That’s where the contest semi-finals took place. As if there wasn’t enough pressure to perform without thinking about freakin’ Elvis having played the same stage.
The Ryman is on 5th Avenue, only a few blocks from my shitty apartment, and even though there was a light drizzle, I decided to walk to the auditorium and try to get some of the nervous, fluttery feeling out of my belly before I had to perform. There were a couple of photographers snapping pictures, but I was getting adept at ignoring them, and I concentrated instead on my song and quelling my nerves on the walk over.
I went in through the front doors, and after the greeter made sure my name was on the list, I was directed to the green room. He kicked the photographers out, telling them it was a closed audition.
The green room was a zoo. Twenty-five singer-songwriters milled about, most looking like they were going to toss their cookies at any moment.
I took my wet jacket off and looked around the room. Some of the faces were ones I recognized from the bar circuit. I smiled at one redheaded girl I’d hung out with on occasion, but she looked away quickly without returning my greeting and I became aware of the whispers and stares of several people there.
I could only assume they had seen the tabloids. Great.
Now I was the slut sleeping her way to the top: no judge, no jury, just execution. It hurt, but facing constant criticism and rejection for more than two years had made my skin tough. So what if a bunch of people I really didn’t know thought something about me that totally wasn’t true? I asked myself. But it did bother me, and I could feel my face burning under their stares.
With no one to talk to, I pulled out a notebook and jotted down a line or two that had been running through my head on the way over. It had promise. Not surprisingly, it was about truth and lies and about how easy it is to mix up the two. Imagine that. I ignored the eyes burning into the back of my head and lost myself in the music as I always did when things got rough.
Eventually a harried-looking assistant with a clipboard rushed into the room.
“Good, you’re all here now. Here’s how this thing is going to work. We’ll call you in one at a time, and you’ll do your song for the judges. Each judge will give his or her critique and score. The top ten scorers move on to the finals and the TV special. We’ll film that next Saturday. Anybody have any questions?”
The assistant answered a few questions, then left the room that was now buzzing with tension and electricity. The first few contestants paced and warmed up their voices. I fidgeted in my chair and tried to concentrate on what I was writing to keep my mind calm.
One by one, people were led from the room by the assistant until just a few of us were left. They were taking us by alphabetical order and as an “S,” I was toward the end.
I put away my notebook and stretched. It had been two hours, at least. I stood up and stretched my back. There were only three of us remaining now, including the redhead who had given me the cold shoulder when I’d walked in. That’s when she decided to speak to me.
“So did Dex Wilder pull strings to get you here?”
I stared at her, not even knowing how to respond. “No.” I said. “I sent in my tape just like you.”
“Well, not just like me,” she smirked. “I gave my tape to Ron and he turned it in for me.”
Ron Lennart. The record producer who’d propositioned me in the bar. Clearly he’d found someone willing to fuck him for a chance at stardom.
“Well, congratulations, I guess,” I said.
She smiled. “Ron thinks I have talent.”
“I’m sure he does,” I said under my breath. And the sad thing was, I’d heard the girl sing and she did have talent. I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her for not having the self esteem to see that for herself, to ditch the toad and do it on her own.
I could tell she was peeved that I wasn’t more impressed about her sharing the toad’s bed. but I didn’t have to think up anything else, because it was my turn to perform for the judges.
I’d toured the Ryman before, and been on stage as a tourist. It was one of the first places I’d visited after moving to Nashville and I remembered the feeling now, standing in the same spot. I’d been so full of optimism and hope and pure joy at just being in the Music City that I could hardly stand it.
I still felt like that a lot. But reality had taken hold, too. I was a little disillusioned, but at the end of the day, I had to believe that all I’d gone through and worked so hard for would eventually pay off.
Starting now.
I walked onto the stage and faced the panel of judges, who were sitting in the first row of pews, looking up at me expectantly.
There was a mic and a stool and not much else on the empty stage. The red, blue and yellow stained glass windows at the rear of the auditorium cast light on the church pews, and suddenly I felt very small up there with nothing but my guitar and my voice.
Each of the judges had a clipboard and a pencil and a look that said they were here for business rather than pleasure. As I looked down the row of faces, I recognized a few of the faces. Some, I didn’t. But the last one, I most definitely did.
Ron Lennart was staring at me from the far left, a leering grin on his face. Shit. The redhead’s boyfriend recognized me. Remembered me. Still hated me for turning down his sex-for-studio-time swap.
Ignoring the toad, I smiled at the panel and settled on the stool, my guitar cradled in my lap. I adjusted the mic and cleared my throat.
“Whenever you’re ready, Miss Stratton. Just do the song you sent in on the tape.”
“Okay,” I said into the microphone and the sound of my voice echoed throughout the auditorium.
My hands were shaking and sweaty, and it was a good thing I was sitting down. I took a deep breath, smiled at the panel and started my song.
I had played the song so often that the chords came naturally to my fingers as I played. The music was no issue, so I concentrated on the singing, on putting every ounce of emotion I possessed into my voice and hitting the right note every time.
It seemed like forever, but before I knew it, the last notes hung in the air. I’d made it through. I wanted to laugh with relief. Or maybe vomit.
It wasn’t a perfect performance, I knew that. But hopefully it was enough. By the time the last chords echoed off the church pews in the top row, a couple of the judges were smiling and nodding as they scribbled notes on their clipboards. A few had no expression at all, and Lennart was grinning evilly and scribbling as if his life depended on it.
I waited.
Finally the head judge smiled. “We’ll each give you a little critique now, and then you can go to the lounge with the other contestants, have a bite to eat if you want, and wait for the scores.”
I nodded, my throat too dry to form words.
“I thought it was great. I loved the emotion behind the song and the lyrics were really evocative of what it feels like to fall in love. Good job.”
My heart lightened at the head judge’s praise.
“I thought the voice was a little weak, but the lyrics, as Geoff said, were superb,” judge number two said. “Really vivid. They really complemented the relatively simple melody.”
One by one, the judges critiqued my song. Some of the comments were hard to hear. Like “overly sentimental” and “simplistic.” But more judges than not gave me a lot of positive feedback. And then it was the toad’s turn.
“Once again we prove that talent and fame, or should I say infamy, are two different things entirely,” he started, speaking loud and clear, as if he was performing a soliloquy. “I hated the lyrics. Your playing was passable, but the overall performance made me want to run screaming from the room. Get some voice lessons if you plan to make it in this town.” He paused and narrowed his eyes on me. “Or maybe get yourself in more compromising photos with big country stars. Half the battle in this town is who you’re friendly towards and what enemies you make.”
My face turned re
d. I know it did. But I wasn’t sure if it was shock at Lennart’s caustic words, his criticism, the embarrassment at having those photos brought to all the other judges’ attention, or whether it was rage, pure and simple, at the outright unfairness of his accusation that I was a slut.
The head judge looked clearly uncomfortable at Lennart’s tirade and the other judges were whispering amongst themselves. I knew they all recognized me now, that Mr. Wonderful had pointed out I was the girl in the seedy photos. I wondered how much it would affect the judge’s final scores.
“Thank you, Miss Stratton. You can go. We’ll have the scores and the finalists’ names in about half an hour.”
“Thank you,” I said into the mic and exited the stage, fighting the stinging tears at the back of my eyes.
But besides putting a hit out on Toad Boy, there was nothing I could do now. I’d performed to the best of my ability and would just have to wait to hear the final verdict. Even if I didn’t win the thing, just making it to the top ten and being on the CMT special would give my career a serious boost. I took a deep breath and pasted a smile on my face as I headed down the hallowed halls lined with pictures and busts and framed programs from performers past.
Back in the lounge, the tension was crazy. Someone had brought in some coffee and refreshments and some of the contestants were nibbling on cheese and crackers or tiny sandwiches. Some were drinking the coffee like there was no tomorrow and some were pacing in circles, clearly too nervous to eat.
I, for one, never passed up a free meal, so I wandered over to the refreshments to have a snack.
It was close to an hour before the results came back.
We were each given an envelope and asked not to open it, then we were ushered back on stage to face the judges as a group.
The head judge stood. “I want to thank you all for entering our singer-songwriter contest and let you know the judges had a very difficult time narrowing the field to our top ten finalists.”
I shifted my weight. My hands were sweating and the heavy sense of anticipation was almost unbearable.
“That said, we did choose our top ten, based on scores from the panel. Judges gave each performer a score from one to ten and we added up the scores to determine the top ten finalists.”
I glanced at the Toad. He was sitting back in his chair, legs crossed, arms crossed, looking back at me with a shit-eating grin on his face.
“But you’re all really winners,” the head judge continued. “You twenty-five semi-finalists were chosen from a field of nearly one thousand entrants from all over the country.” He smiled at each of us and I got a good vibe from the guy. He, at least, seemed genuine.
“Categories we looked at were lyrics, musicality, showmanship, voice and overall impression,” he continued.
I shifted my weight, wishing he would just get on with it. Waiting was the hardest part.
“We’ll start at the top.”
“Amber Green. Please step forward.”
The girl squealed and stepped out, positively beaming. I’d heard her perform. She was good.
“Neil Booker.” A tall man in cowboy boots stepped out and doffed his hat to the judges.
“Campbell Yardly.”
One by one, finalists were called to step forward until nine of the ten had been called. I and the other fifteen contestants chewed lips, shifted from foot to foot and tried to calm racing pulses as we waited for the tenth and final name.
“Ginger Bell.”
Another squeal rang out as the redhead stepped forward and hugged one of the other girls. Her roommate. How convenient.
Disappointment crashed over me as I realized my dream of making it to the finals, winning the whole thing, and being signed by a record label had just crashed and burned. And I had a sneaking suspicion why.
“Thanks again to everyone who participated. Your individual scores are in the envelopes you’ve been given. We’ll need the finalists to stick around so we can tell you about the rehearsal schedule and the television special.”
All of us losers exited the stage. Some of the rejected cursed. Some claimed foul play. All shuffled dejectedly back to the green room to collect jackets and instruments and head home. Or to the bar.
I went home and cut through the photographers lingering on my doorstep without a word. I went straight upstairs, poured myself a tall glass of white zin and deleted the two new messages Dex had left on my machine without listening to them.
* * * *
I’m really sorry, Sydney,” Dillon said, after he’d moved his amp into place on the small stage at The Tap later that night. “That sucks.”
I smiled at him. He really was a nice guy. And I’d bet he didn’t have a pregnant blonde in some faraway city. But I wasn’t thinking about you-know-who anymore.
“Thanks, Dillon.”
“It sounds like some of the judges really liked your stuff. Maybe you should send something out to some of them.”
I shrugged. For two years I’d picked myself up off the ground. With each rejection, each setback, I’d given myself the never-quit pep talk. I’d reminded myself that all the big stars went though tough times but kept with it to get where they were. Where I wanted to be.
That night, it wasn’t working. I was over it. I was tired. And pissed. I kept wondering if those pictures had never surfaced, if I had never gone to Dex’s house that night, never hooked up with him to begin with, whether things would have turned out differently with the contest. I’d what-iffed myself into a monster headache and the last thing I felt like doing was performing. But I was a professional and professionals didn’t ditch gigs because they’d had their feelings hurt.
“You should try some music publishers. You’re a great writer.”
I smiled at Dillon, who was trying so hard to be helpful. “Maybe I will.”
“Want us to kick the shit out of that record guy, Syd?” Ted asked. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was earnest. And I knew he enjoyed a good bar fight.
“No. But thanks, Ted. That’s really sweet.”
He winked at me. “You know we got your back, babe.”
We finished setting up and went to the bar for a quick refreshment. Our set didn’t start for another fifteen minutes. I looked around. It was a Tuesday night and the place was dead, as usual. This was going to be another stellar show, I could tell.
I sipped my Corona and looked around the dingy, smoky room and wondered how my dream had gotten so off track. I mean, I didn’t spend all those years fantasizing about playing shit holes like this for a dozen drunk rednecks and only slightly more pay than free drinks. Maybe it was time to give it up and find a real job. Just the thought of crawling back home to Indiana as a complete failure made me shudder. Though one was usually my limit, I asked for a second Corona and drank that one, too.
The guys talked and joked with the cute bartender in cut off jeans and skimpy T-shirt rolled up and tucked under her prominent and braless breasts. Sheesh. Bet she went home with a lot of tips. Maybe I should see if they were hiring.
Road Kill went on stage at precisely ten, not that anyone really noticed anything but the drink specials and the bartender’s breasts.
I had to dig deep to find the passion, the exhilaration performing usually gave me. Some of our gigs had been much different than this, especially early on. Then, being up on stage, under the lights, singing, playing music I loved, the energy of the crowd, the noise, looking out over the people to see them mouthing my words back at me. It was the adrenaline rush, the fear, the expectation of the whole thing that had made me do this night after night, even when the reaction wasn’t as good.
Tonight, I had to fake it. I pasted a smile on my face and in my signature opening, asked the crowd if they were ready to rock. There was no answer, just a couple of semi-glazed looks towards the stage from the half-buzzed clientele.
I sang our opening number. The band sounded good tonight. Maybe it was the beer beginning to relax me and force a feeling of war
mth and well being through my veins, but by the end of the second song, one I’d written about a cheating boyfriend, I had perked up a little. By the fourth, I was having a good time and feeling the buzz from the music as much as the beer and the adrenaline.
The crowd had grown, too, and the place was filling up. I wondered if people were there to see us. Maybe our music was finally attracting a few followers. Then I looked out over the growing crowd and saw the one face I had been avoiding.
Dex was sitting in the back with his black cowboy hat pulled low over his face. His hands were wrapped around a longneck and he was sitting back in his chair, just staring at me with a small smile on his face.
I skipped a verse of the cover we were doing of a Garth Brooks tune. The band stumbled a little, but thanks to Dillon’s quick reaction on guitar, no one noticed and the other two guys took his lead.
A rush of nerves and awareness washed over me and I forced myself to look somewhere else. I could feel his eyes on me, though, and wondered what the hell he was doing in this dive. He hated going out in public and surely he had better places to be. Other blondes to screw.
I managed to get through two more songs and the guitar solo without looking at Dex. By then, the bar was standing-room only. Dex was a magnet and when I did glance to his side of the bar, I noticed a bunch of people crowding around him, clamoring for autographs. More than a few were hot girls thrusting their chests out, trying to get his attention.
We finished the set with a good bit of applause and came down off the stage. I meant to head straight for the bar for my unheard-of third Corona, but when I saw Dex get up and head my way, I totally chickened out. I made a U-turn and went straight to the ladies’ room.
I splashed some cool water on my burning face and tried to catch my breath. My reaction to him was as strong as ever. His showing up here wasn’t helping my Forget Dex Wilder campaign. Not at all. And how the hell was I going to get through the second set with him sitting there, staring at me and looking totally hot?
Nashville Heat Page 9