by Steve Brewer
Megan ignored the question. She made the second cut on the tape and spliced the ends together. “This is so primitive,” she said, nodding at the reel-to-reel. She imagined herself in an all-digital production room of the station in Nashville. “What were you researching?”
Jimmy admired Megan’s soft hands as they deftly manipulated the tape. “I was looking for newspaper accounts of Tammy Long’s death. There wasn’t much written about it, so I guess I’ve got to go up there and interview some people. The sheriff, coroner, that sort of thing.”
“Right,” she said. “Great idea.” This is good, Megan thought. Jimmy’s really getting into the book. Maybe he’ll get so caught up in his writing and research that she could use it as an excuse to end things with him. “All you ever think about is that book!” she could say. “What about me? What about my needs?” That wasn’t a bad approach, she thought. “I know I’ve said this before, but I think the book’s a great idea.”
Jimmy was pleased by her endorsement. “It’s coming along good too,” he said. “I’ve got my notes organized and I put together a chronology for the ‘early years’ chapters.” He paused. “That reminds me.” He pulled out his pad and made a note. “I need to call Eddie and get his early impressions of Nashville.” He put the pad down and glanced again at Megan’s handwritten notes. “So what’re you working on?”
The lie came to her suddenly. “Oh, yeah,” she said brightly. “I was going to tell you, but I wanted to hear about the book. I got the wildest call this morning. The program director from a station in Nashville called, completely out of the blue, said he heard me do a shift when he was driving down to New Orleans for the Me-Oh-My-Ohs.”
“The whats?”
“The ‘On The Bayou Country Music Awards.’ They’re new. The little trophies they give out are called Me-Oh-My-Ohs. They’re little statues of Hank Williams standing in a pirogue. Anyway, this PD was going on and on about how he loved my voice and my banter. It was really flattering and he wanted to have a tape and blahblahblah, so I decided to send him one, just so he could have it on file, you know, just in case.”
Jimmy felt like he’d been hit with a nine pound hammer. “You’re moving to Nashville?”
Megan saw his eyes drifting toward the open Radio & Records so she dropped her grease pencil on the floor by his feet. When Jimmy bent to pick it up, Megan swept the R & R into the trash can. “Nooo,” she almost chortled. “I’m not moving to Nashville. Well, it’s not up to me, anyway, is it? He just asked me to send him an air check tape. He didn’t even say they had a job or anything. And who knows? The guy’ll probably be working in Buffalo by the time this tape gets to Nashville. You know how radio is. But still, working in a larger market would be a great career move for me, don’t you think?”
“Well, sure, but I just. . . it never occurred to me you might want to leave. . . Jackson.” Megan rewound the reel-to-reel then popped a cassette into the deck. “It’s not that I want to leave Jackson.” She cued up the newly edited tape and started dubbing. “In fact it’d be great if Jackson suddenly became a medium size market, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. So — look, it’s no big deal,” she said.
Jimmy sagged a bit. “It’d be a big deal to me if you moved.” He seemed wounded. “Who would I give flowers to?” He looked at Megan and smiled as hard as he could, but he started to get an empty feeling, like he was one date from the old I-think-we-should-see-other-people speech.
Megan struggled to look sympathetic. It’s not like she wanted to hurt him. All she wanted was, well, she wasn’t really sure what she wanted. But she knew whatever it was, it wasn’t in Jackson and it wasn’t with an unknown freelance writer with limited financial prospects. “You’re right,” she said, “it would be big deal, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to— I don’t know what I mean.” She waved a hand hoping to make it all go away. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Yeah, well, easier said than done.” Jimmy leaned against the wall, arms folded, an inch away from a pout. He didn’t say anything, he just looked at Megan.
Megan couldn’t look at him. He was in love and she wasn’t. And even if she was, she figured she could do better. And didn’t she owe it to herself to try? Why couldn’t Jimmy just get the clues and let her go easily? Why did someone, specifically her, always have be the bad guy in these scenarios? She didn’t like breaking his heart or anyone else’s, but it’s not like you marry everybody you date, right? She felt the pressure from Jimmy’s stare and suddenly, it just shot out of her mouth. “It’s just — I feel like I’m stagnating here.” Megan thumped the Ampex machine with a finger. “I don’t want to get stuck here where everything’s still analog. I want to go someplace digital, you know?” She finally looked up at Jimmy. All he could do was shrug. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life making ten dollars an hour doing live remotes for every donut shop that opens out on County Line Road.” She held a hand up. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. In fact, it’s such an honorable calling I think I should move on so someone else can have this opportunity.” She faked a laugh, hoping to lighten the moment.
“So you’re just thinking of others then.” As soon as he said it, Jimmy regretted the sarcastic tone.
Megan snapped back. “It’s just an air check tape, Jimmy.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m not trying to stand in the way of your career. I guess I just thought there was more to us than this.”
“This has nothing to do with us,” Megan said as the cassette rewound.
Jimmy absorbed the comment. “That pretty much says it all, I guess.” The bad news about loving someone, Jimmy thought, was that they didn’t have to love you back.
Megan had ten minutes to get to the post office. “Look, don’t try to make me feel bad about this.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” Jimmy said. “Besides, I’m not sure that’s possible.”
Megan stuffed the cassette in an envelope and sealed it. She stood and looked at Jimmy. “Listen, I gotta go.”
25.
It’s a generally accepted fact that it takes years to become an overnight success in Nashville. About the only folks who don’t accept this are the ones who just got to town. They were the big fish in their own small pond who decided it was time to share their gift with the world. They were pretty sure all they had to do was knock on a couple of doors, let somebody hear a few of their songs and, quick as you could say ‘Grand Old Opry’, they’d be opening for Shania Twain.
When that failed to happen, they either went home blaming their failure on Nashville or they got serious. For those who got serious there were plenty of opportunities to be heard. Bellevue Station, The Broken Spoke, Douglas Corner, and 12th and Porter were just a few of the Nashville clubs that featured an ‘open mic’ night offering performers a chance to play in front of an industry crowd.
But of all the clubs in Nashville, one in particular had become the Mecca for aspiring singers and songwriters. It was a small, unassuming place several miles south of Music Row. The Bluebird Cafe served food and drink like any other modestly priced cafe in the south, that is, with more cholesterol than regard. But it also served up music, and this it served with reverence. In fact, the club had a motto printed on t-shirts to reflect this reverence. It said: Shhh! The food, it had to be noted, didn’t get a slogan.
Tucked into a shabby strip mall on Hillsboro Pike, the Bluebird Cafe was famous for being the place where a lot of stars got their big break. Artists like Vince Gill and Sweethearts of the Rodeo were said to have been discovered here and the artist formerly known as Chris Gaines was alleged to have secured a recording contract with one of his Bluebird Cafe performances.
The Bluebird had two ‘open mic’ nights, one on Sunday, one on Monday. Sunday night’s required an audition and so usually had a higher level of talent. Monday night, however, was luck-of-the-draw and the performances ranged from pleasant surprises to don’t-quit-your-day-job. Every Monday afternoon around five, t
he hopefuls arrived in the parking lot. The doors opened at five-thirty and those wanting to perform rushed in to sign up. The names were all dropped into a hat and twenty-four of them were chosen. Starting at six o’clock, each person got to sing two songs and hope for the best.
It was Monday night and the Country Music Confederation Awards were getting underway across town at the Ryman Auditorium. This was good news for Bill Herron and Franklin Peavy inasmuch as it meant there would be plenty of parking at the Bluebird and there would be few competitors scouting the ‘open mic’ talent.
Franklin arrived first and snagged a good table. While he waited for his partner, Franklin nursed a scotch and played with his new toy, the latest wireless application protocol internet connection device. He was as fond of digital gadgetry as Big Bill was averse to it. Franklin constantly goaded Bill about this, suggesting a connection between technophobia and Bill’s diminished status among Nashville producers. While everyone else in the recording industry had embraced the use of computers in the studio, Big Bill was still holding firm against the new technology. That idiot would bring a club to a gun fight, Franklin thought as he used his toy to get some stock quotes, make a few bad trades, and check his E-mail.
Franklin was logging off when his partner arrived. Despite plummeting to 99 on the Power 100, the staff at the club still treated Big Bill with a certain respect. He could hardly get across the room without one of the club’s regulars stopping him to pay respects, “Excuse me, Mr. Herron, I’m a big fan,” they’d say. “I bet I’ve got every record you ever produced.”
Franklin watched all this from his table, his eyes narrow and bitter. The thing that galled him most after all his years in the industry was that no one ever stopped him to pay respects. They’d all scurry over to that fat, bug-eyed partner of his, scraping and bowing and hoping for a word or two, but they never acknowledged Franklin. It wasn’t fair. Franklin had been involved with as many hit records as Big Bill, if only in the contract negotiations. And he knew all the big stars, or at least their attorneys. How come he didn’t get any damn adoration? Because he was a lawyer, that’s why. The guy who wouldn’t be eaten by a shark out of professional courtesy. Yeah, yeah, he’d heard ‘em all and they weren’t any funnier coming from Travis Tritt than from some twice-divorced car salesman dissatisfied with his custody arrangement.
This hadn’t always bothered Franklin, but as he approached the end of his career, he’d begun to crave recognition. To this end, Franklin had lately been thinking about producing records himself. He’d been to hundreds of recording sessions and watched Big Bill practice his craft. It didn’t seem to amount to much more than telling the engineer to make the drums louder or to put some echo on the vocals. Anyone could do that, he thought. And by God if that’s what garnered respect in this town, then Franklin was ready to do it. The only problem was all their clients had signed contracts making Big Bill their producer. Now all Franklin had to do was figure out how to get around that niggling detail. But how hard could that be? After all, he was the one drawing up the contracts.
Bill arrived at the table, chuckling. He could tell by Franklin’s pained expression what was going through his mind. Bill held his hands out, palms up. “What can I do?” he said, “I’m a famous producer, you’re a lawyer.” He said it the same way he might say ‘hemorrhoid.’ Residual celebrity status was the one thing Big Bill had that Franklin didn’t, and rubbing it in was one of the few pleasures left to him.
Franklin looked up, eyes mad as Merle Haggard on a jag. “Oh, I meant to tell you this afternoon, but I forgot. . . go fuck yourself.”
Big Bill laughed as he sat down across the table from Franklin. “I understand.” They ordered drinks and sat there, not speaking, just waiting for the music to start.
The first act was a stunning blonde whose arrangements seemed influenced primarily by Trini Lopez. When she finished she was approached by several men, each claiming to have access to important A&R executives for major labels. False promises were made and phone numbers exchanged. The next two acts were as earnest as they were unpolished. One appeared to be doing a poor imitation of Robert Earl Keen while the other was an uncomfortable cross between Jimmy Dale Gilmore and Little Jimmy Dickens.
The rest of the candidates were out in the parking lot in front of the Bluebird. A pair of speakers mounted under the eaves allowed them to hear the performers inside. Eddie Long was out there, sitting on a low concrete wall, tuning his guitar. His name had been drawn tenth, so he still had thirty or forty minutes before he was up. In the meanwhile, he was listening to and criticizing each performer that came before him. Every now and then he looked out from under the brim of his hat at the others who were waiting. Some were cool, leaning against trucks, smoking cigarettes. Some were pacing, nervous, having second thoughts. One kid seemed to be saying a prayer. Eddie smirked at that and shook his head. He had the distinct feeling he was the cream of this crop.
An employee stuck her head out the door, looked at her clipboard, then called for the next performer. “Whitney Rankin?”
He finished his prayer and looked up. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “I’m right here.” He picked up his guitar and followed her inside. Whitney waded through the crowd and stepped up to the microphone, scared to death. The dark haired skinny kid drew the queer looks he was used to but he shook ‘em off. Still, he was afraid to open his mouth at first for fear he might throw up. He’d never been this nervous. Too afraid to speak, he quickly slipped on his harp rack with his Honer 565 Cross Harp. After a deep breath and a glance at his audience he positively attacked his guitar. It was a dark country rocker with renegade overtones and something evil bubbling just under the surface of the harmonica. His voice was sure and the song was as smart as it was angry. Before he was halfway through, the queer looks were gone. When it was over, some even looked ashamed as they applauded. “Thanks very much.” Whitney smiled and took a deep breath. “Man, am I nervous.” The crowd laughed with him. Whitney twisted at the bandana around his wrist as he looked out at the full room. “I guess I’ve written a hundred songs or more, but out of all of them, this next one’s my favorite.” He tuned a string. “It seems like I’ve known the song all my life, even though I only wrote it a few years ago.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I call it ‘Night’s Devotion’ and, uh, well. . . here we go.”
The first chords stilled the room, taking everyone by surprise. It couldn’t have been any more different than the first song, like a lullaby following Steppenwolf. When Whitney started to sing, Big Bill felt the strangest sensation. Judging by the expressions of the others, he wasn’t alone. Big Bill couldn’t explain why, but he suddenly felt like a child being loved. He couldn’t remember the last song that made him feel like that. Could this song possibly be so good? Bill looked at his glass. It was only his second drink, so it wasn’t the alcohol. No, this was a good song, pure and simple. Maybe even a great one.
During the soft harmonica bridge Bill found himself thinking of the word ‘lovely’ — an adjective that hadn’t crossed his mind since who knows when. He pulled out a couple of business cards and wrote ‘Whitney Rankin’ on the back of one.
There was silence after the song ended. Whitney thought he’d bombed, thought his favorite song was crap. But the crowd suddenly snapped out of their dream state and gave him the sort of applause usually reserved for established craftsmen who had just performed an acknowledged gem.
Big Bill nudged Franklin and nodded at the stage. “That’ll kill cotton knee high,” he said. Whitney stood in the spotlight, genuinely relieved, surprised, and pleased. He smiled modestly, thanked the crowd, then headed for the door. As he passed the table in the corner, Big Bill reached up and handed Whitney a business card. “Hey, kid, give me a call.”
Whitney paused to look at the card. He recognized the name from the list in Nashville Scene. “All right,” he said. “I sure will.” He floated into the parking lot feeling like he’d just signed a record deal. He would have stayed to hear the othe
r performers, but it smelled like rain and Whitney had a long walk in front of him, so he headed home, not even thinking about the little hole in the sole of his boot.
The other singers stared as Whitney headed out to the road and started walking east with his guitar case, a new man in black, different and fearless, they thought. They looked at each other as if to ask if his song was as good as they thought. The woman stuck her head out the door and called the next name on the list. The guy just shook his head. “I ain’t going up there after that,” he said. She shrugged, called the next name. There was no response, but a Ford driven by a recently discouraged singer screeched out of the parking lot heading south.
Eddie stood up, tilting his hat back. “I’ll go,” he said. The others turned and looked, wondering who the hell this guy was. The woman stepped aside, holding open the door. Eddie walked through the crowd with his big flattop Gibson held above his head. He stepped into the light, looking down at first, then slowly tilting his head back to reveal his face. “They said I could do two songs,” he said, “but I think I’m just gonna do one, so everybody else’ll have time to do theirs.” He strummed the guitar once, then again. “I wrote this song not too long ago, after my wife died,” he said, grabbing everyone’s attention. “It’s called, ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way.’” And then he sang the song.
Just as it had in Starkville, the song left the entire room breathless. Looking out at the stunned faces, Eddie knew he’d kicked some ass. He politely thanked the crowd as he slipped the guitar strap over his head, then he headed outside. Big Bill brushed Franklin’s arm as he stood up. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go have a talk with our boy.” They caught up with him in the parking lot. “Hey, Eddie,” Big Bill called out. “You got a minute? We’d like to talk to you.”
