by Bill Noel
Gwen repeated, “Cool.”
Heather pointed to me. “The other guy there is Chris Landrum. He’s Chucky’s best friend. Him and Cal are over from the beach for a few days. Drove all the way to hear me sing.”
“Cool,” said Heather’s articulate friend.
Heather looked toward Cal and me. “Fellas, Gwen here—Gwen Parsons—is a friend of mine. She’s written a whole basket full of tunes and is here as often as I am.”
Gwen said, “Pleased to meet all of you.”
Cool, I thought.
“Gwen is also handled by Starr Management.”
Gwen’s smile disappeared. “For what that’s worth. You heard from him lately?” she said aimed at Heather.
“No, but he’s supposed to be here.” Heather hesitated and looked around the gathered group. “Got a few things to iron out with him.”
Gwen looked at her guitar case at her feet and at the Bluebird. “I’d like to take an iron to his conniving skull. He’d better show.”
“Hadn’t made you a star yet?” Charles said, I suspect because he’d been ignored for three minutes.
“Chucky—umm, Charles—Starr’s been my agent for going on half a year, and all he’s done for me is charge me out the ear for a demo tape, tried to get me to buy a freakin’ marketing package for more than I could sell my car for, and got me three gigs I later learned I could’ve gotten myself by asking the bar owners.” She pointed to the Bluebird. “This here being one of them.” She shook her head. “A star, right.”
Gwen’s ringing endorsement of her agent was interrupted when a short, chunky man in his thirties tapped Heather on the shoulder. “Yo, Heather, brought that guitar you wanted to try out.” He held a guitar case in Heather’s face.
Heather hugged the guitar wielding stranger. “Thanks, Joey. Hey guys, this is my friend, Joey.”
Cal and I nodded, Charles said, “Hey, Joey,” and Gwen looked irritated that he'd interrupted her rant.
“Would you mind putting it in my car?” Heather asked.
“No problem.”
“It’s the red Toyota Venza that’s not supposed to be parked at the furniture store. The lock’s broken so slip it in the back seat and cover it with the green blanket. Don’t let the furniture guy see you.”
“No problem,” Joey repeated as he headed to the adjacent lot.
“Joey’s a good guy, but not much of a songwriter. His singing’s a bit on the weak side, too. You’ll get to hear him tonight.”
That’s something to look forward to.
Heather said, “Seen Jessica?”
I assumed she was talking to either Charles or Gwen since neither Cal nor I would know Jessica.
“Don’t think she’s around. She usually beats me here. The last time—”
Gwen was interrupted again. This time by a man talking into a megaphone telling the group if they wanted to perform, they needed to sign a slip of paper he was handing out, and a drawing would be held to determine the order of their appearances. Several aspiring stars groaned when he said that since there was a large number of singers, each would be limited to one song. It seemed about every fifth person in line had a guitar case, so there would be a full complement of singers. Heather grabbed one of the sheets and put her name on it in big, block letters so there could be no mistake who she was.
The papers were collected and Gwen yelled, “There’s Jessica.”
We turned in the direction of a tall, thin woman, in her late-twenties walking toward us with a guitar case in hand and a scowl on her face.
“Seen Starr?” Gwen asked.
The woman standing behind us in line said, “Humph. No breaking line.”
Jessica turned to her. “Hold your water, lady. I’m just talking to my friends. Somebody’s holding a place for me in the back of the line.” She turned to Gwen. “Starr was supposed to meet me yesterday at his Starbucks office. I waited two hours, made me late for my waitressing gig. He never showed.”
Heather said, “Haven’t seen him here.”
“He’d better show,” Jessica said. “I’ve got a piece of my mind to give him.”
“Get in line,” Heather said, not referring to the line to sing.
I suspected Jessica had similar experiences with the illusive and probable con-artist who pawns himself off as a music agent. I wondered how many more gullible wannabe singers and songwriters had fallen for his line. And I wondered how Heather’s story would end with Starr. I couldn’t picture it ending well.
7
Heather had drawn number thirty-six, Gwen twelve, and Jessica two slots ahead of Heather. Charles told me if songwriters who drew a high number didn’t want to wait long to sing, they could have first shot at performing at future open-mic nights. Heather said “no way.” Her beach friends were here to hear her and that’s what she was going to do even if it took all night.
The door to the Bluebird was opened and the crowd filed in and was seated at vinyl table-cloth covered tables surrounded by wooden chairs. The space was tiny by bar standards and so crammed I doubted everyone in the room could exhale at the same time. A server was at our table as soon as we were seated and took our drink order. The menu was typical bar-fare except for edamame, something I’d never heard of. Charles, the trivia king, said it was young green soybeans in the shell. It sounded too healthy for my taste and I ordered a chicken-fingers basket.
Singer number one was called to the stage before our drinks arrived. She plugged her guitar into the sound system, said her name, her composition, and began singing. Over the next thirty minutes, a steady stream of songwriters moved to the tiny stage with assembly-line efficiency and stood, or sat at the keyboard and sang. Talking was close to impossible because of the music, and was discouraged out of respect for the performers. Charles tried to tell me about the photos along the wall, the history of the cafe, and what famous entertainers had performed before the packed-in audiences. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I nodded as if I understood.
I was surprised by the high quality of the performers and their songs, and was even more discouraged about Heather’s chances. I was also impressed one of the songwriters was from Australia, two were from England, and one even from far-away, exotic Minnesota.
Gwen’s number was called between our first and second round of drinks. She took the stage, gave her name, and said she was from McAlester, Oklahoma, and added it was the hometown of Reba McEntire. Her song was a lilting love song, her voice was pleasant, but nowhere near the quality of her fellow McAlesterian. Heather applauded when Gwen finished, with hopes it would be reciprocated when she finished her song some twenty-two performers later.
An hour and a half passed before Jessica’s number was called. Heather, who was scheduled to sing two artists away, was having trouble containing her excitement and nerves. Gwen had stayed after her song to hear Jessica and Heather and applauded when Jessica finished. Heather took her guitar out of the case and bit her fingernails as the next singer performed an up-tempo song accompanying herself on the keyboard.
Heather took the stage, said who she was, and that she was from Nashville. I glanced at Charles who mouthed, “She is now.” She sang one of her two compositions, a song I’d heard dozens of times. After three torturous verses, she strummed the last notes to the sounds of applause from everyone at our table, and from no more than four others in the room. Heather smiled as if she had received a standing ovation and thanked the crowd. My heart bled for her. She made it back to the table and received pats on the back from Gwen and Jessica. Charles reached over and gave her a hug. Cal said, “Good job, gal.” I nodded and bought her another beer.
We filed out and stood in the parking lot looking at a line stretching past three stores in the shopping center waiting to get in the next show. Three of the people we heard perform were exchanging demo CDs. Two taxis were letting people out and a limo blocked the entrance. Heather stretched her neck to see if its occupants were famous or only people who had enough money to arriv
e in style.
Gwen and Heather were bragging on each other’s set when Jessica approached and whispered something to the other two. They talked for a couple of minutes and Gwen grabbed her guitar case, waved bye to Charles, Cal, and me, and patted Heather on the rear and walked toward the McDonald’s a block away.
Cal was telling us a couple of the people in the group, especially one of the “gals” in line before we entered looked familiar. He wondered if she was someone famous, and Charles said it was no telling who we might see taking in the show, when Heather came over to Charles and waved for Jessica to follow.
“Jess wants me to head downtown with her to a bar so we can “put back a few” and unwind after our performances. Wasn’t she great guys?”
We agreed Jessica was great and Charles said if Jessica would have her, he’d let her borrow Heather for a while. Heather gave a wide grin, pecked Charles on the cheek, and handed him her guitar case and wide-brimmed straw hat to put in the car. She told him not to wait up, and headed off with Jessica to put back a few.
Cal wiped sleep from his eyes and joined Charles and me in the kitchen. “What time did Heather mosey back to the bunk?”
It was a couple of hours after sunrise and I’d already taken a walk around the neighborhood. Charles was up when I returned and was trying to figure out how many eggs to put in an omelet he was struggling with. He said he’d made omelets although Heather was always around to supervise. She hadn’t made an appearance.
“Could’ve been two-thirty, maybe three-thirty,” Charles said without taking his eye off the stove. “Don’t know for certain other than it had thirty in it.”
Cal said, “Guess you didn’t talk a bunch when she got here.”
“Think I said ‘ugg,’ and she may’ve said, ‘Go back to sleep.’”
Charles had finished making breakfast, the smell of burnt omelet filled the air, Cal and I had eaten it and commented on how “interesting” Charles’s masterpieces of culinary delight had been and Heather still hadn’t ventured out of the bedroom.
Cal glanced at the closed door to Charles and Heather’s bedroom. “Think I need to go see my old bud Johnny R today. This Starr Management stuff’s getting smellier and smellier. Don’t take offense, Charles. It’d be best if she didn’t go. No telling what Johnny R might say. He ain’t known for beating around the burning bush.”
“I’ll stay here, and—”
The door of the bedroom creaked open. We turned toward the sound, which was fortunate since Heather whispered, “Morning guys,” in a voice we wouldn’t have heard unless we were looking. In muted voices, we agreed.
She walked to the table at about the speed of a snail, lowered her body on a chair, and sighed. “Any of y’all see the tour bus that hit me?”
Cal and I shook our head and Charles said, “Feeling poorly, sweetie?”
“If you call a headache that feels like I had three teeth pulled without any knock-out stuff feeling poorly, yeah.”
Cal said, “Good show last night?”
Interesting use of the term show, I thought. Heather sang one song, so I suppose Cal was trying to get her mind off her headache.
Heather’s eyes were bloodshot and her hand trembled as she lifted her coffee mug. “Thanks, Cal. You don’t have to blow smoke up my, umm, posterior. I saw where the clapping came from. I thought I did pretty good, but other than y’all, I bet there weren’t three people putting their hands together.”
Cal nodded. “Believe you me, I know the feeling, H. Sometimes folks just don’t appreciate good music. I’ve done shows where I thought I knocked it out of the park and the folks sitting out there must’ve been sitting on their hands.”
Her face tried to smile. It was forced, looked painful, and didn’t last long. “I’m frustrated Cal. I ain’t giving up. I know it’ll happen; just wish it’d get here soon.”
“You never know, H,” Cal said. “You never know.”
I thought I did.
Charles looked at Cal, glanced at me, and turned to Heather. “The guys here want to do some sightseeing today, maybe go to the Hall of Fame. You and I could stay here while you’re recuperating.”
Heather blinked like that was too much information for her ailing head to comprehend. “No, Chucky, you go. You’re a good tour guide and I could use some meditating time.”
Cal smiled. “Thanks, H. He could show us the way around.”
Cal had achieved his goal of visiting his friend without Heather.
The Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum was five blocks from the apartment so we walked rather than paying to park. According to Charles, the massive building complex with an exterior covered with symbolic images of music replaced the original Hall of Fame in 2001. Its windows mirror the configuration of piano keys and the overall façade seemed overwhelming. The sights and sounds inside were as impressive. Cal added his personal narrative to many of the displays. Walking through the museum with him felt like I was living part of country music history. The tour lasted two hours longer than necessary after we paused to hear each of Cal’s “fascinating” stories.
We returned to the apartment and Charles checked on Heather before we headed to Madison to find Johnny R. She said she wasn’t any better and for us to take our time. The nine-mile trip took longer than expected. A four-car accident had the road closed and we had to take a detour.
While Madison was easy to find, the nursing home presented a more difficult challenge since it was a mile outside town on a road that had befuddled the car’s navigation system. Charles finally ran in Shoney’s to ask for directions while Cal strummed on an imaginary guitar and sang Hank Snow’s “I’ve Been Everywhere.” It felt like a piece of the Hall of Fame had escaped and was sitting in a car entertaining the driver.
We walked through the double door of the nursing home that didn’t look younger than its residents, and were slapped by the ever-present smell that must be sold only to nursing homes. Nothing about the odor said welcome. No one was at the desk, but a man sweeping the floor pointed us in the direction of Johnny R’s room, smiled and said, “Get ready. He’s having a mood.”
Cal’s friend must’ve been huge in his better days. He was lying on his side and the droopy skin of a three-hundred-pound man dangled from a body that couldn’t have topped one seventy. Johnny R glanced at the visitors, dropped a copy of People Magazine, and smiled.
“Holy shit. I must have died and landed in the bad place. If it ain’t my buddy Country Cal right here in Hillbilly Hell.” He tried to sit, and fell back in the bed.
Cal moved to his side, bent over, and gave him a hug. They exchanged a couple of insults and Johnny R tilted his head my direction and asked Cal who his roadies were.
Cal introduced us to the man he’d told us was eighty, but looked to be pushing triple digits. “What’d you do horrible enough to my bud Cal to get him to drag you out here?”
Charles, in his best suck-up voice, said, “We’re friends of Cal and were visiting the high points of Nashville. He said unless we met his good friend Johnny R our tour would’ve been wasted.”
Johnny R looked at the stained ceiling, at me, and finally at Charles. “See why y’all are friends. You’re as full of shit as Cal. You a singer? You have that beat-down look.”
I figured he wasn’t talking to me since I didn’t think I looked beat-down. I answered anyway and told him we were from South Carolina and visiting a friend of ours.
“So why are you really in this old man’s castle in the heart of Geezerland?”
“Johnny R ain’t never been strong about editin’ his words,” Cal said in my direction. He turned to Johnny R. “Wantin’ to pick your brain.”
Johnny R chuckled. “Good luck with that. My old thought-machine’s being starved in here. Not much left. Know what they won’t let me do?”
Trivia-collector Charles asked, “What?”
“I can’t smoke. The nicotine police say it’s bad for my health. Do I look like I have enough health to worry abo
ut?” He hesitated and caught his breath. “And, get this, they won’t let me have sex with the nurses. Can you believe it?”
None of us responded.
“They have more rules than the IRS. Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t drive out in the middle of nowhere to talk about my sex life.”
Cal knew what to say and how to say it, so we deferred to him. Cal shared that Charles’s main squeeze had signed with Starr Management and had become disappointed with the results. He didn’t put it like that. That’s my translation of his country-music insider lingo.
Johnny R waited for Cal to finish and continued to stare at him. “Cal, look around. Do I strike you like I’m in the center of anything related to the music industry? How in the name of Jimmy Rogers am I supposed to know anything about moon, planet, star, or whatever the guy’s name is you’re talking about?” Johnny R was getting louder by the word. “Hell, most of the people in here think Al Jolson just recorded ‘Mammy.’”
“Don’t blow a gasket.” Cal put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We knew you wouldn’t know Starr, but I have a suspicion you still have contacts and maybe you could check around.” Cal leaned closer to Johnny R. “You’re the man. Think you can help out an old buddy?”
Johnny R leaned back in bed and smiled. “Give me a few days and a number where I can reach you. I’ll see what I can find.”
“Much obliged, my friend. Much obliged.”
Cal gave his old friend his number and another hug. Charles and I shook his emaciated hand before we headed to the door.
Johnny R said, “On your way out, fellas, see if any of the nurses out there are hankering to have sex with me. There’s one cutie, Mildred, couldn’t be a day over seventy, but hey, I’m not above robbin’ the cradle. Let her know I won’t tell on her.”
Cal said he would. To Charles and my relief, he didn’t.
On the way to town, Cal said that in his heyday, there wasn’t anything Johnny R couldn’t find out. Charles astutely observed that Cal’s friend didn’t appear to be involved like he once was. Cal agreed, and said even though Johnny R seemed out of it, he probably still had more connections than some insiders. I doubted it, although Cal knew his friend and I didn’t. Charles also suggested instead of waiting for Johnny R, we should call Starr and ask what he was doing for Heather.
