small table.
Actually, everyone in here is crowded around small tables meant for maybe two but which currently host upward of six to eight glasses.
The chairs are mismatched and scattered in no pattern I can discern, everyone finding a tiny space to fit their ass in.
Jeremy shakes my hand. “Bobby! Good to see you. You ready for this? Tonight’s the night your life changes.”
He makes it sound like he’s got a golden ticket with my name on it and all I have to do is reach out and grab it. But if it were that easy, anyone could do it.
I nod.
A guy dressed in black gestures for me to follow him, and he leads me to a holding area. There are four green folding chairs and a case of water on the floor. Nothing fancy like the hotel, but I wouldn’t expect a bar to be fancy, anyway. I sit as directed and wait my turn.
Too soon, or maybe not soon enough, I’m given the stage.
“Hi, everyone. I’m Bobby Tannen.”
There’s usually a cheer from the crowd at Hank’s, but tonight, it’s quieter than a January morning covered by snow. I don’t let it faze me and go into my set.
I start with Bridge Over my Broken Heart, then do Her because Mom’s song seems like a good luck charm, as though she’s here with me for this. I play the song I wrote today, which I’m calling Dig Down Deep, and that’s when the crowd really falls under my sway. One more original and my time’s up.
It was quicker than a blink and an eternity all at once.
I have done everything I possibly can, cut open my soul, used my blood to write these words, and laid everything I am bare on this stage for these people. If they liked it, fine. If they didn’t, fuck them.
I touch the brim of my ballcap as I dip my head. “Thanks for listening.”
When I stand, the audience does too, clapping madly.
I freeze, standing stock still as it sinks in. They liked it, and a warm buzz starts in my belly, growing bigger and brighter.
Like my future.
Lucky son of a bitch found gold in the twisted tunnels of a working man’s mind.
Backstage, Jeremy comes in smiling and pats me on the shoulder. “Good show, son. Really good show.”
“Thank you.” The ‘son’ thing drives me crazy, and normally, I’d have already corrected it, but I’m giving allowances for Jeremy because of who he is. I hate that, but it’s the truth.
“The car will be here in a few to take you back to the hotel. We’ll get insights from the audience later and the tracks from tomorrow.
Car will pick you up at noon for that, so get some sleep tonight.
We’ll meet with you again on Monday to let you know.
Take Sunday to enjoy the city. But no misbehaving.
I don’t think you’d be able to sweet talk your way out of a scuffle here like you do at home.
” His lips lift as he says it, but the smile is forced and doesn’t reach his eyes.
Not a real joke but a warning couched as one.
I grunt, refusing to honor that with actual words.
In moments, Jeremy is gone back to the table, listening to the next act. I’m dismissed again.
I’ve never been in a recording studio, so I have nothing to judge this one by, but I think it’s top-notch.
The sound board is almost the size of a sheet of plywood and has more knobs and levers than a space shuttle.
The room where I’m sitting on a stool in front of a microphone is bigger than my bedroom at home.
“Okay, let’s try that first one from the top again. On the third chorus, the repeat one, I want you to add a bit more growl to it. Like it’s getting ripped out of your chest and you’re furious about it. Okay?” Miller says into my headset.
Miller seems pretty cool. He’d introduced himself as the producer this morning, promised me that we were going to make some prime music today, and had gotten right to it.
His critiques and insights have been spot-on so far, and I think my songs are already better after only a couple of hours with him.
I sing my way through Dig Down Deep, my voice vibrating in my chest as I add the growl he asked for. It hurts, physically hurts, but when he plays it back, I can hear the improvement. The actual pain reads as emotional angst, giving the song that touch of wow that it needed.
“Hell yes!” Miller yells in my ear, and I laugh. He’s been cool as a cucumber all day, but he’s damn happy with that take. “That’s what I’m talking about, man. That’s a number-one hit right there. No doubt.”
“Your mouth to fate’s plans,” I reply, hoping he’s right.
Today has gone better than I could’ve dreamed. A real studio, a real producer, my music recorded and primed for radio.
My dream feels even closer.
Grab it with both hands, hold on, giving everything I have. Mom, look what I’ve done. Are you proud of me now?
“Good morning, Mr. Tannen. I’ve been instructed to take you back for a photo check first thing. Mr. Marshall wants the images to discuss during your meeting.” The receptionist clicks down the hall, but my longer strides put me even with her.
“Photos? I didn’t know anything about pictures,” I tell her.
She smiles kindly, and I realize I’m simply a checkmark on her to-do list.
I’m not ready for pictures today, though I’m not exactly the fresh-shaven, styled-hair type. I just need to mentally prepare myself to pose and be paraded around. The ability to let someone else take control isn’t really my best feature.
“Wow,” Rory, the photographer says with a smile when we come in.
The receptionist smiles and talks to Rory out of the side of her mouth as though I’m not here. “I know.”
I ignore their shit, not wanting or needing their attention that way. Only Willow’s.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, Bobby.”
Rory pulls a stool from somewhere and sits me down by the large window. “Lean forward, elbows on your knees, hands clasped together. Give me a flirty smile.”
Click.
That sound is so familiar. Aching and longing rise up in my throat. I want to check Willow’s blog and see what she posted today so I can live her day with her. Since I’m not there, it doesn’t seem as creepy. And at this point, I don’t give a fuck if it is.
“Yes,” Rory coaches. “Madder. Show me angry.” Click. “Okay, now like you want to hate fuck, not kill me.” Click.
“Are you comfortable doing a few with your shirt off?” Rory asks. “Your call, but I think we could get some good shots if I’m right about what’s underneath that T-shirt.”
I’m not shy about my body. It serves me well, doing the work I need it to. “That’s fine. As long as they’re not . . .” I search for the word I want, but Rory jumps in and reassures me without it.
“Tasteful, of course. Nothing pornographic or too vulgar. Fresh out of bear-skin rugs, I’m afraid.” He laughs, teasing, and though it takes me a second to follow suit, I do because I’ve relaxed with him enough now.
I pull my T-shirt over my head and lay it on the table. I stand where he directs me and he takes several more shots. Click, click, click.
He looks at his camera, an even bigger one than Willow’s, and smiles. “We’ve got it. Several options, in fact. I’ll send them on to Jeremy right now.”
I shake Rory’s hand, all professional. “Thanks, man.”
“Pleasure was all mine. Good luck, Bobby.”
I pull my T-shirt back on right before the receptionist comes back to get me. “This way, please. They’re ready for you now.”
In the conference room, there’s no mistaking the vibe. They’re eager, smiling, hungry, and excited. That’s got to be a good sign.
“Bobby! Come on in and have a seat. So much to go over.” Jeremy is more enthusiastic than he was at Hank’s, bordering on Loretta territory. But he wants my music, not my dick. Presumably.
I sit down and see that the folders are back, thicker than they were on Friday.
“How’s your weekend been, Bobby?” Jeremy starts. “Have you enjoyed yourself?”
I don’t see why that matters at all, but the truth is, I have.
Singing for a new crowd is something I would’ve never done, but it felt like a test I aced.
And the recording studio time was a learning experience I’ll never forget.
In the span of a few hours, Miller made me a better musician, something I’ll always be grateful for.
Room service is also something I could get used to real fucking easily.
One phone call, and any type of food shows up at the door, and you can eat in bed leaned back on a pillow fort’s worth of feathers.
“It’s been an experience,” I reply. “A great one.”
His smile grows, and I get the sensation of being a fish on a hook, but if the boat is a record deal, reel me the fuck in, Bassmaster.
“Good, good. Okay then, let’s get to it. Crowd reports?”
Glasses Guy—I should probably learn his name if this does go somewhere—opens his folder and reads from a sheet.
“Overall, positive feedback across the board. The audience really liked the voice, the songs, and the appearance. Some slight variance in presentation versus expectations, as we’ve discussed. ”
The voice? You mean my voice?
The songs? As in my songs?
The appearance? Like the way I look?
He’s talking about me like I’m a loaf of bread on sale at the grocery store, not a real person.
“Demo?” Jeremy inquires.
The television comes to life, and a camera recording from the studio plays. I hadn’t even realized they were recording there, other than the audio tracks.
Miller coaches me on the growl, and it plays back the updated version. If I say so myself, it sounds great. Then there’s Miller’s praise.
One of the guys from Friday night pipes up, “Miller said this was one of the best voices we’ve sent him in years. And he’s coachable. He’s all in with the changes we went over.”
I’d love to work with Miller more, but what changes?