by Steve Brewer
But what if Eddie didn’t make it? What if he was a complete failure? Jimmy couldn’t afford to waste a year writing a book about a guy no one ever heard of, unless he recast it as a work of fiction. Hmmm. On the one hand, if Eddie succeeded, Jimmy had a great biography. If Eddie tanked, Jimmy simply had to add a few small elements, a murder or two, perhaps some sex, a little betrayal, and voila! He had a novel. It was a great story either way and Jimmy could end the fictional version however he wanted. Country superstar rides off into the sunset or failed artist dies by his own hand.
Inspired by the possibilities, he spent the rest of the afternoon writing. He fell into a state as everything Eddie told him poured out of his head. Jimmy had never been to the Bluebird Cafe, so he was forced to add some imagined details. He wrote up Eddie’s account of the negotiation at Estella’s, softening Eddie’s portrayal of Herron and Peavy as obsolete country buffoons, rendering them instead as crusty old music industry sages.
Jimmy then got into the chapter on Eddie’s marketing plan. The more he considered the details, the more he came to see how canny the idea was. An alternative fictional ending abruptly presented itself: Eddie fails in Nashville, then moves to New York and becomes the most successful marketing strategist in the advertising industry. Nah, if he fails, it’s better if he hangs himself. Dramatically speaking.
Several hours later Jimmy came out of his state. His eyes were red and dry, his neck hurt, and he longed for Megan. He wanted to call her while still exhilarated from his writing. He wanted to tell her about Eddie. He wanted to tell her he loved her and he needed to hear her say it back, so he picked up the phone and dialed. No apologies this time, he told himself. No one’s to blame. He’d just ask if she wanted to go down to George Street for a drink. He’d casually mention his idea about writing the book as a novel if it didn’t work out as nonfiction. He wouldn’t make it sound like he was seeking her approval, of course, just another idea he had, no big deal. He’d been wanting to write a novel for years anyway. Maybe if she started thinking of me as a novelist, he thought, then she’d start taking me seriously. He smiled. Things were going to work out just fine. He could feel it.
After the fifth ring he started to think she wasn’t home. And sure enough, a recorded voice came on the line. “I’m sorry,” she said, though she didn’t sound like she meant it. “The number you have reached is no longer in service.” What? That’s impossible. “If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please hang up and dial the number again.” Jimmy looked at the number pad. Must’ve dialed wrong, he thought. He dialed again, concentrating on the digits this time. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. Jimmy hung up. A lonely feeling grew in his heart and it made him desperate for an explanation. Maybe some psychotic radio fan had gotten Megan’s number. Sure, and she’d been forced to change it. That had to be it. No problem. Jimmy would just call the station.
“Yes, I’d like to leave a message for Megan Taylor please.”
“Miss Taylor no longer works here,” the receptionist said. “She got a new job.”
Jimmy grew desperate. “Really? Like over at Z-102?” He asked the question without any conviction because he knew the answer. He just couldn’t bring himself to say it. So the receptionist said if for him.
“No, some station in Nashville. I don’t know which one.”
Jimmy hesitated. “Yeah, okay, thanks.” He hung up, shaking his head. What a schmuck. He could hear Megan’s voice. ‘Nooo, I’m not moving to Nashville. Well, it’s not up to me, anyway. He just asked me to send him an air check tape. He didn’t even say they had a job available 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.’
Yeah, Jimmy knew. Radio was famous for disloyalty. You give your heart and soul to a station, then you come to work one day and find the locks changed, the format abandoned, and the request line no longer in service. It reminded Jimmy of somebody he knew, or someone he thought he knew. Damn. He wondered if she was already there, wondered what she was doing. Was she thinking about him? He wished he could read her mind, just for an hour.
He sat there thinking about her for a long time. Segments of their relationship popped up on the screen in his head. He remembered the time she got the hiccups from laughing so hard at something he did, and he thought about that day in Vicksburg. God, he’d never forget that. He pulled an envelope from his desk drawer. It held photos Jimmy had taken at a party a month or so ago. He flipped through the photos until he found one of Jimmy with his arm around Megan. He was smiling like a fool drunk in love. Megan looked like she was just waiting for the moment to pass. He hadn’t noticed that before. Now that he did, he began to fear it was over. She was gone. Maybe she’d never wanted to be there in the first place. She’d dumped him. And now he was alone, sitting in a small room in a small apartment in a small town feeling sorry for himself as the broken-hearted are wont to do.
Like far too many people in this state of mind, Jimmy started to think his brand of heartache was special and would make a great song. He quickly came up with a title: The number you’ve reached (is no longer in service). But what rhymed with service? Nervous? Purvis? No good. Back to the drawing board. How about, If you reached this recording in error (please hang up and dial again)? No, that was too long. He struggled with the idea late into the night but he couldn’t make it work. Rhymes were hard to come by and those that came didn’t say what he wanted.
Outside it was dark but Jimmy didn’t notice. He was preoccupied by his own darkness, a lonely black melancholy that tended to make him melodramatic and fatalistic. His girl had left him and he couldn’t even come up with a song title to express his anguish. Oddly that’s when he saw a faint glimmer. All things considered, Jimmy realized he wasn’t as bad off as he could be. At least he still had the book, nonfiction or otherwise. Maybe he could win Megan back with that.
Jimmy stood and went to pack. He’d be leaving for Quitman County in the morning.
30.
Whitney called Big Bill the Monday after his open mic performance at the Bluebird and, to his surprise, Big Bill invited him to dinner to discuss his career.
Even though his mama had warned him against it since he was little, Whitney allowed himself to feel a little more important than he’d allowed the day before. He’d have bet not everyone got invited to dinner with Big Bill Herron and Franklin Peavy. He just wished him mom was still alive so he could tell her the news. The restaurant wasn’t far from Whitney’s place, probably a ten minute walk. Since his truck was still at the repair shop and the hole in his boot wasn’t getting any smaller, it was a good thing Mr. Herron had picked a place close by. A guy just couldn’t get any luckier than that, Whitney thought.
He cut out a new piece of cardboard and slipped it into his boot. Then he put on his black Wranglers, a dark plaid shirt, and his dark gray vest. He stood in front of the mirror as he put on his black Lancer. He took a good look and told himself things were going to work out, then he headed over to the restaurant.
Whitney stopped cold on the sidewalk across the street from the restaurant. The moment he saw the Mercedes pull up to the valet his outsider status was reconfirmed. He hadn’t dressed for this sort of place, but it was too late to turn back. Inside the hostess took one look at him and tried not to smirk. She’d seen an untold number of hopefuls come through here looking for their future, but she’d never seen one dressed so mal à propos. Sometimes she wished they’d just stop coming to town. All they did was muddy the water for real singers and songwriters like herself. “Welcome to the Sunset Grill,” she said. “Can I help you?”
Whitney took his hat off and ran his fingers through his long hair. “Yes ma’am. I’m here to meet Mr. Bill Herron and Mr. Franklin Peavy.” He could tell by the way she looked at him that she disapproved.
The hostess smiled mechanically. “Right this way.” She took Whitney to the table where Herron and Peavy were waiting. More than a few heads t
urned to eye the skinny kid in the belligerent outfit.
“Hey now!” Big Bill said as he stood to shake hands. “We was startin’ to worry you’d signed with Fitzgerald-Hartley or something. C’mon, sit down. Thanks for joining us.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” Whitney turned to Franklin and shook his hand too. “I mean, both of you. I appreciate it.” Whitney generally wasn’t the nervous type, but he’d never felt so out of place. Here he was, shaking hands with two people who were, by his reckoning, among the most influential in Nashville. He didn’t know what to say. He spoke best through his music and never had to talk business with anyone more influential than the bar owners who usually hired him. He sat down and looked around. He’d never seen a crowd of people like this. They all looked and dressed different from what he’d been expecting. Whitney sensed the disdain.
Big Bill saw Whitney was somewhat unsettled. “I gotta tell ya, I hadn’t been able to get your song outta my head since I heard it.”
“Which one?”
“Oh, the, uh, slow, pretty one,” Big Bill said.
“Night’s Devotion?”
“That’s it,” Big Bill said. “You know, it all starts with the song. Sure does. A good song can do a lot more for a mediocre performer than a good performer can do for a mediocre song, if you know what I’m sayin’. And your song is a good one.”
“Well, thank you,” Whitney said. “I got more of ‘em too.”
“You got a gift,” Big Bill said. “No doubt about it.” After seeing Whitney in a better light, Big Bill made a career decision for him. It wasn’t fair but, given the importance of videos in marketing music these days, he sometimes had to steer some kids toward songwriting from the beginning so they didn’t get it in their heads that they might be on a big stage some day. “You are one helluva songwriter.”
“I appreciate that,” Whitney said. “Especially coming from you.” He began to relax and enjoy the unlikely situation where he found himself the center of attention. Big Bill pulled a bottle from the bucket of ice next to the table. “Wine?”
“Uh, sure.” Whitney had never been a big drinker, and he preferred beer on the occasions when he did drink, but he didn’t want to seem like a rube. It was bad enough he felt like one.
“You like chardonnay?”
“You bet,” Whitney said, not knowing chardonnay from shinola. “It’s. . . real nice.”
For the next hour, Herron and Peavy blew enough balloon juice to float Whitney over the Cumberland River and into Adelphia Coliseum on the other side. They predicted his songs would be at the top of the charts and that he was looking at a big money future with more beautiful women than you’d find at a Miss Mississippi pageant. The two industry giants poured it on thick, insisting over and over that Whitney had that something special. Actually, the only thing they were sure of was that Whitney had a couple of songs, one of which Big Bill felt was a hit. If it turned out the kid had more than that, well, there might end up being some truth to what Herron and Peavy were saying. But for now they just wanted the one song.
Whitney absorbed everything, including the chardonnay. He found that sipping the wine only accentuated its bitterness, so he took to gulping it. “Well, that’s flattering and all, but—”
Big Bill held up his hand and gave Whitney a serious look. “Son, we’re not in the flattery business. We’re in the music business so don’t think we’re here to blow smoke up your skirt and buy you dinner. We wanna sign you as a client.”
Big Bill poured more wine while Franklin reached into his briefcase and pulled out a contract — one that Big Bill had already checked for covert producer credits. “This is our standard agreement.” Franklin flipped page to page, pointing as he spoke. “It covers publishing rights, mechanicals, sync rights, compulsory license, all the boilerplate that’s in everybody’s contracts.” Franklin pulled a pen from his coat and clicked the push-button with his thumb. “By the way, what’s the name of your publishing company?”
Whitney shrugged. “Uh, I don’t think I have one, really. Should I get one?”
Big Bill smiled broad as a double-wide. “It’s no big deal, some writers use publishers, most of ‘em just let their managers handle that kind of stuff.”
“All this is real standard,” Franklin said.
Whitney nodded. He didn’t have the slightest idea if any of what they were saying was true, but he couldn’t see any reason they’d lie to him. “I’m just a songwriter and a singer. I figure you guys know all that other stuff.”
Franklin could barely hide his contempt. One of the few things he and Big Bill agreed on was that it wasn’t their job to educate anyone who wasn’t their client. In fact, the way they saw it, it was against the basic tenets of business to do so. As far as they were concerned it was the potential client’s responsibility either to learn about the business or to hire an attorney to handle their affairs. Otherwise it was in Herron’s and Peavy’s best interest to operate under the assumption that the potential client was a competent party. It was like football. Each team arrives at the field assuming the other understands how the game is played. If one of them doesn’t, they get their butts kicked and learn a valuable lesson for next time.
From a contract law perspective, Franklin felt they were on solid ground. If a client didn’t know any better and felt like he got a good deal earning thirty thousand dollars even when he could have earned a hundred thousand, well, in Franklin’s experience the courts tended not to consider the adequacy of the consideration in most contract situations, unless the difference was startling. Of course, for obvious reasons, once Herron and Peavy signed a client it was in their best interest to continue not educating them, lest they go back and read their contract.
Whitney flipped through the thick document. “This looks pretty complicated. You think I should get a lawyer to look at it?”
“A lawyer?” Franklin pointed at Whitney. “Absolutely. Best thing you can do.”
Big Bill waved the waitress over. “Sugar, could you bring me the Yellow Pages?” He passed the hors d’oeuvres to Whitney. “Have you tried these little ham and goat cheese things? Man are they good!” He picked up the bottle and refilled Whitney’s glass. “And try ‘em with this wine. It’s a great combo.”
The waitress returned with the phone book. Big Bill opened it to ‘Attorneys’ and slid it in front of Whitney. He ran his finger down a column of names. “I know all these fellas. They’re all real smart. This ole boy went to Vandy with Franklin. That one went to Ole Miss. I betcha dolla there’s even a Harvard guy or two in there. And I’m tellin’ you, these guys know their contracts.” Big Bill leaned across the table to share a secret with Whitney. “But I tell you what, every last one of ‘em’ll charge you five grand just to tell you this is all standard stuff.”
“Five thousand dollars?” He turned to Franklin. “Just to read this?”
“Up front.” Franklin shrugged. “That’s pretty standard.” He held the appetizers out to Whitney. “Care for another?” Whitney ate another one and gulped some more chardonnay. It was starting to taste pretty good, especially with the salty ham and cheese things.
They ordered their dinners. The waitress talked Whitney into the pan-seared catfish with okra and fig chutney. Franklin got the pasta with crawfish and andouille in a heavy cream sauce. Big Bill ordered prime rib with the crabmeat topping then held up their empty bottle. “Honey, could you bring us another one of these?”
Franklin took the contract from Whitney, turned back a few pages and pointed at a long obfuscating paragraph. “Here’s the most important part of this as far as you’re concerned. The standard songwriter royalty for Herron and Peavy clients is five percent. Of course after a little success, we’ll negotiate that up, but for starters you gotta admit, that’s good money.”
Whitney looked unsure. “Five percent doesn’t seem like much.”
“You’d be surprised,” Big Bill said, picking up his pen. He took the contract, turned it over and started doin
g the math. “Say you sell a million records at an average price of, well, let’s just say ten dollars to make the math easy, right? I mean otherwise you gotta go through the calculation of suggested retail list price, recoupable advances, packaging deductions and all that, so five percent of ten dollars is fifty cents, right? Times a million units is half a million dollars.” Bill circled the $500,000 several times for emphasis. “Can you imagine? The heck would you do with five hundred thousand dollars? And that’s just one record.”
“Wow.” Whitney smiled and shook his head. He’d never allowed himself to think such thoughts, and now these guys were telling him it was not only possible, but they were making it sound like it was more likely than not. Whitney didn’t know what had him feeling better, the wine or the endless promises, so he slugged down the rest of his chardonnay and urged them on.
Big Bill refilled Whitney’s glass while Franklin flipped the contract over and turned to the back. “Have you already got a personal services corporation set up?” He made it sound like this was something every songwriter should have done a long time ago.
“No sir. You know, I just got to town and. . .is that something where I just go down to the courthouse and fill out some forms?”
Big Bill pushed the Yellow Pages back in front of Whitney. “Any one of these fellas will help you set it up. Probably cost another five or seven thousand, no more than that. But most of our clients save the money by running their income through our corporation since we already got it set up for that sort of thing.”
“Well that makes sense,” Whitney said. “It sure does.”
The waitress brought their dinners and, before long, a third bottle of wine. Herron and Peavy eased off the contract talk while they ate. Instead, they regaled Whitney with ribald tales of country music celebrities. Big Bill ticked off the names of famous players and singers who were serious cocaine and heroin users, then Franklin shocked Whitney with news of the sexual orientation of one of the industry’s biggest stars.
