by Ronald Kidd
Sue Dean glanced at me. “I think so. I’ll try.”
“Mr. Peer liked your song,” I told them.
“So did I,” said Sue Dean. “It sounded like the music I hear in my dreams.”
I looked beyond the Carters to the other singers, in line to the bottom of the stairs and beyond. I wondered how many would be invited back like the Carters and how many would go home and do their singing around the kitchen table.
Sue Dean and I followed the Carters down the stairs, past the singers, and out of the building. The Carters headed off, looking for lunch.
“I should get going,” said Sue Dean. “See you tonight?”
“I’ll be there,” I told her.
She nodded, then walked off toward home. I watched her go, thinking of the way her cheeks turned pink when she smiled.
“Hello, Nate,” someone said behind me.
I turned around. Arnie was standing there.
CHAPTER 14
“How are those chores coming?” asked Arnie. “You know, the ones you’ve been doing for Mrs. Rickover.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Liar.”
His eyes were bright. His voice was pinched, like something was pressing down on it. “I checked around. You haven’t been at Mrs. Rickover’s. You’ve been here.”
I’d been careful but not careful enough. Then I wondered why I should have to be careful at all. I’d spent the day in a place that stretched out to the horizon and beyond, a place where the only things that mattered were imagination and talent. Compared to that, the world I lived in—with its rules and walls and boxes—seemed all wrong.
“Everyone else has been here too,” I said, nodding toward the line of singers. “This is important, Arnie. It’s big. Don’t you see?”
“It’s music, the devil’s tune. I know it. You know it. And you lied to get it.”
I studied him. It seemed like I’d been doing it a lot recently.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked.
Arnie spoke again, like he was spitting. “That’s Satan talking. You know what the Bible says. ‘When he lies, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies.’ John 8:44.”
“You’re a kid,” I said. “You used to laugh and play jacks.”
He blinked, and for just a moment, I saw my little brother.
“This is serious, Nate. It’s your soul. I’ll have to tell Mama and Daddy what you’ve been doing.”
I tried to imagine how Daddy would react. Yell. Preach. Accuse me of music, the worst sin of all. For sure I’d be grounded. I wouldn’t be able to hear the Carters sing that night. I might never see Ralph Peer and his machines again. I couldn’t let that happen.
“No, you won’t tell Mama and Daddy,” I said. “Because if you do, I’ll tell them what you were doing.”
He stared at me blankly for a moment.
“The snake,” I said. “Beelzebub.”
As he realized what I was saying, Arnie began to struggle and fidget, like he was tied up with rope and wanted desperately to get loose.
“I mean it, Arnie. Keep quiet about the music, or I’ll tell them.”
Arnie looked at the hat company building and the line of people coming out the door.
“It’s not right,” he said. “It’s a sin.”
I thought of Daddy railing against music. There was fire in Daddy’s eyes, but as I watched him in my mind, I saw something else too. It was fear. He was as frightened of music as Mama was scared of that snake. I wondered why. Whatever the reason, their fears had collided, balanced out, and stopped Arnie—at least for now.
I went back to the hat company that night. Arnie watched me leave, his face dark, but didn’t say anything. When I got to town, the auditions were over, and the line of singers was gone, scattered across the countryside. The Carters were the only ones left, waiting in front of the building with Sue Dean. It turned out that A.P. had rehearsed them all afternoon. They had worked up four or five songs, then had come back for their appointment.
“My fingers are all plucked out,” Maybelle told us.
“Sprout another set,” said A.P.
Sue Dean asked, “Where are Mr. Peer and the others?”
“Supper break,” answered Sara. “They auditioned all morning and recorded all afternoon. We met the last group coming out. They called themselves the Bull Mountain Moonshiners. Swear to goodness, with the names of those bands, you’d think all we ever do around here is drink hooch.”
There was a noise behind us, and the Cadillac pulled up. As Peer and his friends got out of the car, little Joe let out a wail, and Gladys tried to comfort him. Crabtree and Holt exchanged nervous glances.
“Hey, Ralph,” said Crabtree, “those kids aren’t going upstairs, are they? The microphone’s pretty sensitive.”
Peer turned to his wife. “Can you help us out?”
Now Mrs. Peer was the one who looked nervous. “Me? I don’t know anything about babies.”
“Well, do something.” Peer took out his wallet and handed her a couple of dollars. “Here, buy them some ice cream.”
Sue Dean took the baby, and he stopped squalling.
“Ice cream sounds great,” said Sue Dean. “Sara, you go with the others. Come on, Gladys. What flavor do you like?”
Mrs. Peer joined them, and they headed off to the soda shop just a few doors down.
Peer fished in his pocket, pulled out a key, and unlocked the building’s front door. It seemed strange, since nobody in Bristol locked anything. Peer led the way upstairs, followed by his two engineers and the Carters. I stayed close behind Sara, Maybelle, and A.P. When Crabtree spotted me, Sara told him, “He’s with us.”
“He’s a kid,” said Crabtree.
“I’m their agent,” I said.
Peer chuckled. Crabtree muttered something. Upstairs, he went to the microphone, which had been moved from behind the curtain to the middle of the room. He fiddled with it and turned to the Carters.
“Sing into this,” he said. “Don’t shout. Use your normal voices.”
He tapped the microphone, then he and Holt moved across the room to the blanket and stepped behind it. I imagined the amplifier and lathe back there, plugged in and ready to go.
Peer sat behind the table again while the Carters got ready. Sara unpacked her autoharp, an instrument halfway between a banjo and a kitchen drawer. It had strings you played and buttons you pushed. Maybelle pulled out her guitar, wiped it lovingly with a smooth cloth, and they tuned up. A.P. lurked behind them, like Father Time.
“What do you have for us?” asked Peer.
A.P. cleared his throat. “Thought we’d start with the song we did this morning, ‘Bury Me under the Weeping Willow.’”
It wasn’t a grunt or a word or a phrase. It was an actual sentence. As I came to learn later, A.P. said the most when he was talking about songs.
“That’s fine, fine,” said Peer. “Let’s cut it.”
It made me think of scissors. Then I remembered the lathe, poised above the wax disk, ready to cut a groove into it. You sang a song. You played a guitar. You cut a record.
Peer called out toward the blanket, “Ready, boys?”
Crabtree called back, “Have them sing a few notes. We’ll do a check.”
Sara sang a phrase or two, and apparently there was a problem with the equipment.
“Give us a minute,” said Crabtree.
Peer got up and chatted with the Carters, which gave me a chance to duck behind the blanket.
I found Crabtree and Holt bent over the amplifier. They had removed the cover and were fooling with the wires. Nearby were two sets of earphones.
Crabtree glanced up. “What are you doing here?”
Holt said, “He’s okay.”
Crabtree blinked and turned back to the amp. I had assumed Crabtree was in charge, but suddenly, I wondered. Maybe Holt led quietly, the way A.P. led the Carters.
Holt found the problem, a loose wire at the back. He
tightened it up and replaced the cover. The two of them put on the earphones.
Crabtree called out, “Have them try again.”
Sara sang a phrase, and Holt nodded.
“We’re ready,” called Crabtree.
“All right,” said Peer. “Quiet, everybody.”
Holt started the lathe. The disk turned. The needle dropped. Crabtree reached through the blanket and signaled. The Carters sang.
A groove appeared behind the needle, starting at the edge and tracing a perfect circle around the wax disk. The needle completed the circle and started a second one just inside the first, then another, then another. In front of the needle was a smooth, flat surface; behind the needle was life, carved into the disk.
I knew from an article in Popular Mechanics that if you looked at the groove through a microscope, you’d see a canyon with dips and bumps and steep edges. They were Sara’s voice and autoharp. They were Maybelle’s guitar.
I wondered how a shape could be a sound, a sound could tell a story, and a story could bring people living and breathing into the room. It was happening in that building that used to be a hat shop, and I was there. In the song, a woman stood before me, weeping. The willow tree slumped. A cold breeze blew through the branches.
I glanced at Holt. He pressed the earphones to his head. He looked up at me and held my gaze. He had flipped the switches and gotten everything ready, and now all he could do was “witness,” as Daddy would say—stay still and soak it in and notice every little thing, because the needle is carving and the disk is turning, and the trip around is so very short.
Then it was over. The Carters finished their song, and the needle was lifted. The disk wasn’t smooth anymore. It was a master, and soon it would be a record. Sara and Maybelle and A.P. were singing in those grooves, and I liked to think that, somehow, I was in there with them.
They recorded three more songs that night: “Little Log Cabin by the Sea,” “The Poor Orphan Child,” and “The Storms Are on the Ocean.” Holt would put a new disk on the lathe. Peer would nod. A.P. would count them off, and the Carters would sing. They told about love and loss, despair and hope. People entered the room in those songs. The place was crowded with them.
Peer wanted more, so he invited the Carters back the next morning. Sue Dean and I were there. For some reason, A.P. didn’t show up. I pictured him wandering the hills, humming softly to himself. But Sara and Maybelle came, and by that time, Peer knew they were the ones who made the music. When they arrived, Sue Dean took the children downstairs again, where Mrs. Peer kept them supplied with ice cream.
The Carters recorded two more songs, “Single Girl, Married Girl” and “The Wandering Boy.” Without A.P., there was something pure and beautiful about the music—two women telling stories in songs. Maybe A.P. had sensed it, and that’s why he had stayed away.
Years later, when people talked about what happened at Bristol, they called it an explosion—the big bang of country music. From what I saw, it wasn’t like that. It was quiet, then there was music, then it was quiet again. Peer and his workers went about their business, and the singers went about theirs—the Carter Family, Jimmie Rodgers, Ernest Stoneman, and a dozen others. The room came alive, and because of science, it was preserved for people to witness. That’s all it was, but it turned out to be everything.
CHAPTER 15
“So long,” said Sara. “Thank you for helping us.”
She smiled at me and embraced Sue Dean.
“Do you have to go?” I asked.
They had finished their recording session just a few hours earlier. I didn’t want it to end, ever. But there we were, saying goodbye to the Carters. Sue Dean kissed the baby. Maybelle and Gladys hugged us. A.P. nodded stiffly.
They climbed into their car, a plain, black four-door Essex that belonged to Maybelle’s husband, Eck. Eck had lent A.P. the car but had told him they were crazy to drive all over creation to sing a few songs. A.P. had the last laugh though. Before leaving, he had pulled me aside and shown me what Ralph Peer had given him after the sessions: six crisp fifty-dollar bills, one for each song.
“There’s more where that came from,” declared A.P. “Mr. Peer says he’ll pay us fifty dollars for every song we bring him, plus royalties if we write them.”
“What are royalties?” I asked.
“If the records sell, we get a little bit of the money. You know, a percentage.”
To me, the money was almost as amazing as the recording machines. I knew men who worked all day for a dollar, and the Carters had made three hundred just for singing.
Sue Dean and I watched as the Essex pulled away and slowly drove off down State Street, taking the Carters back home. They waved, then turned the corner and were gone.
“I miss them already,” said Sue Dean, staring after the car. “I love that little baby. Gladys too.”
I nodded. I missed Sara’s voice and Maybelle’s guitar. I missed the way A.P. showed up in the songs, like a stranger who had stumbled into the room. Years ago, Sister had left. Now the Carters. Mama said leaving was a part of life, but I didn’t like it.
“I’d better get home,” said Sue Dean. “I’ve been neglecting my chores.”
She headed off down the street. I had things to do at home too, but I wasn’t ready for them. They were part of my old life. I had a new life now, or a glimpse of one. It sparkled in the distance, like the silver microphone.
A few minutes after the Carters left, Peer and his friends arrived, just returning from lunch.
“Need some help?” I asked Holt.
Crabtree snorted, but Holt nodded. “Come on in.”
That day I watched as they recorded more musicians. Henry Whitter, a harmonica player from Virginia, sang about a fox hunt. The Shelor Family did “Big Bend Gal” and three other tunes. Mr. and Mrs. J. W. Baker told a sad story in “The Newmarket Wreck,” about a train accident near Knoxville.
Afterward I helped Holt and Crabtree clean up. With all the assisting I’d been doing, I had worked up an appetite, so I headed home and found Mama in the kitchen.
I gave her a peck on the cheek. “What’s for supper?”
“Your daddy wants to see you. He’s in the shed.”
“Playing with the snake?” I joked.
She fixed me with a look. “It’s serious, Nate.”
My stomach did a little flip. I crossed the kitchen, pushed open the screen door, and made the long walk to the shed.
Daddy was there, all right. He wasn’t playing with the snake though. Beelzebub was in his cage. Daddy was sitting in an old wooden chair, staring at him.
“Hello, Son,” said Daddy. He kept studying that snake, as if the answer to his problems were spelled out on its back.
Beelzebub must have spotted me, because he rattled furiously and hurled himself against the side of the cage.
I jumped back. “Can’t we get rid of that thing?”
“I like it,” said Daddy. “So does Arnie.”
Arnie had been spending time with Beelzebub, but Daddy wasn’t supposed to know it. I glanced over at Daddy, wondering how he knew.
He said, “Arnie came to me this morning. Admitted he’s been sneaking out here against his mother’s wishes, watching Beelzebub and then lying about it.”
I sighed. “So he decided to confess.”
“Repent,” said Daddy. “The word is repent. It’s what you do when you’ve sinned.” His gaze bore into me, like one of the drills at the lumber mill.
I looked away.
“Arnie’s a good boy,” said Daddy. “Sometimes he sins. I do too. So do you.” He cocked his head and waited.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked finally.
“Forgive me, Lord.”
“For what?” I said. “Covering up for Arnie?”
“I know what you’ve been doing. Arnie told me.”
I clenched my fists. My fingernails cut into my palms. “What did he say?”
Daddy’s face had turned red, and one
eye twitched. He tried to look calm, but it was like clamping a lid on a boiling kettle.
“I’d like you to say it,” he told me.
“Why are you asking if he already told you?”
“Say it.”
A feeling built up inside my chest, then exploded like a hand grenade. “Music. Music, okay? Are you happy?”
“What about it?”
I thought I’d feel bad when I said it, but I didn’t. I felt good. I felt strong. I took a deep breath, and the words just flowed.
“I like music. So does everybody. They hear it on the radio. They play it on records. That’s where I’ve been—not with Mrs. Rickover, but at the old hat company downtown. A man’s there from Camden, New Jersey, and he’s making records. Wonderful records. Records with music. You were wrong, Daddy. It’s not Satan. In fact, I think it may be God.”
Daddy slapped me across the face. “Blasphemy!” he thundered.
He had never hit me before. It hurt bad, and not just because of the pain.
“Down on your knees, Son,” he growled, pushing me to the floor. I tried to push back, but he was too strong. My knees hit the floor, scraping the old boards.
“Why are you like this?” I asked. “Why do you hate music?”
His face was all contorted. “Forgive me, Lord. I hit my son.” He squeezed my shoulders, hard. “Now you.”
“Ow! What! What do you want me to do?”
“Repent, sinner!”
Once, long ago, I loved my daddy. He was big and loud and wild. But that was over. It had been over for a long time. He always said the devil was his enemy. Now Daddy was mine. He stood between me and my dreams, and there seemed to be no way around.
I pushed away his hands and struggled to my feet. “This is crazy,” I said. “This whole thing. We’re headed somewhere bad, and I don’t like it.”
“Repent!” said Daddy.
“I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I sneaked around. But I’m not sorry I heard the music. Daddy, it was beautiful.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Get thee behind me, Satan.”
“Satan’s got nothing to do with it! He’s not in me or that snake, and he’s not in the music. Why do you keep talking about him?”
