by Sharpe, Elle
A horrible possibility occurred to me—maybe no one would come up and feed the bucket. That had never happened to me before. I struggled to think how I would recover from that level of awkwardness.
“Come on, ladies and gentlemen, don’t be shy!” I sounded like a carnival barker. This was quickly moving towards disaster territory.
Without trying to, my eyes found Ronan in the crowd, and he met my gaze. I could from his expression that all my uncertainty was showing on my face. But he didn’t look the way I might have expected. He wasn’t smugly smirking or sternly judging. He looked concerned for me.
My mind almost melted when he started stepping forward, right into the path of his mother’s ice-cold stare. Was he really going to lower himself to feeding my silly little bucket? Just to spare me the humiliation?
I didn’t have the chance to find out. Because among this crowd of miffed faces I had one very enthusiastic fan. Barron Baylor practically skipped up to the stage, beating Ronan to the punch.
He grabbed a piece of paper, scribbled something, tossed the paper into the bucket, and winked at me.
I reached into the bucket, pulled open the paper, and laughed.
I was pretty sure everyone was going to hate this. But I didn’t care. At least one person was guaranteed to love it, and that was all I needed. The familiar JukeBox Girl feeling was coming back. The bubbling up, wild, going-out-on-a-limb, let’s-just-see-where-this-takes-us feeling.
“Okay,” I said into the microphone. “I can work with this.”
I turned on the looping machine with my foot.
I’m pretty sure the next few seconds were the most confusing part of the evening for a large portion of the people there. At first I was just laying down a beat, and recording some extra sound effects on different channels for later. So for a few moments I was alone on stage in a silent room, going “Ooo, Uh, ooo Uh,” and “Doo doo, doodoo doodoo, dyaaananananow,” to myself, followed by a few “Uh-ah, yeah,” sounds which I belatedly realized sounded pretty sexual out of context. Even Ronan looked a little mystified, but in an amused kind of way.
But thank God for the magic of vocal looping machines. The more layers of sound I laid down, the more it started to make sense to everyone. Yes, I really could put these silly soundbites together—piano for the baseline, mouth-produced “chk-chk” for the beat—and enough of them combined would sound impressively like a full, recognizable song.
I saw something change on some of their faces. They’d forgotten that they weren’t sure whether or not they were supposed to approve. They were impressed. I’d caught them off their guard, snuck in under their defenses. Especially some of the older people, who were probably less tech savvy. It really was sort of like doing a magic trick.
To my eternal joy, some of the guests—younger folks mostly—started slowly getting into the groove, swaying back and forth. And a few people laughed—a sign that they recognized the song, even before I started rapping the first line. I was pretty sure I hadn’t actually rapped during a show before, but I seemed to be doing okay.
More people started laughing, registering that Young MC’s 1989 hit “Bust a Move” was blaring through the speakers in honor of the Baylor Scholarship for Artistic Excellence.
As soon as the rapping started, it was like a three hundred-person game of sweet and sour. The sweets loved it. They danced. In keeping with the spirit of things, some of them danced quite badly. The sours stood with their arms crossed, and watched with subtle disapproval as the sweets congregated on what now qualified as the dance floor.
It was sort of like a middle school dance, with some folks stubbornly stuck against the walls, and other people doing what they were supposed to do—enjoying their lives. I couldn’t really say I resented the sours. That had been me in middle school.
Cora Baylor was a sour. She stood as stiff and unmoving as petrified wood. But I couldn’t tell if she really disapproved, or if outward shows of approval were simply incompatible with her persona.
Barron was definitely a sweet. Maybe too sweet. He was thrusting his hips so hard I was a little afraid he might injure himself.
The lyrics came back to me almost in real time as I sang them. As they did I grew more and more grateful to Barron for his on-point choice of song choice. The narrator encouraged the love-challenged protagonist to “bust” the titular “moves” at a “high class luncheon,” and the message seemed to gradually sink in for the gala guests. The sweets started to outnumber the sours.
To my surprise, Ronan was somewhere in between. He wore a stunned, bemused expression, but his shoulders moved back and forth a little. It was like someone was forcing him to dance via electro-shock torture.
He definitely didn’t look happy about it. It was weirdly endearing. Sweet-and-sour. I guess there was a reason that flavor combination had been invented.
I kept right on rapping as I looked at him, not paying nearly enough attention to the words I was saying. I’d forgotten that there was a verse about the best man at a wedding checking out one of the well-endowed bridesmaids, and suddenly the risk of making eye contact with him seemed like something to be avoided at all costs. I felt color rise up into my face as I looked away from him and focused on remembering the next few lines.
The set list that night ended up being pretty stellar.
“Bust a Move,” was followed by “Walking on Sunshine”—I clicked my tongue for the drums, and hummed for the saxophones. I sang both parts to “Ain’t no Mountain High Enough.” Then all five parts to “Wannabe,”—and I included those footstep sounds at the beginning, by tapping on the side of the piano.
Each time I pulled a song request from the bucket I did a mental scan of the whole thing, remembering the instrumentals, lyrics, and even the minor sound effects. I always made an effort to include as many little details as possible, which forced me to be highly inventive with the types of sounds my mouth could produce.
This always seemed to be one of the biggest draws for people, and they started requesting songs with weirder and weirder sounds, just to see if I could rise to the challenge. 80s songs were popular for this reason. It started with “Never Gonna Give You Up,” a classic choice with plenty of synths, plus those comically deep vocals. Later some smart aleck gave me the Yazoo song “Situation,” but I was prepared. People often tried to trip me up with that Alison Moyet laugh sample, so I’d gotten pretty good at it.
I had a superb knowledge of pop music, as you may have guessed. But I couldn’t remember everything, or reproduce every song perfectly on the fly. That was a part of the show too. Watching me mess up, laugh, try again, get stumped on the same part, keep forgetting the same lyric. That was how the audience earned “points,” although no one was really keeping score.
Sometimes if I forgot the words I would ask the crowd to shout them out to me, and thankfully they did. The evolution into a group sing-along was natural. I had to admit Ronan had been right. The fancy people weren’t quite as snotty as I’d feared. In the end they behaved pretty similarly to the audiences at my other shows.
Near the end of the set things go a little quieter. As the older folks finally gave in and joined I got more requests for things like Bob Dylan, Carol King and The Beatles. The evening closed out with a rousing group rendition of “Hey Jude.” By that time the novelty of the vocal looper had faded into the background, and people were simply enjoying the music together.
I ended up singing, playing and looping for three hours straight. I didn’t even feel the time go by.
The party was ending. Happily worn-out guests started leaving the hall in dribbles and drabbles.
A few curious folks approached me after my set was done to ask about how the vocal looper worked. I showed them how my set-up allowed me to record on many different tracks—a lot more than most people used. I walked them through some layering, let them play around making some noises into the mic. When people got excited about my little machine it always made me excited too, all over again.
<
br /> My heart was full of fuzzy feelings, from hours of song and my one glass of wine. That was when Ronan’s mother came up to me, still wearing that same unreadable expression.
The fizzy happiness inside me settled and popped under her cool stare. She gave me an appraising look from head to toe. I colored, remembering my feet were still bare, and awkwardly started pulling my heels back on.
“I have to thank you, Miss Green, for agreeing to appear on such short notice,” she said. The sentiment was perfectly nice, but her voice contained very little warmth. “Your performance is quite...unique.”
I realized quickly that Cora Baylor was a master of ambiguity. It was all in the tone of voice. She started the sentence with a hint of a smile, but put just enough emphasis on the word “unique” that I was pretty sure she didn’t mean it as a compliment.
“My son,” she tilted her head slightly in Barron’s direction. “Tells me he’s quite a fan of yours.”
Barron was currently sprawled out like a slumped starfish on one of the dining chairs, a full bottle of wine dangling from one hand.
Again, I was pretty sure she did not mean this as a compliment.
“And you certainly did bring a lot of energy to the room,” she went on. “It’s easy to see why you ‘went viral.’”
I didn’t bother correcting her about the fact that I’d never actually “gone viral,” despite secretly hoping it might happen someday. The way she said the word made me think less of online success and more of literal diseases.
“Ronan,” she said, “Where exactly did you find this Miss Green again?”
I hadn’t even noticed Ronan approaching. He had such soft feet, like a cat. A large, prowling jungle cat with intense staring eyes, which were now unexpectedly fixed on me.
“At a party,” he said.
Now that they were standing side by side it was easy to see the resemblance between Ronan and his mother. The strong jawline, the characterfully arched eyebrows that could silently communicate amusement, or concern, or disdain. Same dark hair, same straight nose. They both had well-formed aristocratic faces, like nobles of an ancient dynasty. Funny, since the Baylor fortune was only two generations old or something. But I vaguely recalled that Cora came from some elite socialite family with older money.
At the moment they each wore equally unreadable, stoney expressions. I felt like a peasant who had just presented tribute. Now I was waiting to hear if my offering would be deemed acceptable. Would I be honored with a smile and a word of praise, or coldly dismissed? Or hauled off to the Tower of London for a swift beheading?
“So,” I turned to Ronan, no longer able to bear the suspense, “What did you think?”
I tried to keep the emotion out of my voice completely. I wasn’t begging for reassurance. I wanted to know his honest opinion.
“That was incredible,” he said.
His voice was just as free of emotion as mine, making it hard for me to tell just what he meant. Incredibly great? Incredibly disappointing? Incredibly insane?
“How do you do that, without any preparation? You hardly ever missed a word or a note in any of those random songs. And those were some pretty random songs.”
Ah. It was easier to read his expression now. He was impressed by my “song vault,” as I called it. So impressed that he was actually sort of freaked out, by the looks of it. The semi-critical way he was eying me seemed to say, What are you, some kind of sound witch?
“Oh, that,” I said. “Yeah, ever since I was a kid I’ve been able to remember songs pretty easily. I pretty much only need to hear a song one or two times and it’s stuck in here.” I tapped the side of my skull.
“That can’t be normal.”
“Probably not,” I agreed. “But hey, that’s the easy part. Figuring out how to translate from my head to my mouth is a whole other issue, as I’m sure you noticed. I messed up quite a few times out there.”
He shook his head like I was nuts.
“Hardly ever,” he insisted. “Are you a musical savant?”
“I...uh…” Damn it Ronan, stop making me blush. “Not that I know of.”
“So, Miss Green,” Cora Baylor interjected, dialing up the formality in her voice, “What made you want to do...all this...with your talents? I imagine with a memory like yours you could be learning symphonies. And I can hear that your voice is well trained. You could probably become a world-class soprano, if you applied your energies in a slightly different direction.”
I smiled, and tried not to let the smile become a grimace. Fortunately this type of speech didn’t catch me off guard. I was used to people asking me why I hadn’t “lived up to my potential.”
“Well,” I said sweetly, with just a hint of sour seeping in, “No music career is ever easy. Even really great talent doesn’t guarantee success. But people seem to like what I do now. And it’s fun.”
Cora sniffed at the word “fun,” like my even uttering it revealed my poor judgement. Ronan was still just...staring at me. Like he had a slight suspicion that I might not actually be real.
Behind us Barron jerked himself awake from his drunken stupor. He rose on unsteady legs and flailed his way over to us, landing in a draped position on his mother’s shoulder.
“Hello, mom,” he drawled. “How you doin’?”
“I’m fine, Barron dear,” she replied. Her body language said that if this was anyone other than her own offspring she’d have flicked him off her shoulder like a bug. “You, on the other hand, seem to have had a little too much...fun.”
“Too much fun?” Barron gasped. “Oh no. Now I’ll have to pay off the Fun Police, before I get sent to the Fun Jail for having too much fun.”
I couldn’t tell if I found Barron entertaining or annoying. Then again, there was no rule saying the two things were mutually exclusive.
“At least the Fun Police would probably take Monopoly money,” I joked, before I could stop myself.
Barron looked up and smiled at me, grinning widely.
“I like the way you think, JukeBox Girl. Great show by the way. Ten out of ten. I’d have Instagramed the hell out of you and made you blow up. But-” he cast a sidelong look at Ronan. “A deal’s a deal.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cellphone in a golden case, and handed it to his brother.
Cora gave Barron a patronizing pat on the head.
“Oh, dear, if you’d tried to film inside of one of my private events I’d have had you thrown out of the building.”
I was pretty sure she wasn’t kidding about that.
Ronan weighed his brother’s phone in his hand and looked down at it in mild distaste.
“Is this case made of real gold?” he asked Barron.
“Of course. Only the best for my baby.”
I could only assume the “baby” was his phone.
Ronan looked up at him and asked, simply, “Why?”
Barron shrugged.
“Why not? I believe it was Shakespeare who once said, ‘If thou hast got it, thou oughts to flaunt it.’”
“As you can see, Norah,” said Cora, “One of my children is sensible. The other is Barron.”
“Ouch, mom. Ouch. As you can see, Norah, only one member of the Baylor family knows how to appreciate all the pleasures of life. And his name is also Barron.”
I was beginning to sense myself being drawn into a Baylor family argument. Probably not the safest thing for a commoner like me. I stole a glance back at the stage and noticed that the tech folks had just about finished packing up my stuff. It felt like the right time to make a speedy exit.
“Um, I might head out now-” I said. I hoped I wasn’t being rude by interrupting the flow of insults being traded back and forth. “It was wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Baylor. Thank you so much for the opportunity.”
“Of course, my dear.”
She reached into an elegant silk clutch and pulled out a business card.
“If you’re ever interested in any advice on...other ways to e
mploy your talents, please don’t hesitate to give me a call. I’m very well connected, you know.”
“Wow,” I said. “Thank you.”
I could barely get the words out. My throat had started closing up again, like someone had wrapped a fist around it and lightly squeezed.
I turned quickly to grab my black case and my bucket off the stage, ready to make myself scarce.
“Hey!” Barron called. “Wasn’t it also a pleasure to meet me?”
“Yes,” I said, and I discovered I did mean it. Sort of. “It was a great pleasure.”
“I’d give you my card, too, but it’s also solid gold, so I think Mr. Sensible over here would give me shit for it. Plus he’s taking my phone prisoner, so you wouldn’t be able to call me for two whole months.” Saying those words out loud seemed to be making him break out in a sweat. “But, I do hope we see more of you, JukeBox Girl.”
The way he looked meaningfully over at Ronan when he said this made me uncomfortable.
“It’s late. I really should be going…”
“Aren’t I driving you?” Ronan asked.
“I...uh…” I avoided his eyes. “I could take an Uber, or…”
“I’ll drive you,” he informed me. Somehow the way he said it left no room for argument.
I really, really like you, the annoying voice in my head reminded me.
I really, really wish you would shut up, I said back to it.
Ronan
Norah looked away from me for the first ten minutes of the drive back to her apartment. I know this because I decided that every time I was tempted to look over at her I would look at the dashboard clock instead. I figured that would be a little more subtle.
I was still a little shaken by what I had just seen. Norah had behaved like her act was something to be ashamed of, something that might reveal her to be talentless. But as it turned out she had rare and astonishing skills. True, in this instance she might not have used them to create “great art.” But that didn’t take away from my amazement. The amount of memory power and musical intelligence it must take to recreate nearly any song from scratch like that on command...I couldn’t wrap my head around it.