I took advantage of my father’s nepotism and found my stride in writing music for his newer acts. I didn’t have to go out in public and new performers were so fresh and ready to explore their own sound.
“You just remember to stick to our deal!” I reminded her.
“Just another excuse, El. You can’t hole up in that house forever.”
“Watch me!” I said. Amelia made a raspberry before hanging up the phone.
Getting up from my bed, I picked up my guitar and settled back on the window seat. It was my mother’s guitar; the wood was worn down, and the strings had been replaced many times. I started strumming and my fingers automatically went to Memories of My Wishes by MD.
My heart will be forever…in days gone by…
I adapted the hard rock ballad to a softer melody when playing acoustic. It suited my feelings.
The dreams I had as a child were gone. Life was still good. I lived through my music. I couldn’t fathom being in front of a crowd today. I could barely meet people who came to my studio without wanting to hide.
If I didn’t connect with people, there was no pain when they left.
It was easier this way.
Hallelujah
Skyler
The next morning, I rolled out of bed and threw on my standard uniform of jeans and a white T-shirt. Elsie put me up in a ‘cabin’ on the other side of the pool. She called it a cabin, but it’s five bedrooms, has a full kitchen and living room. I guess compared to the big house, I was slumming it.
Stumbling into the kitchen, I Keuriged myself a cup of coffee, grabbed a Cliff bar, and walked toward the big house. I was excited to get started and not all that excitement was about the new album.
After our jam session last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about Elsie. I felt awful about the way our first meeting went. Seeing her freaked me out; she looked so youthful and I felt instant shame at the immediate physical reaction my body had. Finding out she was twenty-four wasn’t too much better; there were fourteen years between us. Not that I didn’t have fun with younger groupies on the rare occasion; actually a very rare occasion. I think it’d been over a year since I accepted what someone offered me.
Despite her age, I was enamored by her. The way she held her guitar and jumped a little when she got excited; the way she wiggled behind the piano, threw her head back, and belted out a song; or just how fuckin’ hot she was.
Like, damn. Hot.
I spent the evening trolling her music and book collections. She was so eclectic and it made me want to know more about her. She was different from anyone I’d met in LA. More genuine. More focused. More talented.
She hadn’t propositioned me or asked me to sign her tits like the groupies I met at concerts. Part of me wished she had. I don’t think I’ve been this lit up since I was fourteen and my English teacher’s shirt popped open during class. My grade in her class skyrocketed after that incident.
We hadn’t discussed what time we’d get started. I didn’t know if she was an early bird, so I walked across the courtyard to the sliding doors, peeking inside. Her house was amazing. Benny had a big house, but not as fancy as this. He got one so he could have bigger parties; fancied himself a Rock Liberace. I never saw the point of making the investment because I was always on the road or in hotels. Plus, it seemed like the bigger the house, the harder it was to find anything when you needed it.
The condo I owned wasn’t bad. It was private and with the security they provided I never had problems with the paparazzi. But, it wasn’t home. In fact, I did my level best to avoid the place. Being alone wasn’t pleasant; I tended to get sucked into my brain if left to my own devices.
Letting myself through the back door, I smelled bacon. Following my nose into the kitchen, I saw her be-bopping her cute little butt as she pressed hash browns down in the skillet, Cher belting out her desire to turn back time through the speakers.
“Good morning!” I called out so I didn’t scare her.
“Hey! Good morning.” Turning around, she greeted me, entirely too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Early bird. “How are you this morning?”
“Ready to rock’ n’ roll, captain. You’re listening to Cher? Your taste in music is so unpredictable.” In my experience, people tended toward genre loyalty. If they were hard rockers, they wouldn’t go to a country-western concert. Elsie was hard to pin down.
“I like all kinds of music. Well, except Tuvan throat singing. That shit is just weird.” I laughed as she plated hash browns and eggs. “Hungry?”
Sliding the Cliff bar I snatched into my pocket, I nodded and smiled, happy to get some real food.
Elsie put a plate of eggs, hash browns, and toast in front of me.
“Wow, full service. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Don’t get too excited, though. Eggs and hash browns are the extent of my culinary skills. My housekeeper keeps me stocked up with homemade meals in the freezer and the fridge. I’m pretty spoiled.”
“Yeah, I’m a mac and cheese guy myself. Though I grill a steak so mean it’ll curse you out in three languages.”
I tucked into my eggs. Damn, they were fluffy. I glanced over at Elsie as she sat down next to me at the kitchen island. She was wearing a long-sleeved, white t-shirt and those jeggings that did nothing to hide her generous curves.
“So what’s on the docket today, oh fearless leader?” I forked a chunk of hash browns that were drowning in ketchup.
“Your band is coming tonight, right?”
“That’s the word on the street. Though, it’s hard to predict exactly when. Getting commitment from them is like nailing down Jello. I had to drag them around like they were on a leash when we were on tour.” Keeping them together had been the only way to make sure Rush didn’t lock himself in the dressing room with a groupie and miss curtain call.
“Doesn’t sound very professional.” Elsie scoffed.
“They’re young…”
“I’m young. You don’t see me getting loosie-goosey,” she said. I watched her take a bite of eggs and lick her lips. My groin jerked at the sight. Down, boy!
“What I mean is they’re new to the lifestyle. You know…wine, women, and song and all that?”
“Ah, yes. The lifestyle.” Elsie made air quotes and wiggled her eyebrows.
“Hey, I didn’t write the business model.” I held up my hands in defense.
“I didn’t say anything…”
“You didn’t have to, I could see it in your face.”
“Rumor has it you’re well versed in said lifestyle.” She took a sip of her coffee and gave me a pointed look.
It didn’t surprise me Elsie had heard of my rock star reputation. My publicist and Camille encouraged it, claiming it sold records and brought more horny women to concerts. It didn’t take much effort, so I went with it. All I had to do was go out a few times a month with a new girl and say raunchy stuff in public. After a while, it became a game to see what would get the biggest headlines.
“Don’t believe everything the tabloids say. I’m not as bad…as I used to be.” I laughed. “I’m no saint, but it loses its shine after a while, you know? Really takes away from the art form.”
“Honestly, I would have no idea, but that’s okay. I don’t think it’d be my style.
No, it wouldn’t be. This woman could throw down with the music, but everything about her screamed innocence. Maybe it was an artifact of being a prodigy. Not that I should assume. I could see her being awkward around the fans, unsure of what to do with herself. I assumed she didn’t have much exposure to people out here so far away from the city, holed up in her music mansion. I couldn’t imagine her going to the local watering hole, picking up a stranger.
“What about you? No boyfriend?” I winced. Smooth, Dalton.
Her eyes popped, and her mouth gaped. The reaction was hilarious.
“God, no!”
I laughed. Oh yeah, she was innocent.
“Okay, girlfriend?”
&nb
sp; Her face turned red. “No. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But no. Just no.”
Her tomato red face made me smile as much as learning she was single. It shouldn’t surprise me, considering she was a homebody. She was primarily exposed to younger bands; young and dumb newbies walking around with their dicks in their hands.
I had no intention of being young and dumb when it came to her.
Elsie pushed her plate aside, turned in her chair, and gave me a serious look. “I have a song I want you to play.”
“Already? Damn, you’re fast.”
“No, not something I wrote, though that’s coming soon. Something older, played by a lot of other musicians. Before I write anything, I want to pin down your sound. You’ve been singing with MD for so long, you need to settle into something different that speaks to you just as much as their music did.”
Nodding my head, I understood. I’d never worked with anyone like this before. It was unconventional. Maybe that’s why she was so successful. Before it was always: produce, produce, produce. Quality was important, of course, but Elsie’s focus on artistry and connecting to it was highly unique.
“I got a good glimpse into what you like yesterday, but that doesn’t mean I think you should put out Elvis Presley albums. We need to find Skyler Dalton’s sound.” She stared at me with earnestness until I nodded assent. “I’m going to give you a song you’ve heard a thousand times and you’re going to make it yours.”
Wow. Unusual. Clever.
“What song?”
“Hallelujah, by Leonard Cohen.”
I sat still for a moment and digested her song choice. My gut twisted. I sang Hallelujah at my mother’s funeral. And Benny’s. The words and melody were burned into my brain and my heart.
Elsie was right; every performance of Hallelujah brought something unique to its expression. I’d heard it fifty million different ways. Each one was haunting and sent electricity through my veins.
“I don’t like that song,” I whispered, trying to intimidate her with my frown.
“That’s even better. Putting together something you like from source material you dislike is going to get us further.” Elsie’s excitement ratcheted up.
Well, that didn’t work. Damn woman was immune to intimidation.
“Can’t we pick another song? What about Lynyrd Skynyrd, or something more rock-and-roll?” Maybe I could reason with her.
“Nope. This is it. Don’t worry, you’re in my expert hands.” She patted my hand and looked at me reassuringly. “Don’t look so stressed. It’s going to be amazing. And, when we’ve pinpointed your sound, we’ll record it and put it on YouTube.” Her lips thinned. “At the request of the label. They want to tease your fans out there a little.”
“So what you’re saying is that I don’t get a choice in this.” I frowned.
“Nope. Sorry. You came here for help and you’re going to get it whether you want it or not, Dalton.”
I sighed, pushed back my chair with a thud, and stood up. The urge to rebel was intense, and I resented this whole exercise. Now I knew what a five-year-old having a tantrum felt like. It took a lot, but I held in my frustration, not wanting to take it out on Elsie. I had no choice but to trust her.
Pulling back my shoulders, I stretched out my arms and took a deep breath. Time to put up, or shut up.
“Let’s roll.”
Skyler’s Voice
Elsie
We’d been singing for three hours. Normally, I’d have tired of it by now, looking for a different direction, but watching Skyler process the words and how they interacted with melody enamored me.
I knew this project was going to be difficult. It’d be simple, but not easy. A lot of singing and a lot of feeling–something Skyler wasn’t eager to do. I knew Skyler sang this song at both his mother’s funeral and Benny’s; I didn’t tell him I knew that, hoping he’d accept this as an opportunity to use the music as an avenue of healing. It was an excellent opportunity for him to be vulnerable to his fans and move beyond his grief. It was the perfect song, depending on which stanzas the artist chose, love and loss permeated it.
The first thing I did was make him sing like he was still in MD. He came out with a crazy rock version, low-key screaming the lyrics. For that round I accompanied him on the guitar; it was a very good rendition and would keep anyone’s attention, but it didn’t require a lot of complexity from him.
“One take and I think we have it!” Skyler clearly wanted to stop here and move on. He wanted to stay comfortable, where he wasn’t challenged.
“No,” I said, removing my guitar and sitting behind the piano. “Sing it to me as if you were still that young prepubescent boy in the choir of your mama’s church.”
Skyler choked out a laugh at my request, his eyebrows lifted, questioning me. Despite his skepticism, he didn’t argue. We continued, his voice turning into something completely different.
We kept on like this. He sang it like he was Johnny Cash, like a gospel song. We played it fast; we played it slow. Usually with the piano or the guitar.
“I think we should put together an album. The Many Sounds of Hallelujah,” Skyler said after their twentieth run-through.
“That would probably make a lot of money.” I laughed. “We’ve run through a lot of styles. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
Skyler froze, his lips thinning. I could tell he didn’t expect that question, nor did he welcome it.
It took him a moment to answer, “I’m tired and grumpy.” He wouldn’t meet my gaze, I could tell he wasn’t comfortable talking about his feelings.
Well, tough shit.
“Yeah, not good enough, superstar. I’ve been here with you all morning, I’ve listened to every iteration of this song you’ve created, and I’ve yet to see you connect. You’re holding something back. What is it?”
His lips pursed, and he let out a frustrated sigh.
“What does that even sound like, Elsie? I sing the words, I feel what I’m saying, I’m using the style we decide on. What am I missing? Is there some sort of mysterious and unobtainable sound you’re looking for? I mean, what is the right answer here?” His words came out quick and short.
“There’s no right answer, Skyler. This is art. Art is the expression of feelings through the material form. It’s a unique interpretation of something mundane and everyday. So, interpret the damn song already!”
He stood still for a moment, taking in what I said. I could tell he was frustrated, and I got it. It was a fine line between just feeling the emotions and creating an emotional piece of work that embodies those feelings.
“What’s your interpretation of this song?” he asked.
My body stiffened. I wasn’t sure what to say. No one had ever asked me that. These sessions were always for the artist.
When I was a child I sang Hallelujah at my mother’s funeral; it was the first time I connected to it, but that’s not what drew me close to the song. When I played it my way, I felt lifted and in tune with both myself and the music. I’d seen dozens and dozens of other artists experience the same thing. It was like a tuning rod for detecting our voice. In the end, it wasn’t something you could describe. I had to show him.
Nodding, I strapped on my Fender Stratocaster and strummed a few chords.
“I’ll show you.”
***
Skyler
Elsie hummed as she strummed the chords, her voice locking me in. When she started singing her eyes were closed, her voice as clear as a bell. She chose the original lyrics, not the ones Leonard Cohen wrote later and played in the more popular versions. She sounded like a folk singer performing opera. Her voice was as hard to describe, as it was wholly original and uniquely hers.
I didn’t hear the lyrics or what Leonard was trying to say as much as I heard her and the meaning she was giving to the song. I didn’t see my mother’s or Benny’s funerals. I saw her offering herself to the Lord of Song.
And it was glorious.
&nbs
p; She took a deep breath when she finished and gently placed her guitar back in the standing holder.
“Did that help?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it did. I think I know what I need now,” I said with a certainty I hadn’t felt all morning.
“Awesome, let’s hear it.” She rubbed her hands together with excitement.
“I need your help on the chorus.”
“You want a backup singer?”
“No, I want to do it as a duet.” I needed that voice. I needed her to make my sound.
“Nuh, uh. No. This is about you. Not any part is going to be me. Unless you want some piano, or harp, or hell, I’ll even do bagpipes for you.” I could hear the panic in her voice.
I stood in front of her, placed my hands gently on her shoulders, and squeezed. Looking into her eyes, I did everything I could to reassure her with my touch.
“Elsie, this song always makes me feel like I’m facing grief alone. That’s why I don’t like it. I sang it at Mom’s and Benny’s funerals, and I can’t sing it and not think of them, regardless of what style I’m using. But just now, when you were singing, I didn’t think of them at all. I heard the words and felt something new. I don’t know what thoughts were going through my head as much as the feeling, and it wasn’t grief. I need you to do this for me.” I begged her with my words and my eyes. It was the only way.
Quiet for a moment, Elsie took in what I was saying, and I saw the moment I’d won her over.
“Alright, but my face isn’t going on that YouTube video, do you hear me?”
Putting up my hands in surrender, I said, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I pulled out my guitar with a flourish, and motioned for her to take the piano. Inspiration was flowing through my body a million miles an hour. This is how it used to feel working with Benny. No, this was better than how it felt with Benny. I’m more ready to express myself, to feel the feelings again.
Scarred Melody: A Rockstar Romance: Bold Melodies Book One Page 5
