21. Law
21
Law
Gotta Get It Right
I ’ve been working on it for a few weeks, but I’m still trying to nail the composition for “The Way I Love the Dark.” In my defense, it’s still baseball season.
And I keep staring at games that I have zero interest in because I need to get this perfect. I keep getting close, but it’s not there yet. Reading these lyrics without her permission is the reason I nearly lost her. Now, she's listening to my input, letting me tweak words. Every time I read through them again, I like them even more.
And I’m more grateful every time that something good came out of my mistake.
She’s a lyricist, and I’m a musician, and together, I know we could create great songs. But I didn’t realize how much pressure I’d feel trying to put music to lyrics she wrote on her own.
I keep telling myself the breakthrough I need is coming.
Greta knocks, and I yell, “It’s open.” I’ve told her over and over again she doesn’t have to knock.
Her hair is up in a clip to keep it off her neck in this heat, but there are a few stray pieces stuck to her forehead. She left to go run errands while I was mowing the grass this morning. She’s probably hoping I have something new to play for her.
“I haven’t made much headway.”
“Does working with your hands ever help unlock your musical genius?”
“What did you break?”
“I started doing laundry before I left this morning, but the warning light on my dryer came on. It says check vent. I always clean the lint screen, and the dryer hasn’t been moved, so I don’t know why there would suddenly be a problem with the vent, but I stopped using it, just in case. I’d call the landlord, but we both know—”
“He’ll take days to get back to you. The hose is probably loose. I’ll come look at it.”
She stares at the open composition book on my coffee table and bites her bottom lip. “I should probably tell you something.”
“Do I need to sit back down for this?”
“No. I don’t think so. But I’ve written some new lyrics.”
“That’s great. When I said I wanted us to collaborate more, I didn’t mean you shouldn’t write on your own at all anymore. I’ll take a look at the dryer, and then you can show me your new verses. I just made some tea. You want a glass?”
“No. I’ve had too much caffeine today already.”
“Well, if I’d known you were at the coffee shop, I would’ve known to expect new lyrics.”
“I can’t help it. That place is like magic.”
“You’re the magic, Greta. That place just has cake.”
“Magic cake.”
Her dryer hose has not only come loose, it’s crimped and split. This thing is probably older than her car. Cheap part, easy fix. No need to go through our unreliable landlord for this.
“I’m going to get you a new dryer hose. Do you want to go to dinner when I’m done installing it?”
“Or we could order pizza and eat here while I share the new song with you.”
“It’s a whole song?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, so yes to pizza.” Looking at fresh lyrics might loosen me up.
The hardest part of replacing the hose is moving the dryer away from the wall and squeezing into the tight space to work. Her warning light’s back off, and her clothes are tumbling again. Time to grab a shower and clear my head for her new song.
“So, what’s this new song about?” I ask as we pull our first slices from the box.
“Well, you know how Derringer opened up about his family over dinner? About how he feels about the way they do business?”
“He alluded to some things, yeah.”
“Right. And those things kept coming back to me.”
“You wrote this song with him in mind?”
“Yeah, but I’d never want him to feel like I’m trying to put words in his mouth, you know? He inspired it, but I’m not trying to tell his story. And I know I could’ve gotten it totally wrong and he may hate it, but—”
“Let me see it.”
“I wasn’t trying to presume to know things I don’t. But the chorus sort of wrote itself, and it wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“Greta, I can’t participate in this conversation if I don’t know what we’re talking about.”
She takes a deep breath. “I know. Maybe we should finish eating first.”
“I can multitask. Hand me the notebook.”
“If it sucks, just say that, okay? I can take it.”
I chew without talking, let her keep rambling until her nervous energy winds down enough for me to get another word in edgewise. Wiping my hands on a paper towel, I try again, “Are you ready to let me see it now?”
“No, but I’ll never be ready. So, here.” She passes the notebook over the pizza.
My eyes scan the page, skimming to find the chorus she said grabbed hold and wouldn’t let her go. Seems like I should start with that and work my way back over the whole piece.
They never got their hands dirty, but shook dirty hands . . .
I read the chorus several times before I work through it from the top. She said the chorus wrote itself. The composition is already starting to flow that way, too, but this song . . . it doesn’t feel presumptuous. It feels momentous.
And like it could prove disastrous for an artist from old oil money. These are words that could sever bonds.
“Damn, Greta. I wasn’t expecting this. Your other two songs are heavy with emotion, but not in this way. Even if it’s not exactly his story . . . him singing this? I don’t know.”
“Is it all wrong for his voice?”
“Shit. That’s right. You’ve never heard him sing. He’s playing tonight. You should hear him. He goes on at ten.”
“Yikes. I forgot people go out that late.”
“If I can do it at thirty-two, you can do it at twenty-eight.”
“Maybe this is a good night for me to hear you both sing. I bet he wouldn’t mind sharing the stage with you for a little while.”
“Oh, you’re just full of good ideas, aren’t you?”
“This started as your idea, remember?”
“No. It was your ideas that started it.”
I read over the lyrics several more times while she gets ready. And they’re more unsettling with each read-through. Words that can shake people up are the ones that’ll stick, for better or for worse. I tell myself it’s just a song, and the choice would ultimately be his.
So help me, I thought I was done with Derringer Wells. But she just had to go and ask me to stick with him, and then she put this song in my hands.
She’s never even heard his voice. She has no idea, yet somehow, she knew.
There’s wisdom in these lyrics, but near accusations, too. Some not-so-subtle insinuations.
I used to trust my gut without question when it came to singers and songs, but this makes me think maybe I’ve aged out of the game. There was a time when I wouldn’t have worried about repercussions.
If people want you to write good things about them, they should be good people, right? Otherwise, they get what they get.
But what does it get the one who crosses the line and sings the song? Ultimately, in the end, what does he get if he sings this?
There is no doubt in my mind what he’ll say when he sees these lyrics.
We don’t have to go there tonight, though. Tonight, she’ll hear him sing someone else’s songs. And then we’ll work on hers together until we get it just right.
Whether it’s right for him or not is a question that can wait. I start over at the top and read it one more time.