by Kellen Hertz
For John, who taught me how to listen,
and for Kieran, who dances to his own beat
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
CHAPTER 1: LOST IN THE MUSIC
CHAPTER 2: HOT CHICKEN & BRIGHT LIGHTS
CHAPTER 3: THE JAMBOREE
CHAPTER 4: LILLIAN STREET SENIOR CENTER
CHAPTER 5: CENTER STAGE
CHAPTER 6: ELLIE CALE
CHAPTER 7: FIND YOUR VOICE
CHAPTER 8: SUNDAY SUPPER
CHAPTER 9: IN THE SPOTLIGHT
CHAPTER 10: A BREAKTHROUGH
CHAPTER 11: A STRONGER BRIDGE
CHAPTER 12: PRINTERS ALLEY
CHAPTER 13: A SECOND CHANCE
CHAPTER 14: NOTHING SPECIAL
CHAPTER 15: BACKFLIPS & BUTTERFLIES
CHAPTER 16: THE BLUEBIRD CAFE
CHAPTER 17: FEELING THE HEAT
CHAPTER 18: A NEW DEBUT
CHAPTER 19: JUST THE BEGINNING
SONG LYRICS
ABOUT THE SONGWRITERS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PREVIEW OF TENNEY IN THE KEY OF FRIENDSHIP
REQUEST A CATALOGUE
LEARN MORE ABOUT TENNEY
COPYRIGHT
My left hand shifted down the neck of my guitar, fingers pressing into the frets to form chords, while my right hand sailed over the strings with my favorite pick. I knew every note of “April Springs.” I didn’t have to look at my sheet music or think about how to play the song. I just let go and played, feeling the music as if it was flowing out of my heart.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Dad waving me down from a few feet away.
Startled, I clamped my hand over my guitar’s neck, muting its sound mid-chord. It took me a moment to realize I didn’t hear the buzzy twang of Dad’s bass guitar. I glanced around. The rest of our band wasn’t playing, either.
“Sorry,” I said, feeling my cheeks turn hot pink.
“No worries,” Dad said, winking. “I know you love that one. And you were singing with so much heart that it nearly broke mine to stop you.”
I blushed. When I play a song I love, it’s easy for me to get swept up and forget about everything but the music. “April Springs” has a slow, sad melody that fills me with warmth every time we rehearse it. And when I sing its romantic lyrics, I can’t help daydreaming about what the songwriter must have been feeling when she composed them.
“That transition out of the chorus still sounds a bit rocky,” Dad said to the band. “Let’s try it again.”
Our lead singer, Jesse, wrinkled her nose at him. “Come on, Ray. This is the fifth time we’ve gone over the chorus. Let’s just move on to the next song.”
My seventeen-year-old brother, Mason, rolled his eyes from behind his drum kit. Mason isn’t Jesse’s biggest fan. He thinks she’s stuck-up because she never helps unpack gear at our shows. Also, she only drinks bottled water from France, even though the tap water is perfectly fine here in Nashville, Tennessee. Despite all that, I couldn’t help but admire her. Jesse definitely had what it took to be a lead singer for a band. She had a great voice, she loved performing, and she was happiest when she was the center of attention. Every time I watched her perform I wondered: Could that be me someday?
“Let’s try the chorus once more,” Dad replied calmly. “We haven’t practiced in ages. And with our next show around the corner, I want to make sure we have this down.”
Jesse pouted, but she knew she couldn’t say no because the Tri-Stars were Dad’s band.
The Tri-Stars used to be a family band. But when Mom quit to start her own food truck business, Dad invited Jesse to join us as the lead singer. I wish we got to perform at the big stages around Nashville, like the Ryman Auditorium or the Grand Ole Opry, but we mostly just play weekend gigs around our neighborhood. Even so, we have a few fans—that is, if you count my little sister and my best friend.
Jesse sighed. “Let’s get on with it, then.” She counted off, and the four of us launched into “April Springs” again.
“Last April the rains came down,” sang Jesse, “and washed away your love.”
Dad and I joined in, harmonizing on the next lines. “Last April the rains came down, and washed away my pride. When I lost your heart in that rainstorm, I think I nearly died.”
Jesse pushed her microphone away and looked over her shoulder at me.
“Tennyson, your vocals need to blend more,” she hissed.
Jesse always uses my full name when she bosses me around. Usually I like having a unique name, but the way Jesse says it always makes my temper rise into my throat.
“I’m doing my best,” I said to her.
I like singing harmony, but when I’m singing low notes, my voice loses some of its smoothness and gets a grainy edge. Mom says that’s what makes my voice unique. When you’re singing backup, though, you’re not supposed to sound unique; you’re supposed to sound invisible.
“It’s boiling in here,” Jesse said curtly. “I need a break.” Without waiting for my dad’s reaction, she stepped off the edge of the stage and slipped out the front door.
Dad frowned. “I’ll go turn up the AC,” he said, heading to the storeroom at the back of the shop where we rehearse.
I sighed. We never seemed to be able to get through an entire rehearsal without Jesse getting upset—and this time it was my fault.
Mason slung an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t let Jesse get to you,” he said. “She’s not happy unless she’s complaining about something. I thought you sounded great. Didn’t she, Waylon?”
Waylon, our golden retriever, perked up. He’s named after one of Dad’s favorite singers, the “outlaw” Waylon Jennings, and he definitely lived up to the name when he was a puppy. He always used to break the rules, like escaping from the backyard and chewing up our shoes.
“Maybe the Tri-Stars should try playing some of your songs,” Mason suggested, nudging me with his drumstick. “Remember that one you wrote about Waylon? Oh, Waylon. Wayyy-lon! He’s a real sweet pooch …” he crooned.
I sang the next line. “Long as you make sure he’s not on the loose …”
“Wayyy-lon,” we harmonized. Waylon howled along.
I laughed. “I don’t think those lyrics are ready for an audience yet.”
“C’mon, it’s a good song!” Mason said.
“It’s just okay,” I said.
I’m twelve now, but I’ve been writing songs since I was ten. “Waylon’s Song” was the first one I ever shared with my family. I was really proud of it back then. Now, though, the words seemed sort of cheesy.
“I’ve gotten better since I wrote that one,” I said.
“Yeah?” Mason said. “You should play me something.”
I hesitated. I’d been working on a few songs lately, but none of them were quite ready for anyone’s ears but mine.
“I need to finish some lyrics first,” I said.
“Suit yourself. Want to help me catch up on inventory while we wait for Jesse?”
We always hold Tri-Star rehearsals at my dad’s music shop, Grant’s Music and Collectibles. My parents have owned the store since I was little, so for me, it’s the next best thing to home. Mason and I don’t officially work there, but we all help out when we can.
I followed Mason into the storeroom. It’s packed with shipping boxes and instruments that need repairing. Dad was at his desk, writing Trash on a piece of paper that he had taped to a sagging black amplifier.
“Wow!” Mason said. “Is that a Skyrocket 3000?”
Dad nodded. “A guy dropped it off for recycling yesterday. Apparently it’s brok
en.”
“No way,” said Mason.
“You want it?” Dad asked.
Mason nodded eagerly, his eyes so wide that you’d think he’d just won a free car. My brother loves rewiring musical gear. Our garage is full of half-fixed amplifiers and soundboards that he’s determined to repair.
“Great, we’ll bring it home to the workshop after rehearsal,” Dad said.
Mason craned his neck to peek out the window. “I’m not sure we’re getting back to rehearsal any time soon,” he said. “Jesse’s still on the phone.”
I groaned.
Dad gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “Tenney, I know you’re excited to practice, but Jesse’s got a lot of solo shows coming up and she’s a little stressed out. So let’s just give her another few minutes here.”
I knew Jesse was busy, but it was hard to be patient. I’d been looking forward to band rehearsal all week. If I could, I’d play music every waking minute.
“Fine,” I said after a moment. “I’ll go work on some of my own songs.”
“Good idea,” Dad said, ruffling my hair.
I ducked out of the storeroom and returned to the small stage at the front of the store. Dad lets customers use the stage to test out microphones, amplifiers, and instruments, and it doubles as the Tri-Stars’ rehearsal space. I slung my guitar over my shoulder and adjusted Jesse’s microphone to my height, looking out at the empty store. Waylon was curled up by the vintage cash register, watching me. For a moment, I imagined myself on a real stage, in front of thousands of people, about to perform a song I’d written.
“This next one goes out to Waylon,” I said into the microphone.
I picked out the chords of the tune I’d been working on. Melody comes easy to me, but it takes me a long time to find the right lyrics to match. I hadn’t figured out words to this song yet, so I just hummed the melody while I played. As the song’s energy rose and washed over me, I filled the empty room with music.
The song ended and I opened my eyes. Waylon was asleep, which made me laugh. Jesse was still on the phone outside. Everything looked the same, but somehow I felt stronger inside. Playing music always made me feel like that. But performing my own songs for people, letting them feel what I felt through the music—that was my biggest dream.
Jesse came through the door and tucked her cell phone into her pocket. “Okay,” she said. “Go get your dad and brother, and let’s get this rehearsal over with.”
I snarled and let my fingers ripple down my guitar’s six strings, sending up a wave of notes. Jesse doesn’t know how good she has it singing lead, I thought. I hopped off the stage and headed toward the storeroom. Maybe I should ask Dad to let me perform one of my songs with the Tri-Stars, I thought. But I knew that he’d only agree if he thought the song was great. And that meant not playing it for him until I was sure it was ready.
We wrapped up rehearsal and drove home. When we pulled up, my seven-year-old sister, Aubrey, welcomed us by doing cartwheels on the lawn in front of Mom’s food truck. I love Mom’s truck. It has shiny silver bumpers and it’s painted robin’s-egg blue. Georgia’s Genuine Tennessee Hot Chicken is painted in scrolling tomato-red letters along the side.
Mom appeared from the open garage, her carrot-colored hair twisted up under a bandanna, and her freckly arms moving fast as she loaded food bins into the truck’s tiny kitchen. She reminded me of a hummingbird: always in motion and stronger than she looks.
“Finally!” Mom said, as we hopped out of Dad’s pickup truck. “We were starting to get worried about y’all. How was rehearsal?”
“Okay,” I said. “But we only rehearsed three songs.”
Mom raised an eyebrow. As the former lead singer of the Tri-Stars, she knew that being in a band is always full of drama. “What happened?” she asked.
“Jesse happened,” said Mason.
“We sounded good, though,” Dad chimed in.
Aubrey cartwheeled over to us, her sparkly tutu bouncing as she landed with a thud on the grass. “When do I get to play with the Tri-Stars?” she asked.
“Soon, baby,” Dad said.
Aubrey pouted. Everyone in my family plays an instrument, but Dad is the one who decides when we’re ready to perform with the band. Dad plays anything with strings. Mom sings and plays Autoharp, Mason plays mandolin and drums, and Aubrey’s learning accordion. I’ve played guitar since I was four, and I started banjo last year. Dad always says that as members of the Grant family, we have music in our bones.
Mom rubbed Aubrey’s shoulder. “Just keep practicing. Nobody ever won a Country Music Award by doing cartwheels onstage.” She checked her watch and nodded at my guitar case. “Better get that inside, Tenney. We’re wheels up in ten minutes,” she said. “We need to be set up by six o’clock.”
We were about to take the truck downtown to sell Mom’s food at Centennial Park. Aubrey’s favorite singer, Belle Starr, would be performing an outdoor concert there. I wasn’t a huge fan, but I’d never turn down a chance to hear live music.
I ran into our family room with its red patchwork rug, jumble of antique furniture, and musical instruments everywhere. I set my guitar next to a couple of Dad’s and raced upstairs to the bedroom I share with Aubrey. You can definitely tell whose side is whose. Aubrey’s half looks like a glitter factory exploded. My side’s less shimmery, and decorated with all things music. I’ve adorned the wall over my bed with old photos of Patsy Cline, Joan Baez, and Johnny Cash, and a framed 78 rpm record of one of my favorite songs, Elvis Presley singing “Hound Dog.” My guitar pick collection sits in a glass jar on my nightstand.
As I sat down to change shoes, I saw my most prized possession: my songwriting journal. The cover was decorated with rosebuds and blooms, and I’d covered its pages with lyrics, song ideas, and doodles. With my new melody still stuck in my head, I was tempted to crack open the journal to work out some lyrics. Before I could, though, Mom honked from the driveway. I hopped up with a sigh. Writing my song would have to wait.
Mom turned the food truck onto the parkway out of East Nashville with Mason, Aubrey, and me belted into the food truck’s jump seats behind Dad. Before we’d even crossed the bridge over the Cumberland River toward downtown, Aubrey was squirming with boredom.
“Turn on the radio,” she pleaded. “Pretty please?”
Mom switched it on. A bubbly electronic beat filled the car.
Aubrey shrieked. “Turn it up, it’s Belle Starr!”
We’d all heard the song “Star Like Me” a bazillion times, and I was starting to get a little tired of it. But when Mom turned it up I couldn’t keep from bobbing my head to the beat. Aubrey wiggled and sang along with Belle’s chorus:
“You can be a star like me! Know who you are and you’ll be free. Be proud of yourself and love what you see. That’s when you’ll see who you can be!”
“Catchy,” Dad said to me, over Aubrey’s singing.
I nodded. It was easy to see why Belle and the song were a hit. The melody had a bouncy hook—the kind that you can’t get out of your head. Clangy guitars twanged under her voice. I thought they sounded fake, as if the sound came from a computer and not real instruments.
“Be proud of yourself and love what you see …” Aubrey belted. She may have been off-key, but her excitement was infectious.
As I started singing with her, Mom joined in, too. “Look in the mirror and see what you’ll be. If you follow your dream, you’ll be a star like me!”
Mom’s voice rang out, clear, creamy, and warm. She sounded a hundred times better than Belle Starr.
“Can we please turn off the cheeseball music?” Mason begged. “It’s bad enough that I have to suffer through her concert!”
We giggled and kept on singing. Mason squeezed his hands over his ears until the song ended.
Mom steered the truck onto the roundabout at the edge of Music Row. I craned my neck to peer at the bungalows and office buildings that house some of the most famous record labels and recording studio
s in Nashville. From Elvis to the Beach Boys to LeAnn Rimes, some of the biggest performers in the world have recorded here. As we drove by, I imagined myself inside one of these historic studios, standing in a recording booth with headphones on, singing a song I’d written. Excitement shivered through me.
We stopped at a red light outside a boxy building marked SILVER SUN, one of the most famous record labels in Music City. In our family, it’s beyond legendary.
“Mom, there’s Silver Sun Records!” I said. “That’s where you recorded your demo, right?”
Mom pressed her lips into a thin line and nodded. “Yep,” she said stiffly. “A long time ago.”
“What was it like inside?” I asked. I’d heard the story of Mom’s brush with music stardom a dozen times, but it never got old.
“It was … memorable,” Mom said without looking at the building. When the light turned green, she pressed her foot on the gas and didn’t say another word.
Before long, we arrived at Centennial Park. The food trucks were assigned a lot across the lawn from the stage where Belle Starr would be performing. As soon as Mom pulled into our spot, we started setting up. Mason and Dad unpacked drinks and side dishes while Mom heated up the stove and the frying station to cook the chicken to order. Mom makes everything she sells in the food truck herself, but her specialty is traditional Nashville-style hot chicken, spicy and fried and served over a slice of white bread with pickles. Mom uses wild honey, too, so her chicken tastes like sweet, crunchy, peppery bits of heaven.
As I set up the menu board, I glanced over at Belle Starr’s stage. It had been built in front of the massive white columns of the Parthenon, a replica of the ancient Greek temple. The lawn was packed with people who had arrived early to claim space on the grass to watch the concert.
Everyone is here to see Belle Starr, I thought. Does she get nervous when she sings for all those people?
“Tenney,” my mom called, interrupting my daydream. “Can you help Aubrey with the utensils? We’ll have customers any minute.”
Sure enough, just as Aubrey and I set out the forks and napkins, hungry concertgoers started gathering around the food trucks.
