“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, the 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 nerv
ous. 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 other 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.”
“Sure thing.” Eddie held out his hand. “Eddie Long, what can I do for you?”
They shook hands. “Eddie, I’m Bill Herron and this is Franklin—”
“Big Bill Herron, the producer? Are you kiddin’ me?”
Big Bill smiled and looked straight in Eddie’s crystal green eyes. “No kiddin’.”
“I sure didn’t expect to see you here. I figured you’d be at the CMC Awards.”
Franklin elbowed his way past Bill. “By the way, Eddie, I’m Franklin Peavy, Bill and I work together.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Peavy.” Eddie pointed at him knowingly. “Hey, you negotiated that big recording deal for Luther Bridges, didn’t you? That was a helluva deal!”
Franklin puffed up a bit. “That’s right,” he said, “You must read the trades pretty close.”
Eddie scuffed his boot on the asphalt. “Oh I just try to keep up with both ends of the business, that’s all.” Eddie leaned his guitar case against his car then pushed up the brim of his Stetson. “So what do a couple of big shots like you want with little ole me?”
Big Bill smiled. “Son, we’d like to talk to you about your career.”
26.
Under normal circumstances Bill and Franklin would have taken Eddie to The Sunset Grill to discuss career possibilities. The Sunset Grill was an enticing fusion of Nashville and Hollywood with deep fried spinach served by hip young waiters dressed in black. Using excess flattery and the big city atmosphere of the place, Herron and Peavy found they could get most new-to-town artists to sign almost anything. But with the CMC Awards wrapping up, it would be too crowded to get within a block of the place, so they decided to go elsewhere.
Big Bill was at the wheel of his monumental Ford Excursion. Franklin was way the hell over in the co-pilot seat and Eddie was two yards behind them in the first row of back seats. Eddie was leaning forward, hanging on their every word. Two big-time music industry vets telling war stories.
Big Bill and Franklin Peavy got along fine when it counted. And nothing counted more than signing new talent with an unpublished hit song. They’d done it so many times it was a dance. One minute Bill would lead, then Franklin would take over. They two-stepped on the fears and egos of the uninitiated and they rarely stumbled.
“Seriously,” Eddie said, “you really think it’s a good single?”
“A good single?” Bill looked in the mirror at Eddie. “Hell, son, it’s way more than that. You put that song on the worst disc you ever heard and I betcha dolla it’d go gold, maybe platinum. You got any idea what a song like that’s worth?”
“Not really.”
Big Bill smiled inwardly. “Let’s say you sell five hundred thousand units, okay? That’s good, but not as good as I think this song is, but let’s just use it for an example. A gold record brings in four million for the label.” Big Bill paused to let the seven figures sink into Eddie’s imagination. “Now, you don’t get all that,” he said with a smile, “you gotta share some of it with your producer. But even if you’re not very good at math, you can tell you gonna do all right.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Eddie said. He sounded almost suspicious.
Franklin actually said, “You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie. You come out of the gate with a big hit single like we’re talking and the record company’s gonna wanna keep you happy, right?” Eddie nodded. “Sure, they got the option on your next seven discs and a greatest hits package but trust me, they’ll renegotiate. Probably increase your royalty rate from the standard eight percent to, say, ten percent, maybe even better if you let me handle it.”
“Better than ten percent?” Edd
ie smiled like he’d just been let in on a secret. “You’ve done that before?”
“I’m the one who did it first,” Franklin said. “I’ve renegotiated some of the best contracts in country music history. Trust me, I can get you a higher royalty than anybody in town.” For the next fifteen minutes, Peavy and Herron spun wild stories of success and financial excess they had personally witnessed. They gave one example after another about the artists they’d handled and the money they’d made. “You shoulda seen that girl’s face when she saw that check for a hundred thousand dollars. I thought she was gonna faint.” It was a sales pitch they’d made a hundred times and it sounded mighty tempting. Sign with Peavy and Herron and get the keys to the kingdom.
During a lull in the pitch, Eddie glanced out the window. He’d been in Nashville long enough to recognize what neighborhood they were in. He leaned forward and tapped Franklin on the shoulder. “You mind if I ask where’re we going?”
Franklin reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his global positioning satellite receiver, showing it to Eddie. He pointed at the map on the screen. “We’re here, right?” He pointed again. “Place we’re going to is there. It’s called Estella’s. Best fried shrimp you’ll ever put in your mouth.”
“Plus they got a great jukebox,” Big Bill said. “If you like old R&B.”
Eddie smiled and nodded. “Sounds good.” He didn’t care about the jukebox or how good the shrimp were. His just wanted to get down to business.
As he pulled into the parking lot, Bill looked in the rear view mirror at Eddie. “You like old R&B? I’m talking Little Milton, Jackie Wilson that sort of thing.”
Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders Page 10