by Rick Boling
I hadn’t thought of the business as being a conglomerate, but now that she’d mentioned it, I figured she was technically correct. Over the past six years, thanks in part to Patsy coming on board and enticing several other country stars to do the same, our growth had been exponential. We’d weathered a court battle with another label by the name of Blue Note, eventually buying them out, which gave us a star-studded Jazz division; and Blue Note Records was now second in worldwide sales only to EMI. We had a division that produced an array of recording equipment, an intercontinental record distribution network, one of the largest entertainment agencies in the world, a concert promotion operation, and were in the process of starting an independent film company. Most exciting of all was Sam’s baby: our computer division. Sam had recently signed a deal with IBM to manufacture the first practical PC, and he was working with Paul Baran and others to develop the Arpanet, with the goal—at my suggestion—of turning it into the Internet and eventually the World Wide Web.
“I guess we are, honey,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “Because I want us to be billionaires one day.”
“Why is that important to you?” I asked. “There’s only so much you can buy with a lot of money, and you’d never be able to spend a billion dollars.”
“Oh, I don’t want to buy things.” She sniffed as if reprimanding me for the thought. “I want to stop all this war and stuff, and maybe figure out a way to keep people from starving all over the world.”
“Well,” I said, “I hate to break the news, but that would cost a lot more than a billion dollars. It would cost so much that only big governments could afford it, and you can’t make big governments do anything unless you become a powerful politician with millions of people supporting you.”
“Okay then, I guess that’s what I’ll have to do.”
“If you want to do that, you’ll have to start working harder on your geography and history and social studies, instead of spending all your time on math and science.”
“But those are boring subjects, Daddy,” she whined. “And all I have to do is look things up when I need to know something about them.”
Ellie’s naïve confidence was refreshing in a humorous sort of way, although that humor was always tempered by periodic demonstrations of her uncanny intellect and logic. Before she turned six she was helping Sam in the lab, coming up with simple solutions to problems only evident to a mind unencumbered by the concept of impossibility. She’d also inherited my talent for instant memorization, though in her case it was not restricted to music. And her near-photographic memory and genius-level IQ had already allowed her to skip two grades. Doris had resisted this, claiming her emotional development would be compromised by rushing her into an environment that would turn her into a social outcast. Ellie, on the other hand, seemed not to care where she was or how the older kids treated her, so long as she had a good-sized library to go to and could spend her free time working with Sam and occasionally helping Jimmy out in the studio. Still, when her teachers recommended she be placed in a special school for gifted mathematics students, Doris flatly refused.
Ellie had also become the darling of many of our artists, who sought her opinions on everything from lyrics to arrangements. And Patsy, with whom she shared a mutual love affair, refused to book a recording date unless we could guarantee that Ellie would be free to spend at least some time with her in the studio. Their friendship, however—as well as Patsy’s with Doris and me—did not exactly start out on the right foot.
When Patsy first visited the studio a couple of months after the phone conversation that seemed to have raised her from the dead, we had no choice but to introduce her to our nine-month-old daughter, which necessitated an explanation of the fictional psychic I’d told her about. I ended up taking on the role of soothsayer myself, apologizing for the elaborate story I’d made up and telling her it had all started with a dream I’d had. And, no, I said, I wasn’t really a psychic; it was the first and last time I’d ever had such a dream, but it had been so vivid and detailed I felt I had to try my best to stop her from taking that plane trip.
The part about Ellie being her biggest fan, however, was true, I told her. To prove it, I played a tape of Crazy, chuckling at Patsy’s astonishment when Ellie sang along with it word-for-word. And when I picked up my guitar and asked Patsy to sing it in person, Ellie nearly went into hysterics, hugging Patsy’s leg and refusing to let go until she sang it again.
That was the beginning of a relationship so strong that Ellie cried for hours when Patsy had to leave. After that, Patsy would call at least once a week, regardless of whether she was in Nashville or Germany or even Australia. At first their conversations were a little one-sided, but it wasn’t long before they were gabbing like sisters. And they always ended each call with a duet of Crazy.
Oddly, Ellie had shown no interest in performing, even though she did have a lovely singing voice with—no surprise—a twang not unlike Patsy’s. She was thrilled, however, when, on her sixth birthday, Patsy asked her to sing harmony on one of her records. The song was Parable, a tune I wrote in my first life that had ended up on the B-side of my second album and was never released as a single. I found it somewhat ironic that it had been one of Aurélie’s favorites and that Ellie chose to be billed as Aurélie on the record. Although Ellie was excited when the duet peaked at number five on the Country charts, it would be her first and last recording.
Sunday Morning Sentinel
As the Vietnam War began to wind down, I found myself facing a major decision. Up to that point I had not given much thought to performing myself—for one thing, I was too busy serving as CEO of Blue Note Enterprises; for another, I’d already made up my mind to remain in the background and was perfectly satisfied with my somewhat anonymous role. But when it came to Sunday Morning Sentinel, I had mixed feelings.
Although that fiasco now seemed decades in the past, the sting still lingered: an unquenchable psychic tapeworm that fed on the remnants of my previously overinflated ego. I’d even given a fleeting thought to exacting a measure of revenge on John Denny, the man I felt deserved most of the blame for the song’s failure. But that old karmic balancing act continued to strike fear into my heart, keeping me from doing anything that carried even a faint odor of the unethical. Besides, having become a major country music producer, I’d found it necessary to befriend Denny, whose Cedarwood Publishing was the largest country publishing house in the world.
Another point of irony had to do with the fact that, like the producers who had refused to allow me to be the singer on Sunday Morning Sentinel, I now had several artists to whom I owed my loyalty. And I realized that if some unknown singer were to offer me the song, I would probably have the same response. I was mulling over my options when I got a call from David Geffen that, in effect, made up my mind for me.
Although I’d kept a pretty low public profile, I had accumulated a number of friends in the recording and entertainment industries, and one of these was Geffen, a producer-promoter whose star was rapidly rising. David’s first label, Asylum Records, had recently been bought by his distributor, Atlantic, then later merged with Elektra to form Elektra/Asylum. David had remained in charge through all these machinations, maintaining his reputation for signing little-known artists who’d had a hard time finding a record label. One of these was a young fellow by the name of Jackson Browne, whose struggles had been the impetus for David originally starting Asylum Records.
At the time, Jackson was riding a wave of popularity on the heels of his first big hit Doctor My Eyes, and was in the studio working on his second album. Worried about the dreaded sophomore slump, David called me more or less to shoot the breeze and pick my brain about Jackson’s career trajectory. I knew Jackson casually in this life, and in my former one he’d been one of my favorite singer-songwriters, mainly because he was a dedicated social activist who refused to compromise his ideals for commercial gain. David and I brainstormed for a while, and after listening
to a few of his ideas a plan began to come together in my mind.
I knew Jackson preferred to record only his own songs, and I respected him for that, but with Sunday Morning Sentinel on my mind, I started to wonder if he might make an exception. Sarah and I had played around with the song, cutting a demo of it as a duet, and it came to me that pairing Jackson with Sarah could lead to a blockbuster collaboration. I didn’t go into detail about my thoughts during our phone call, except to say I had an idea for a way to assure the success of Jackson’s new album.
“Come on, Rich,” David said when I wouldn’t elaborate. “You can’t tell me you have an idea then refuse to fill me in.”
“Tell you what, David,” I said. “Let me send you a little demo I’ve got here, then you can tell me if I’m on the right track.”
I sent the tape via private courier, and David called the next day. His blasé attitude came off so transparent it was laughable. He clearly wanted the song, but I sensed that he was fishing for some kind of special deal. When I explained my idea of having Jackson sing it as a duet with Sarah, he balked.
“You know, don’t you,” he said, “Jackson’s not going to like the idea of doing someone else’s material.”
“I do know that David,” I said. “But I also know his stance on the war, and I think the prospect of working with one of the biggest R&B stars in the world might be enough to sway him.”
“Who wrote this thing, anyway?” he asked, still trying to sound skeptical by referring to the song as a ‘thing.’
“Oh, some obscure songwriter I’ve got on staff here by the name of Voniossi,” I said.
“You wrote it?”
“I did, actually, a long, long time ago. Not only did I write it, but if you’re interested in what I’m suggesting, I’ll give it to you for nothing. I don’t even want credit. For all I care Jackson can be listed as the writer. Or you, if you’d like to collect the few million bucks it’s going to generate in writer’s royalties. I’ll even throw in the studio time, if you don’t mind recording at Blue Note.”
“Mind?” he said. “You’ve got to be kidding. Listen, let me talk this over with Jackson and get back to you.”
“Okay,” I said, “but you’d better make it quick. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that timing on this one is of utmost importance.”
It took some convincing, but the art of persuasion was one of the primary reasons for David’s success. In the end, Jackson agreed, and although they did take me up on my offer of free studio time, he demanded that I be credited as the writer. We decided to include it on both Jackson’s second album and Sarah’s sixth, releasing them simultaneously along with the single.
Sunday Morning Sentinel hit the charts at number fourteen with a bullet. Ten days later it was number one, and it stayed there for fifteen weeks, breaking the current record of eleven weeks set in 1956 by Elvis with Hound Dog/Don’t Be Cruel. It remained in the top ten for 217 days, a record that would not be broken until the LeAnn Rimes hit How Do I Live surpassed it a quarter of a century later.
Both albums went double platinum within a year, and Jackson’s would eventually beat out Sarah’s by a few thousand copies (a minor victory David never ceased to rib me about). After that, Jackson refused to record at any other studio but Blue Note, and David and I went on to produce a dozen more albums together.
Even though I did not relish the minor upsurge in personal notoriety that came with being the writer of Sunday Morning Sentinel, at least my original instincts were vindicated by the song’s unparalleled success. Not only that, but I’d accomplished something I never could have in my first life: I’d become close friends with the incredible Mr. Jackson Browne.
Because of the stature of Blue Note Studios, I would also befriend several other of my earlier idols, including artists like James Taylor, Sarah McLachlan, John Denver, Dan Fogelberg, and Jim Croce. The latter three of these, I knew, would also die far too young, and after our apparent success in saving Patsy’s life, I thought about the possibility of intervening in their fates as well. But since I couldn’t remember the circumstances surrounding their untimely deaths, let alone the dates, there was little I could do.
It was too late to save Hendrix and Joplin, who had already succumbed to the same drugs and alcohol that had ruined my first life, and I was still wary of doing anything that might awaken the dreaded karmic referee. So, while Haight-Ashbury transitioned from a haven for hippie bohemia to the epicenter of new-age comedy, and fallout shelters that had once sprouted like root vegetables in the yards of nuclear survivalists were converted to rec rooms, Blue Note Enterprises rambled along, making beautiful music and bringing innovations to the world of technology.
Meanwhile, in those quiet moments between the exhausted oblivion brought on by sixteen-hour workdays and the first caffeine jolt of the morning, my thoughts would often stray to the people and events of my earlier life. It was during one of these waking dreams that I began to consider looking up some of those people and at least seeing how their lives were unfolding without Rix Vaughn there to screw things up. Or maybe even lending a hand if I thought a hand needed to be lent.
I’d already been of some help to Harley Day, commissioning him to build me a couple of guitars, which I encouraged visiting guitarists to try. That exposure had helped establish Harley’s reputation as one of the best classical and flamenco guitar builders in the US. I experienced a slight longing every time I visited his shop, where I was surrounded by the sweet smell of sawdust and could watch master craftsmen at work. But I was far too busy to scratch that particular creative itch.
My world had been so full I’d hardly given a thought to the three wives from my earlier life. And I felt sure that if I chose to I could do some things to improve their lives. Anything I did would have to be anonymous, though, since I had no interest in personally interacting with them, not even Robin. The heart string once so loudly plucked by Robin’s gentle fingers had long ago been silenced by Aurélie. And with Doris and Ellie now competing with Aurie for my love, there was no room left for even a fleeting sexual fantasy of Robin. I had, however, demonstrated a measure of respect for her by leaving Robin’s Song to molder in the dustbin of my mind, foregoing the profits I felt sure I could generate by producing it for one of Blue Note’s artists. Then again, if I was honest about it, that decision was probably more to punish myself than it was to honor her, since she would never know the song existed.
I was going over some ideas for locating my former wives, realizing that, in these pre-Internet days, I would probably have to hire a private investigator, when something happened that stopped me cold.
“Familiar” Advice
Tom, Dick and Harry had passed on to that great sandbox in the sky, though their legacy was evident all around us. Of the dozens of litters they must have sired, only three had been produced by our own cat, Jenny, a beautiful, long-haired calico who was herself now getting along in years. We’d found good homes for most of her offspring, but Mom and Doris always insisted on keeping a few of the more frisky and unusually colored kittens. These, of course, had grown up and continued to do what cats do, so we were constantly searching for adoptive parents we could trust to take good care of Jenny’s extended family.
As a result of this serial procreation, we often had half a dozen or more cats wandering the premises, two or three of which would invariably choose our bedroom as their preferred sleeping chamber. My favorite of these interlopers—Cinnamon, a huge tomcat whose fur matched precisely the color of that far-eastern spice—hopped up on my chest one morning while I was wondering how to locate my three former wives. Jerked from my musings by his sudden arrival, I looked down to find him staring at me with his head tipped to one side and his eyes radiating what we humans often mistakenly think of as curiosity. I felt sure his expression was more indicative of hunger than inquisitiveness, but it had the effect of reminding me of that old saying about what killed the cat. And since I had only two lives to his nine, one of which I had a
lready used up, that thought tempered my plans with a hefty dose of caution.
There was something else about Cinnamon’s penetrating stare that gave me pause, something almost ghostly, as if I were looking into the soul of a departed spirit that hadn’t quite managed to depart. It was then that I heard that phantom voice again, that cerebral consultant I’d chosen to believe was Aurélie. Let sleeping dogs lie, it said, choosing a canine, rather than feline metaphor, and a rather unimaginative one at that. I was thinking how little this sounded like something Aurie would say, when the voice continued: Sorry about that. What I should have said was, there’s no need to try and fix what isn’t broken.
Now I was really freaked. What had in the past been something I could easily chalk up to my imagination suddenly seemed to be responding directly to my mental criticism of its chosen metaphor.
Excuse me, I said, thinking rather than speaking, but are we having a conversation here, or am I imagining things?
Dammit, the voice said. I’m not supposed to be doing this. Just … Just give me a minute.
No problem, I said. Take your time. Then, worried I might accidentally say something out loud and wake Doris, I added, Do we really need Cinnamon for this? I’d kind of like to get out of here and go someplace where I—we—can be alone.
No. I mean, yes, you can forget about the cat. I was only using him as a familiar to distract you from your ill-advised speculations. Go wherever you like. But don’t be surprised if I can’t get back to you. I have to talk to…
She stopped then, obviously not willing to say anything that would confirm her identity.
You wouldn’t be referring to our Lakota Sioux friend, would you? I said.
Oh, shit, Rix. I’m really screwing up here. Look, I’ll do my best, but I’ve probably let myself in for it, so this may be the last time you hear from me. Heyoka’s going to be seriously pissed, and if he says ‘no more,’ that will be it.