Nashville Boxed Set #1-3

by Bethany Michaels

  “I have to perform live on Saturday morning at the Ryman for the panel of judges.”

  “Oh my God! This is great!” Becca hugged me. “See. Knowing Dex is helping.”

  I frowned. “I hope it’s because they liked my demo, not because of the tabloid photos.”

  “What does it matter? I mean, I’m sure they liked the demo, but think about it. If Dex Wilder’s girlfriend wins, they’ve got built-in publicity for the contest and for your first album.”

  “I am not his girlfriend.”

  “They don’t know that.”

  I’d had enough dealing with these record guys to know they were totally mercenary. They weren’t above using a gimmick, or a tabloid photo or a celebrity connection to sell records. The thought that they’d recognized my name and picked my CD out of the entries because of my connection to Dex dulled a little bit of the excitement of making it to the finals.

  “What are you going to wear?” Becca asked returning to her cornflakes and the tabloid on the table. “I think you need to go out and buy something really killer. Show some cleavage.”

  “Oh I think there’s plenty of my cleavage floating around already,” I said refolding the letter and putting it back in the envelope.

  Becca sifted through the mail and pulled out another magazine. “Oh, a new one! Wait. That’s not you.” She squinted at the small inset photo.

  I looked over her shoulder. “No. It’s not. “The woman was blonde and was kissing Dex, but she wasn’t me. Dex obviously hadn’t been lonely in Houston. It made me wonder how he’d had the nerve to call me at all. Was there a woman in his bed with him while he dialed my number?

  I shrugged and tightened the belt on my ratty old robe. “Dex can make out with whoever he wants. It’s none of my business.”

  Becca looked over her shoulder at me. “And you’re not jealous. Not even a tiny bit.”

  “No,” I lied. “Not a bit.”

  The phone rang and I had a sinking feeling I knew who it was. I checked the caller ID anyway. Yep. Dex.

  “You aren’t even going to throw the poor guy a bone?”

  “I think he’s got plenty of other bones,” I said nodding towards the tabloid. “He doesn’t need mine.”

  “But how much do you need his?” Becca grinned.

  I rolled my eyes. “I have to go. I’ve got to find a new outfit. Sans cleavage.”

  Dex didn’t leave a message and I was almost disappointed. I wanted to hear his voice again, even though I knew ending things with Dex was for the best. It was the only way I could accomplish what I’d come to Nashville to do and it was the only way to avoid a bruised heart. I didn’t want the distraction or the angst that being with Dex would entail. I needed to refocus my energies on something besides Dex Wilder.

  The tabloid photos would go away as soon as Dex found another blonde to snuggle up to.

  I had a contest to win.

  Chapter Seven

  Nashville lies smack in the middle of the Bible Belt and the Ryman Auditorium is the most conspicuous monument to the city’s religious past. Built in 1892 to host religious revivals, the place has church pews for seats and gorgeous stained glass windows, all original to the building. The Grand Ole Opry started there in the ‘40s but moved to a more commercially viable location in the ‘70s. The Opry may have physically moved to a new location, but its heart has always remained at the Ryman.

  The auditorium is famous for more than country music, though. Everybody from Marian Anderson to Will Rogers, Elvis to Larry the Cable Guy have trod the boards at the Ryman, and when you go, there’s a sense of reverence that overtakes you as soon as you see all the pictures of past performers gracing the walls. It was built as a monument to God, but today is a monument to music, and it’s every singer’s dream to stand there center stage and play to a packed house.

  That’s where the contest semi-finals took place. As if there wasn’t enough pressure to perform without thinking about freakin’ Elvis having played the same stage.

  The Ryman is on 5th Avenue, only a few blocks from my shitty apartment, and even though there was a light drizzle, I decided to walk to the auditorium and try to get some of the nervous, fluttery feeling out of my belly before I had to perform. There were a couple of photographers snapping pictures, but I was getting adept at ignoring them, and I concentrated instead on my song and quelling my nerves on the walk over.

  I went in through the front doors and, after he made sure my name was on the list, was directed by a greeter to the green room. He kicked the photographers out, telling them it was a closed audition.

  The green room was a zoo. Twenty-five singer-songwriters milled about, most looking like they were going to toss their cookies at any moment.

  I took my wet jacket off and looked around. Some of the faces I recognized from the bar circuit. I smiled at one red-headed girl I’d hung out with on occasion, but she looked away quickly without returning my greeting and I became aware of the whispers and stares of several people there. I could only assume they had seen the tabloids, too.

  Now I was the slut sleeping her way to the top—no judge, no jury, just execution. It hurt, but facing constant criticism and rejection for more than two years had made my skin tough. I shouldn’t care. So what if a bunch of people I really didn’t know thought something that totally wasn’t true? But it did bother me and I could feel my face burning under their stares.

  With no one to talk to, I pulled out a notebook and jotted down a line or two that had been running through my head on the way over. It had promise. Not surprisingly, it was about truth and lies and about how easy it is to mix up the two. Imagine that. I ignored the eyes burning into the back of my head and lost myself in the music as I always did when things got rough.

  Eventually a harried looking assistant with a clipboard rushed into the room.

  “Good—you’re all here now. Here’s how this thing is going to work. We’ll call you in one at a time, and you’ll do your song for the judges. Each judge will give his or her critique and score. The top ten scorers move on to the finals and the TV special. We’ll film that next Saturday. Anybody have any questions?”

  The assistant answered a few questions then left the room buzzing with tension. The first few contestants paced and warmed up their voices. I fidgeted in my chair and tried to concentrate on what I was writing to keep my mind calm.

  One by one, people were led from the room by the assistant until just a few of us were left. They were taking us in alphabetical order and as an “S”, I was towards the end.

  I put away my notebook and stretched. It had been two hours at least. I stood up and stretched my back. There were only three of us left now, including the redhead who had given me the cold shoulder when I’d walked in. That’s when she decided to speak to me.

  “So did Dex Wilder pull strings to get you here?”

  I stared at her, not even knowing how to respond. “No.” I said. “I entered my CD just like you.”

  “Well, not just like me,” she smirked. “I gave my demo to Ron and he turned it in for me.”

  Ron Lennart, the record producer who’d propositioned me in the bar. Clearly he’d found someone willing to fuck him for a chance at stardom.

  “Well, congratulations, I guess,” I said.

  She smiled. “Ron thinks I have talent.”

  “I’m sure he does,” I said under my breath. And the sad thing was, I’d heard the girl sing and she did have talent. I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her.

  I could tell she was peeved that I wasn’t more impressed about her sharing the toad’s bed, but I didn’t have time to dwell on that. It was my turn to perform for the judges.

  I’d been on the Ryman stage before as a tourist. It was one of the first places I’d visited after moving to Nashville and as I stood on the stage once again, I remembered the feeling. I’d been so full of optimism and hope and pure joy at just being in the Music City. I’d been so sure I’d be playing the Opry in a matter
of months, if not weeks. But after a couple of years just scraping by and being all but ignored by the industry, reality had taken hold and optimism turned to disillusionment. Still, at the end of the day, I had to believe that all I’d gone through and worked so hard for would eventually pay off. Starting now.

  I faced the panel of judges sitting in the first row of pews, looking up at me with bored indifference.

  There was a mic and a stool and not much else on the empty stage. The red, blue and yellow stained glass windows at the rear of the auditorium cast deep shadows in the upper seats and suddenly I felt very naked up there with nothing but my guitar and my voice.

  Each of the judges had a clipboard and a pencil and a look that said they were here for business rather than pleasure. As I looked down the row of faces, there were a few I recognized and a few I didn’t. But when my eyes rested on the last judge in line, I knew I was in trouble.

  Ron Lennart was staring at me from the far left, a leering grin on his face. Shit. The red head’s boyfriend recognized me. Remembered me. Still hated me for turning down his sex-for-studio-time swap.

  Ignoring the toad, I smiled at the panel and settled on the stool, my guitar cradled in my lap. I adjusted the mic and cleared my throat.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Miss Stratton. Just do the song you sent in on the disc,” the head judge said.

  “Ok,” I said into the microphone and the sound of my voice echoed throughout the empty auditorium.

  My hands were shaking and sweaty, and it was a good thing I was sitting down. I took a deep breath, smiled at the panel and started my song.

  I had played the song so often that the chords came naturally to my fingers as I played. The music was no issue, so I concentrated on the singing, on putting every ounce of emotion I possessed into my voice and hitting the right note every time.

  It seemed like forever, but before I knew it, the last notes hung in the air. I’d made it through. I wanted to laugh with relief. Or maybe vomit.

  It wasn’t a perfect performance, I knew that. But hopefully it was enough. By the time the last chords echoed off the church pews in the top row, a couple of the judges were smiling and nodding as they scribbled notes on their clipboards. A couple had no expression at all, and Lennart was grinning evilly and scribbling as if his life depended on it.

  I waited.

  Finally the head judged smiled. “We’ll each give you a little critique now and then you can go to the lounge with the other contestants, have a bite to eat if you want, and wait for the scores.”

  I nodded, my throat too dry to form words.

  “I thought it was great. I loved the emotion behind the song and the lyrics were really evocative of what it feels like to fall in love. Good job.”

  My heart lightened at the head judge’s praise.

  “I thought the voice was a little weak, but the lyrics, as Geoff said, were superb,” judge #2 said. “Really vivid. They really complemented the relatively simple melody.”

  One by one the judges critiqued my performance. Some of the comments like “overly sentimental” and “simplistic” were hard to hear. But more judges than not gave me a lot of positive feedback. And then it was Lennart’s turn to have a go at me.

  “Once again we prove that talent and fame, or should I say infamy, are two different things entirely,” he started, speaking loud and clear as if he was performing a soliloquy. “I hated the lyrics. Your playing was passable but the overall performance made me wonder how you made the finals. Get some voice lessons if you plan to make it in this town.” He narrowed his eyes on me. “Or maybe get yourself in a few more compromising photos with big country stars. Half the battle in this town is the friends you make and the enemies you keep.”

  My face turned red. I know it did. But I wasn’t sure if it was shock at Lennart’s caustic words, his criticism, the embarrassment at having those photos brought to all the other judges’ attention, or whether it was rage, pure and simple, at the outright unfairness of his accusation that I was there because of Dex. Or maybe Lennart had made sure I was in the finals just so he could beat me down in front of a panel of movers and shakers in the business, practically guaranteeing I’d be playing for beer money forever.

  The head judge was clearly uncomfortable at Lennart’s tirade and the other judges were whispering amongst themselves. I knew they all recognized me, now that Mr. Wonderful had pointed out I was the girl in the seedy photos. I wondered how much it would affect the judges’ final scores.

  “Thank you, Miss Stratton. You can go. We’ll have the scores and the finalists’ names in about half an hour.”

  “Thank you,” I said into the mic and exited the stage, fighting the stinging tears pricking at the backs of my eyes.

  But, besides putting a hit out on Toad Boy, there was nothing I could do now. I’d performed to the best of my ability and would just have to wait to hear the final verdict. Even if I didn’t win the thing, just making it to the top ten and being on the CMT special would give my career a serious boost. I took a deep breath and pasted a smile on my face as I headed down the hallowed halls lined with pictures and busts and framed programs from performers past.

  Back in the lounge, the tension was crazy. Someone had brought in some coffee and refreshments and some of the contestants were nibbling on tiny sandwiches, some were getting their coffee buzz on and some were pacing in circles, clearly too nervous to eat or drink anything.

  I, for one, never passed up a free meal and wandered over to the refreshments to have a snack.

  It was closer to an hour before the results came back.

  We were each given an envelope and asked not to open it, then we were ushered back on stage to face the judges as a group.

  The head judge stood. “I want to thank you all for entering our singer/songwriter contest and let you know the judges had a very difficult time narrowing the field to our top ten finalists.”

  I shifted my weight. My hands were sweating and the heavy sense of anticipation was almost unbearable.

  “That said, we did choose our top ten, based on scores from the panel. Judges gave each performer a score from one to ten and we simply added up the scores to determine the ten finalists.”

  I glanced at the toad. He was sitting back in his chair, arms crossed, looking back at me with a shit-eating grin on his face.

  “But you’re all winners,” the head judge continued. “You 25 semi-finalists were chosen from a field of nearly 1,000 entrants from all over the country.” He smiled at each of us and I got a good vibe from the guy. He, at least, seemed genuine. “Categories we looked at were lyrics, musicality, showmanship, voice and overall impression.”

  I shifted my weight wishing he would just get on with it. Waiting was always the hardest part.

  “We’ll start at the top.”

  “Amber Green. Please step forward.”

  The girl squealed and stepped out, positively beaming. I’d heard her perform. She was good.

  “Neil Booker.” A tall cowboy type in boots and hat stepped out and doffed his hat to the judges.

  “Campbell Yardly.”

  One by one finalists were called to step forward until nine of the ten had been called. I and the other 15 contestants chewed lips, shifted from foot to foot and tried to calm racing pulses as we waited for the tenth and final name.

  “Ginger Bell.”

  Another squeal rang out as Lennart’s girlfriend stepped forward and hugged one of the other girls, her roommate. How convenient.

  Disappointment crashed over me as I realized my dream of making it to the finals, winning the whole thing, and being signed by a record label had just crashed and burned. And it didn’t take a recording engineer to figure out which judge had voted me down.

  “Thanks again for entering. Your individual scores are in the envelopes you’ve been given,” the head judge said. “We’ll need the finalists to stick around so we can tell you about the rehearsal schedule and the television special.”


  All of us losers exited the stage. Some of the rejected cursed. Some claimed foul play. All shuffled dejectedly back to the green room to collect jackets and instruments and head home or to the nearest bar.

  I went home, cutting through the photographers lingering on my doorstep without a word. I went straight upstairs, poured myself a tall glass of White Zin and deleted the two new messages Dex had left on my machine without listening to them.

  * * * *

  “I’m really sorry, Sydney,” Dillon said, after he’d moved his amp into place on the small stage at The Tap later that night. “That sucks.”

  I smiled at him. He really was a nice guy. And I’d bet he didn’t have a pregnant blonde in some faraway city. But I wasn’t thinking about you-know-who anymore.

  “Thanks, Dillon.”

  “It sounds like some of the judges really liked your stuff. Maybe you should send something out to some of them.”

  I shrugged. For two years I’d picked myself up off the ground. With each rejection, each setback, I’d given myself the never-quit pep talk. I’d reminded myself that all the big stars went through tough times but kept with it to get where they were and where I wanted to be.

  That night, it wasn’t working. I was over it. I was tired and pissed. I kept wondering if those pictures had never surfaced, if I had never gone to Dex’s house that night, never hooked up with him to begin with, whether things would have turned out differently with the contest. I’d what-if’d myself into a monster headache and the last thing I felt like doing was performing. But I was a professional and professionals didn’t ditch gigs because they’d had their feelings hurt.

  “You should try some music publishers. You’re a great writer.”

  I smiled at Dillon who was trying so hard to be helpful. “Maybe I will.”

  “Want us to kick the shit out of that record guy, Syd?” Ted asked. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was earnest and enjoyed a good bar fight.

  “No. But thanks, Ted. That’s really sweet.”

  He winked at me. “You know we got your back, babe.”