It’s been a long time since Grady first came through the rotating doors of Stomp Records awed and nervous and still convinced someone there had made a huge mistake in offering him a record deal. His boots clack on the marble floors and echo through the expansive lobby. He passes the front desk, where he’s waved right through, and takes an elevator that plays someone else’s latest hit. Sometimes it plays his, he knows, and elevator music wasn’t ever really a goal of his, but there it is anyway.
He’s not nervous today, and hasn’t been for a long time. It’s not that he doesn’t care, or that he’s no longer astounded by what he’s achieved. The only way to stay sane, he’s found, is to be completely underwhelmed by own his success. “Grady Dawson the country star” is an entity that was created here, that lives here, part of Grady, but not him, not really. Grady cares about music. Everything else is the label’s deal.
“Grady.” Vince meets Grady by the tenth floor reception desk. His manager has less hair every time Grady sees him.
“Vinny!” Grady claps him on the back. Vince wheezes and fumbles his briefcase.
“Listen, Grady. I wanted to talk with you before we—”
“Mr. Delmont will see you now,” the receptionist interrupts.
Grady leans over the high desk embossed with Stomp Records’ logo in gold. “Thank you, Doris.” Doris has worked for Duke Delmont, an executive at Stomp Records, for as long as Grady has been signed with them, and she’s been mentioning retirement “any day now” for just as long. She’s a doll; Grady loves seeing her sweet face here whenever he comes in. “Something is different about you,” Grady says, leaning closer to get a better look at her. “Don’t tell me.”
“Grady,” Vince hisses, trying to regain Grady’s attention.
“New lipstick,” Grady says, waving to Vince that he’s coming. “No. Your hair?”
Doris frets and blushes and touches her curled gray hair. “Well, I did get this fancy new face cream.”
“That’s it.” Grady snaps his fingers. “It’s working for you. And here I thought you couldn’t get any prettier.”
Doris giggles and blushes and swats at him, “Oh, you charmer.”
“Grady.”
He says goodbye to Doris, then hustles to catch up to Vince down a wide thickly carpeted hallway. Vince is a great guy and good manager, but he worries too much. Grady should send him on vacation before his next tour starts.
“About the new single,” Vince says in that same harsh whisper. “I want to make sure that you and I are on the same—”
“Grady, my boy!”
Duke Delmont has the look of a man who never denies himself the very best in life. Broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, he has a deep, booming voice, slicked down white hair and is dressed to the nines in a shiny sharkskin suit, cowboy boots, and a huge gold-plated belt buckle with a bold silver “D” in the center: Duke certainly leaves a lasting impression. Grady always wants to bring Nico along to these meetings and watch his reactions to Duke Delmont and his flashy approach to style; he can just imagine the flicker of disapproval in Nico’s eyes about that shiny silver suit.
“Duke, good to see you; thanks for meeting with me.” They shake hands, and Duke ushers them inside to the leather chairs in the center of his huge window-walled office. A view of Music Row spreads out on the street beneath them. They’re in the center of the chugging, churning engine of country music here: the labels, studios, production stages, radio networks and stations, magazines and websites, and a few dedicated TV stations.
“My boy, my boy. No need for the formalities!” Duke chortles. “How’ve you been?”
Duke is loud and blustering, rich and powerful beyond anything Grady could ever imagine, yet he’s been there for Grady’s whole journey here in Nashville: the highs and the ugly, rock-bottom lows. He’s been disappointed in Grady and warned him that the label might drop him if he doesn’t get it together, but even when it took Grady a few tries, Duke never gave up on him, never did drop him from the label. And now?
“I’m… really great, actually, I—” He starts to tell Duke about Nico, about his new home and family, how he’s getting married to this imperfect, gorgeous, frustrating, amazing man, and Grady has never been happier—even in their bad moments, he is so, so happy.
Duke barges ahead before he can say anything. “Good, great, look I’ma go ahead here. I don’t want to waste your time, Grady.”
Vince shifts forward and back in his seat; he seems even more stressed out than usual. What was he trying to tell Grady? What does he know that Grady doesn’t? This is supposed to be a quick stamp of approval on the single, with maybe a few minor tweaks. Then Duke will insincerely ask Grady to play a game of golf, and Grady will give his sincere regrets, and they’ll part ways until next time.
“You know I think your stuff is just fantastic, you know that. Some people,” Duke sweeps his right hand out, vaguely indicating the rest of the building outside of his office. On his pinky is a huge gold ring. “Some people. Not me, I would never, you know that. They think the single is too controversial. Too political.”
Grady furrows his brows. Controversial? “How— I don’t— It’s a love song. How is that political?”
Duke says nothing, but takes a little silver remote from a side table and presses a button. Grady’s new song fills the office.
I know this isn’t your average love song
But this is not an average love
It’s good. Really good. Or so he thought. Was he wrong? To him it sounds raw and real and honest about being in love, really and truly in lasting love. How could that be controversial? Unless—Oh. Political. Grady’s blood flares hot; his fingers clench tight on the leather arms on his oversized chair. He glances at Vince, who begs with his eyes and the flat line of his mouth for Grady to let him handle it, but rage boils over.
“I’m surprised at you, Duke. I didn’t take you for a coward. A few people clutch their Sunday pearls, and you roll over to show your belly, that easy?”
Sometimes he can almost hear the trampled remnants of Vince’s patience cry out for mercy. “What Grady means, Duke,” Vince says through clenched teeth. “Is that Grady’s, er, lifestyle—” Grady makes an offended noise of protest. “Grady’s personal relationships,” Vince amends, “Haven’t been an issue before, and we’re not quite sure why it matters all of a sudden.”
Grady defiantly crosses his arms, but he gives Vince an approving nod.
“Grady, Grady,” Duke says, as soothing as his harsh, booming voice can manage. “This isn’t coming from me. You know I’m a huge champion of equal rights. Hell, I made a donation recently! A big one. You know me! But I have to consider other people. I’m not running a kingdom here; I ain’t supreme ruler!” He chortles again, it sets Grady’s teeth on edge. “Your, uh. Your fella. What’s his…”
“Nico.”
“Nico. Well, you and Nico, you have to think about each other, right? Hey, I’m married, I get it. Can’t be all about yourself now, right? So the single gets held up, then the album, then all of sudden they’re talking breach of contract, they’re talking lawsuits. You know that’s out of my hands, Grady, that’s lawyer stuff. Then what? That affects Nico, too.”
Grady shifts in his chair, looks from Duke to Vince, and Vince’s eyebrows raise to his nonexistent hair line in a silent how do you want to play this? But Grady doesn’t know. He’s always had his integrity when he had nothing else, when his life was in shambles, even then he held fast to his vision and his honesty and never hid who he was or the men and women he dated and thought then that he loved. And now, now he has so much more.
“I’ll, uh—” Grady’s fingers refuse to loosen their viselike grip on the armrests, and anger simmers in his belly but he shakes his head and grits out, “I’ll take another look at the song.”
3
“That’s bullshit.”
&nb
sp; “Gwen.” Flora inclines her head and widens her eyes in Cayo’s direction. The little guy is too busy gumming on a wooden block to listen to whatever the grownups are on about. Grady and Gwen are both cross-legged on the floor with him, and Flora is perched on the couch, guarding the glasses of lemonade on the coffee table from tiny grabbing hands.
“Well, it is…” Gwen retorts, but silently mouths the word this time. “Bullshit.”
“So they’re refusing to release the song?” Flora asks. Grady came right to their house after the meeting with Duke. It’s a good place to go when he needs a kind and understanding ear or two. That and Flora is great cook.
“Not exactly,” Grady hedges. “They won’t release it as is. They want me to make some changes.”
“Changes as in: Make it about a girl, so no one’s delicate sensibilities are offended, because it was only okay for you to be bi in theory, like that’s the way it works, right? Gotta pick one or the other and whoops, you chose wrong.” Gwen’s arms flap wildly as she rants; she has such a loud presence for such a small person. Cayo crawls over and hands her the block, which is now covered in drool, as she finishes with a final, “Bullshit.”
“Gwen. Do you want our child’s first word to be—” She stage-whispers, “bullshit.”
Gwen scoops up Cayo, who squeals and grabs two handfuls of Gwen’s purple and platinum blond pompadour. “He’s the biracial adopted child of two lesbians in Tennessee. It’ll probably come in handy.” She covers his fat little cheeks in kisses and makes nom-nom-nom noises. “Isn’t that right, Bubba?”
Smiling despite herself, Flora closes her eyes and tips her head back. She looks just like Grady’s Memaw used to when she was asking the Lord to please give her strength. When she opens her eyes again Grady gives Flora a smile and wink, and she blushes prettily.
“My manager thinks I can just make the song vague instead of changing it.” Drop the he’s and him’s for you and yours.” Still the same song, Vince argued, just more palatable. Play the game, Grady; it sucks, but you don’t have much recourse here.
Gwen’s right, it is bullshit.
Cayo crawls over to Grady, then pulls himself up on the coffee table to grab the pretty glasses. He’s steady on his feet now as long as he’s holding on to something; he’ll be walking any day—growing too fast. Flora deftly moves the glasses out of the way, and Grady picks up a nearby board book to distract Cayo with.
“In the great green room,” Grady reads. Cayo plunks himself down on Grady’s bent right knee. “There was a telephone. And a red balloon. And a picture of—” Cayo settles in against Grady’s chest and his wispy, wild curls tickle Grady’s chin. He couldn’t adore this child more than if he were his own; he just loves him clear to bits. Is that how Grady’s grandparents felt? That instead of being the burden Grady always felt he was, he was a surprising blessing, just as Cayo is? “—and a comb and brush and a bowl full of mush. And a quiet old lady who was whispering hush.” When Cayo makes a shh sound along with the narration, Grady presses a grin into his hair.
“And what happens if you refuse?” Flora asks when the book is finished and has become a teething toy like the block. “Can you just… Not change it?”
“Yeah, fu—I mean eff the man!” Gwen adds.
“Yeah, sure,” Grady agrees. “Only thing is they take breach of contract pretty seriously.”
Flora frowns at that, and Gwen scowls. Cayo continues gnawing on Goodnight Moon. Now that he’s talked it out with this family that knows sacrifice and compromise and that love requires setting aside ego and selfishness, Grady has an inkling of what he should do.
“What did Nico say?” Flora crouches in front of Cayo with a teething biscuit. It’s dry-looking and cardboard-colored and can’t taste much better than the book, Grady figures. Cayo takes the trade.
He hasn’t told Nico because he knows Nico will tell him to stand his ground. Grady can imagine him, jaw set defiantly, spine held rigidly. He would never let Grady compromise who he is or his voice, but who Grady is comes at a cost to Nico. He sacrifices for Grady: his privacy, his career, where he lives, time with his family, time with Grady. And what does Grady sacrifice for him?
“I’m, uh, still workin’ out what to tell him.” Grady squirms under the matching looks of disapproval and concern Gwen and Flora direct at him, but he’s saved when Cayo drops his teething biscuit and makes another lunge for the glasses on the coffee table.
“I should head out.” Grady hauls himself off the floor, drops kisses on three cheeks—one smeared with teething biscuit goop—it does taste like cardboard, matter of fact—and declines the offer to stay for dinner.
He means to go home, but finds himself rumbling in his truck down a side street in Music Row to an old brick cottage turned recording studio. It’s sure not the large art-deco inspired state-of-the-art studio he’s used to now. But as his boots echo across the plank flooring, which gives under his weight, the dark, cramped interior, whose walls are padded with cheap egg-carton foam insulation, it brings him right back to the first studio he worked in. Back then, he’d been so thrilled just to be there, he didn’t care about his reputation or the number of albums he would sell or how to get his name in as many magazines as possible—and by any means necessary. He just wanted to make music. Has he lost his way, so determined to make something of himself and shed his past for good? Has his reputation become more important to him than simply doing his job by making a decent record?
Clementine waves to him from the soundboard. A slight young woman wearing a slouchy toboggan hat and a gray and orange University of Tennessee T-shirt is in the booth wearing headphones and studying sheet music. Grady’s never seen her. She’s cute, though Grady suspects he’s not exactly her type.
“What are you doing here? And who is that?” When he called after leaving Gwen and Flora’s to see what Clem was up to, this was not what he expected. Of course, with Clem he never did know what to expect.
“Borrowing some studio time from an associate,” Clementine says to his first question, reaches across him to flip a switch, and to the second question replies, “That is Ellis Booker, and she’s about to blow up Nashville.” Clem starts the backing track, gives Ellis a signal, and the most hauntingly gorgeous blues voice comes out of her mouth.
Grady whistles. “Damn. Where did you find her?”
“At a… lady bar.” Clem turns the music down and ignores Grady’s delighted grin.
“And what were you doing at a lady bar?”
Clem flips tousled copper-gold waves and adjusts a few things on the soundboard. “I do not have to explain myself to you, Grady Dawson.”
Grady laughs. “All right. So you picked up this cute girl, at a lady bar, took her home, and found out she could sang.”
“You would go there,” she says, with a fond shake of her head. “No, she was setting up for the headliner, whom I was actually there to see. I wasn’t even really paying attention to her; she was just doing a sound check. Then that voice.” She pushes a few controls high up on the soundboard and nudges one down. Clem has always taken a big part in producing her own songs, but this is new. “I had to talk to her and found out she’d been rejected all over town because she didn’t have the right ‘look.’ And I just thought it was criminal. This level of talent, and she’s working tech at a bar because she’s not a buxom blonde in cowboy boots?”
It is criminal, and exactly describes Clementine’s look early in her career. How many of them have had to twist and contort themselves for their dreams?
“I may have a knack for developing talent,” Clem continues. “I mean, once upon a time there was this scruffy, curly haired disaster that I nurtured into a bona fide superstar.” She nudges him with her elbow. He would take offense at being called a disaster, but…
His music has always been real, raw, honest. Yet where would he be without cleaning up his act? Off the map like his m
other? Jail and then crashing on couches like his father until people got sick of him? Worse?
“Duke wants me to change the single. Says it’s too controversial for country music. I don’t know what to do.”
Clementine looks at him as if she has X-ray vision that scans past his skin and bones and guts right to his heart. “I think you do.”
Grady leans back in the chair and watches Ellis sing her soul out. Her hands hold the headphones tightly; her eyes are clenched shut. Success, Grady has learned in the years since he wandered awestruck into a crumbling old studio for the first time, before he was signed, before anyone cared about him or who he was, has precious little to do with raw talent. “Everyone compromises,” he says finally.
“Sure,” Clem signs a thumbs up to Ellis. “But your name will be on that album, not Duke’s. So what you have to ask yourself is, does it sound like you or your compromises?”
4
He means to go home after leaving the studio, he really does. Nico is home by now for sure. He heads that way, toward their house hidden in the forested hills rising around the edge of downtown Nashville. But when he’s stopped at a red light, his fingers drum on the steering wheel, and his left legs jogs up and down. He gets the familiar sensation that his skin is too tight and his mind is zipping from thought to thought to thought as if the cable’s gone out so only static and jumping colors and squiggling lines and noise are left on the screen. He needs to clear his head.
“Yo, Grady! Wassup?”
“Benny, how’s it, man?”
“Excellent.” Benny comes from behind the counter with his hand held low. Grady connects their palms in a low-five, then pulls Benny in for a half hug. It’s nice to have someone greet him like that, happy to see him, him, just Grady, and actually mean it. It’s one of the reasons this dirt bike track in the boonies is a sanctuary, where he can shed his mask and put the weight on his shoulders aside for a spell.
Blended Notes Page 2
