by Steve Brewer
“Yeah, four.” Eddie smiled back and nodded. “I’m diggin’ that.” He looked to the control room. “Boss?”
Big Bill pushed the mic button. “I got special tape rolling. It captures magic. Now go!”
Eddie counted it down and they nailed it in one take. Absolutely nailed it. It was impossible, but they did it. There was a pause as the last note faded and Eddie looked from one face to another. They ranged from sublime smiles to shit eatin’ grins. Eddie leaned into his microphone and spoke softly, like an announcer on a classic music station. “Gentlemen,” he said. “I believe we have our mojo working.” Everybody let out with hoots and hollers and high fives.
The door behind Big Bill opened. Megan stepped into the room and waved. “Hey, everybody! That last one sounded good even through the door.”
The sight of Megan’s wild red hair sent a charge through Eddie. “Hey girl! Glad you could make it,” he said with a wink. “We’re on a roll. Just make yourself comfy while we knock out another one.” He turned to the guitar player. “How about ‘Homeless in Love Town’ next?”
The guitar player shrugged. “I’ll follow you anywhere, man.” So Eddie counted it down and they did a run through. It was a mournful, lovesick ballad that wouldn’t have been out of place on a Clint Black or a Randy Travis record. Afterwards, they listened to a playback and did their post mortem.
“Something’s hinkey,” Porky Vic said.
The guitarist agreed. “Yeah, there’s a seventh on the fiddle.”
“It might be duckable,” someone suggested.
“You don’t like the seventh?” The fiddle player sounded a little hurt.
Big Bill jumped in. “No,” he said, “but only because of the harmonies we’re going to do. Can’t have that and the seventh, right?”
The fiddler player nodded understanding. “Cool.” After three more takes, ‘Homeless in Love Town’ was in the can, save the harmony tracks Bill would record and mix in a few days.
Megan sat in the control room admiring her new man. Even though Eddie was the youngest one in the studio, she could see the rest of them were glad to have him lead them to the promised land. She kicked back on the sofa and began to imagine a plush future at Eddie’s side.
“Hey, Bill,” Eddie said. “You think the time’s right?” He’d been waiting for Megan, for inspiration. “I’m feelin’ organic, if you know what I mean.”
“You rascal, I know what you mean.” Big Bill was about to give a thumbs up when the door behind him opened again and Franklin walked in with Whitney. Big Bill turned around. “Hey now! Look who we got.” He waved everybody in from the studio. “Let’s take five, fellas. Eddie, we’ll do the song when we come back.”
The players emerged from the isolation booths and headed for the control room. The pedal steel player stopped the guitarist as he passed by. “You bring your two-fifteen?”
The picker smiled slyly. “Yeah, you got an idea for something?” He set his guitar down and pulled his 1955 Martin Style 2-15 mandolin from its case. It was a beauty, rosewood and tiger-striped maple and an unbound ebony fingerboard with 7 ivoroid dotmarkers. The pickguard clamp was an unusual shade of jade and brown. The instrument made sounds that might have come from heaven, if angels played mandolins. The picker pulled a stool up next to the pedal steel guitar. “What’ja have in mind?”
Out in the control room some of the players chatted with Franklin, whom they knew from prior business dealings. Franklin made a joke about Big Bill’s studio being the Jurassic Park of Nashville. “I’ll take a digital rig any day,” he said. “But what do I know, right? I’m just a lawyer.”
Big Bill introduced Whitney to everyone. Whitney tried not to look too astonished at where he suddenly found himself. After some small talk, Porky Vic and a couple of the players headed out for smokes. Big Bill corralled Eddie and brought him over. “Eddie, I want you to meet Whitney Rankin, the writer I told you about. He’s our other newest client, wrote a song that’s going to be a big hit. Whitney, this is Eddie Long.”
Whitney was a little disappointed Big Bill had introduced him as a writer only. He thought of himself as a performer too, but he didn’t think now was the time or place to bring that up. Eddie and Whitney shook hands, each looking at the other with a vague sense of recognition, though neither remembered they had played at the Bluebird open mic that same night. “Good to meet you,” Whitney said.
“Likewise.” Eddie wondered what was up with the earrings and the bandana tied around Whitney’s wrist, but he wasn’t going to say anything. He turned and introduced Megan as his girlfriend.
She looked at Eddie in mock surprise. “When did I become your girlfriend?”
Eddie smiled, pulling her tight to his side. “Last night, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Oh, that was you.” Megan smiled. “I knew you looked familiar.” She arched her thin eyebrows and smiled at Whitney. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Whitney tipped his black hat. “Ma’am.”
“Oh, my,” she said in her Southern Belle voice. “There are some real cowboys left.” She looked Whitney up and down. Nothing prefabricated about this guy, she thought. He was authentic something, though she wasn’t sure what. He seemed somehow out of place.
“So,” Eddie said, “where you at with your song, the one Bill’s talking about? You shopping a demo?”
“Yeah, we recorded a bunch of my stuff here coupla weeks ago, but we hadn’t heard nothin’ back from nobody yet. Tell you the truth,” Whitney shrugged meekly, “I’m not real sure what the whole process is, but Mr. Herron says he’s out there pluggin’ me.” Eddie nodded his head as if he cared. Whitney twisted nervously at the bandana tied around his wrist. “You know, I play too,” he added. “I mean, I’m not just a writer.” He wanted Eddie to know he was a member of the club, hoping to gain a little acceptance. “Mr. Herron didn’t mention it, but uh—”
Just then Big Bill rumbled by and slapped Eddie on the back. “All right,” he said. “‘Nuff of this socializin’. Let’s make us some music.” Bill sank into his big chair behind the console and rubbed his hands together like he was about to do a magic trick. “Where’s Porky?”
As the players filed back into the studio, Whitney and Megan moved to the sofas behind Big Bill. Franklin walked over and leaned onto the mixing console, watching the musicians. He spoke to his partner without looking at him. “By the way,” Franklin said, “our boy didn’t win Best New Hat Act. Probably won’t get his deal picked up now.”
Big Bill was busy adjusting something on the tape machine. He shrugged off the news. “Tough break,” he said. “Maybe he’ll pick up a something at the Viva NashVegas Awards.”
Franklin nodded. “Yeah, everybody wins something there.”
Big Bill punched the mic control button. ““Whaddya say, fellas? We ready?”
“Hey, Bill?” It was the pedal steel player. “Before we get started, we got a little something we worked out during the break. Might work good with the song.”
Big Bill looked to Eddie. “It’s your session. Whaddya say?”
Eddie smiled. “I ain’t in no hurry.”
Big Bill held his hands up, surrendering to the musicians. “Let’s hear it.”
The pedal steel player nodded to the picker and they began to play. It was just the two instruments, a pedal steel guitar and a mandolin, their voices combining to create a third. What they played wasn’t strictly a melody; it was more of a mood or a setting or an emotion put in chords. The fiddle player stood by, arms folded gently over his instrument, nodding his head solemnly as if to say, ‘Yeah, I’ve felt that way too.’ Megan and Whitney sat forward on the sofa, listening intently. Franklin stood there, hands clasped behind his back, wishing Eddie hadn’t cut him out of the producing credit. The passage lasted only fifteen or twenty seconds but left everyone marveling. When it ended, you could’ve heard a pin drop. Porky Vic sat there smiling.
Big Bill broke the silence when he punched the mic button. “Play th
at again,” he said as he hit the ‘record’ button. So they did. As they approached the end of the piece, Eddie and the fiddle player made eye contact and joined in with what used to be the opening parts. The bass player and drummer fell in a couple of bars later and they did a complete run through. Eddie sang his heart out. Big Bill sat at the console, riding the gain, his head tilted back slightly and poised perfectly between the monitors. He closed his eyes and listened. When it was over Porky Vic stopped the tape machine. Bill hit the mic button again. He paused, not knowing at first what to say. “I don’t think we can improve on that,” he said, finally, “but let’s do another take, just for grins.” He pointed at the pedal steel and the fiddle player. “And, at the end, I want you to come back in with that same thing and we’ll fade it out.”
They did the song two more times, each as affecting as the one before. When they had the take they wanted, Eddie went over and shook the pedal steel player’s hand, thanked him for his contribution and said, half joking, that he might be willing to give up a quarter of a point of the publishing for the intro. “That’s not necessary,” the slide player said, though he didn’t mean it.
“All right,” Eddie said quickly. “If you insist. But I’ll mention it in the liner notes.”
No one said another word about what they had just recorded. It was as if they all knew it was a monster, but no one wanted to jinx it by saying so. “You wanna take a break or move on?” Big Bill asked.
“Long as the Spirit’s with us,” Eddie said, “let’s go on and do ‘Dixie National.’” The players shuffled through their charts and toyed with the chords for a few minutes, warming up. ‘Dixie National’ was Eddie’s tribute to the rodeo he used to go see as a kid at the Mississippi Coliseum at the fairgrounds in Jackson. The song was two parts Chris LeDoux, one part Charlie Daniels, and just enough Eddie Long to make it his own.
In the control room, Franklin worked on Whitney. “For example, say you play a mid-size venue and they want to record your show and pay you five thousand dollars for the right to sell copies of that performance in perpetuity.” He paused, tilting his head the way he remembered one of his law professors doing. “Would you sign that contract?”
“For five thousand dollars?” Whitney thought about it for a moment. He looked at Megan, then back at Franklin. “Sure,” he shrugged. “I guess. I mean, why not?” Whitney hated talking about business. He’d come here to play music, to record, to do his craft. If he’d wanted to talk about contracts, he’d have gone to law school.
Franklin assumed a fatherly demeanor. “See, that’s why you need us. I’d never let you sign that contract. Never. Everybody in this town’ll tell you, I can’t scratch the words ‘in perpetuity’ out of a contract fast enough.”
“But it’s just one show,” Whitney said. “Five thousand’s good money to me, especially for one gig. You know what I mean?” He looked to Megan for her thoughts. She smiled politely and shrugged as if to say she couldn’t argue. She thought that was nicer than coming out and just calling him a short-sighted clodhopper.
“Now don’t get me wrong,” Franklin said, “five thousand’s not bad, but stick with me and Big Bill and you can probably do better’n that. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
Whitney nodded thoughtfully, figuring Mr. Peavy was right. After all, he and Mr. Herron had been in the business a long time and, by all appearances, were doing well. A guy like Whitney was probably better off sticking to what he knew and letting the big dogs with the brass collars handle all that business stuff.
Eddie and the band finished ‘Dixie National’ and started talking about what to cut next when Big Bill suddenly slapped the arms of his chair and spun around. “Hey now! I just had a wild idea,” he announced. “What do you think about having Eddie record your song?”
A moment passed before Whitney realized Big Bill was talking to him. “What do you mean?”
“That’s a great idea,” Franklin said, hands held wide in well-practiced wonder.
Big Bill held his own hands out as though they were a part of his argument. “We need a demo to take the song around anyway, right?” He gestured at the players in the studio. “Long as we got a band, why not kill two birds?”
“It’ll save you some money too,” Franklin said, nudging Whitney. “Demo session with a band’ll usually run you five or six grand. This a good opportunity.”
Big Bill looked at his watch, then at Whitney. “Whaddya say, hoss? We’ll just record it as a demo, full band, no charge.”
Whitney felt the pressure as they waited for his decision. He always thought he’d be the first one to record his song, but maybe he misunderstood the purpose of a demo. He could ask about it, but he didn’t want to look stupid in front of all these people. And he sure didn’t want to get anybody mad at him just when he felt he was getting a foot in the door. He looked around, unsure about what he should do.
“Whitney?” Big Bill looked at his watch again.
In the acoustically perfect room, he could hear the watch ticking. “This would just be a demo,” Whitney said, tentatively, “so I could still record it, right?”
“Absolutely,” Big Bill assured him. He pointed toward the studio. “Go on in there and play it for ‘em so they can get a feel for it.” He pushed the mic button. “Fellas, we’re gonna do Whitney’s song next.”
“We got charts on it?” the bass player asked.
“Nope, you’ll have to roll your own,” Big Bill said.
A moment later Whitney was in the studio with a borrowed Martin, playing his song while the musicians charted it for themselves. Whitney sang it a couple of times while Eddie wrote out the lyrics. It was an elegant ballad, sweet and aching with a beautiful chorus. The bridge was simple and lovely. The lyrics were straightforward and honest and conveyed the tender security of true, unconditional love. It timed out at just over three minutes and left you wanting more. “That’s a terrific song,” Eddie said. “What’s it called?”
“Night’s Devotion,” Whitney said.
“That’s nice. I’ll try not to mess it up too bad.” Eddie winked at him.
“Thanks,” Whitney said. “I, uh, I appreciate it.” He didn’t know what else to say. He put the Martin back in its stand and returned to the control room to watch his song come to life. He’d never heard anyone else — let alone an entire band — do one of his songs and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
Eddie and the band ran through it a few times with Big Bill making suggestions here and there. He turned to Whitney every time he made a change to the song. “You see why I did that?” Whitney would always nod, even if he didn’t really understand. But at the moment, he didn’t care because they were playing his song and, honestly, it sounded better than it ever had in his head.
Whitney sat back on the sofa and took it all in. Here he was at the home studio of one of Nashville’s most storied producers. Sitting on one side of him was his own manager, on the other side was the very attractive girlfriend of the recording artist who was in the studio recording one of Whitney’s songs. For the first time since moving to Nashville, Whitney felt like he belonged. His elusive dreams seemed to be coming true. He just wished his mama could see him now.
37.
Jimmy got back from Meridian late that night and went straight to the Dutch Bar and Lounge, an exceptionally seedy beer joint that served up a good plate of fried pickles and cheap draft beer. He chose the DB&L not only for its atmosphere and menu, but also because it was close enough to his apartment that he could stumble home afterwards if it came to that. And Jimmy was thinking after the day he had, it just might.
On the upside, he’d gotten the information he wanted from Oak Pharm, but the deal with Eddie still had him shook up. Cease and desist and restraining orders? What the hell was that all about? Jimmy could think of three possible explanations, none of them auspicious. The worst case scenario, the one comprised of both personal and professional humiliation, was that Eddie was now sleeping with Megan. In that
case Eddie would likely be unable to visualize himself working side-by-side with the guy from whom he stole the girl. But that raised other questions. Had Eddie stolen Megan or had she gone after him? Jimmy knew Megan better than he knew Eddie, and he had to admit the latter was entirely possible.
As Jimmy sucked down a second draft and ordered a third, it occurred to him that he might be jumping the gun. It was possible Eddie and Megan hadn’t even been in contact with each other. It could be that Big Bill Herron had convinced Eddie that Jimmy was simply the wrong guy to write the book. There were certainly other writers — proven biographers, for example — with whom publishers would rather be in business. Given Eddie’s ambitions, it was easy to imagine him buying that argument. The final possibility was that Eddie had never even mentioned the book idea and that Big Bill was simply caught off guard by Jimmy’s call. In that case his threats might have been a knee-jerk reaction to buy some time while he checked with his client or tried to find a way to work it more to his advantage. So Jimmy didn’t know if Eddie had really betrayed him or if his manager was just being a dickhead. Worse, the only way he could find out for sure was by going to Nashville, finding Eddie, and asking him. And right now he didn’t have the time for that.
There was only one thing that didn’t pass the sniff test no matter which way Jimmy approached it. That Eddie hadn’t called after getting his unlisted number told Jimmy where he stood more than anything else, just as it did with Megan. With that in mind, Jimmy finished his third beer and fried pickles and headed home.
He lived in a two bedroom unit at the River Wood Oaks Townhouses, one of a hundred unimaginative apartment complexes in Jackson with the sorts of names that made you expect better construction than you got. The wafer thin walls were actually a convenience inasmuch as they allowed Jimmy to hear, in exquisite detail, the vocal sex life of his next door neighbors, which in turn allowed Jimmy to masturbate without having to overuse his limited store of sexual memories.