Rock the Boat

by Sigmund Brouwer

  ROCK

  THE

  BOAT

  Sigmund Brouwer

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2015 Sigmund Brouwer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and

  retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in

  writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Brouwer, Sigmund, 1959-, author

  Rock the boat / Sigmund Brouwer.

  (Orca limelights)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0455-5 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0456-2 (pdf).—

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0457-9 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights

  PS8553.R68467R63 2015jC813'.54 C2014-906600-7

  C2014-906601-5

  First published in the United States, 2015

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014951650

  Summary: Webb thinks he has what it takes to make it

  in Nashville, but one shady music producer may have the power

  to crush Webb’s dreams.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for

  its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:

  the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the

  Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia

  through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Rachel Page

  Cover photography by Corbis Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, STN. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4 ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  18 17 16 15 • 4 3 2 1

  To the real Jim Webb—you rock!

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Webb was desperate to come up with some great lyrics.

  The dark air felt like sweet clover.

  No.

  The dark air tasted like sweet clover.

  No. Neither of those images was right. He wasn’t sure why. The verbs maybe? Felt was a useless word. How about The dark air enveloped him like sweet clover?

  Nope. It wasn’t the verb’s fault. Okay, enveloped wasn’t that great, but it was the sweet-clover comparison that hurt the phrase. And maybe it should be dark night air, because dark air by itself didn’t convey the same emotional tone. Get shut in a closet and you’re in dark air. Dark, dry, stale air. Not at all like the still night air that surrounded him as he sat on the deck of the houseboat in a lawn chair with frayed nylon straps that had stretched with age. His butt was only a couple of inches from the deck, but he wasn’t going to write lyrics about that.

  So there he was, just before midnight on a Monday night, sitting in a saggy lawn chair in air that was heavy with humidity and may or may not have felt or tasted like sweet clover. He shook his head and rolled his eyes, mocking himself and his cheesy stab at the beginning lyrics of a song.

  He reached over to a plate on a nearby lawn chair and grabbed a chunk of watermelon, telling himself to enjoy the moment instead of trying to find a way to express how the moment made him feel.

  He had no problem admitting that he felt amazing.

  Most nights he sat in the same lawn chair in the same spot in the same solitude, looking through a gap in the rocks that led out to the deep brown waters of the Cumberland River. When it rained, he sat under a big umbrella.

  The houseboat was moored in a small harbor cut into the banks of the river. About three miles downstream was downtown Nashville, and when the occasional barge passed by, he thought about the crew’s first view of the city skyline and wondered if the sight of it made them as breathless as it did Webb. Even after being in Nashville for weeks.

  Nashville.

  Webb thought it would be pretty cool if he could go back in time and visit the kid he was at thirteen—a kid playing the same J-45 Gibson acoustic guitar for the same reasons Webb played it now.

  To get lost in the rush of music. To feel the scrape of the pick against nylon and steel, the pressure of callused fingertips against the frets, holding a chord the perfect length of time and letting the note of that chord meld into the next.

  The difference was that thirteen-year-old Webb could only dream about Nashville. Seventeen-year-old Webb was there.

  Webb bit into the watermelon and didn’t care that juice dribbled down onto his T-shirt. He was thinking about chasing dreams. There was a song in that. But it had been done a million times. So the big question was, could he write a hook excellent enough to justify yet another song about kids who yearn for bigger things?

  It wasn’t just the still, scented air that made this moment amazing: it was the moon. Webb had been on the upper deck of the houseboat on dozens of nights, but this was the first time the moon had risen right in the gap in the rocks that led to the river.

  It was kind of like Stonehenge, he realized. Mystical.

  Warm night air. Chirping crickets. The slap of tiny waves against the houseboat. Slight swaying of the lawn chair as the water cradled the boat. The taste of watermelon juice drying on his lips. The aloneness that was bigger than loneliness. With that big, timeless moon creeping upward from the river, slowly pulling away from its reflection on the water as if even the moon was reluctant to leave Nashville and all that it promised.

  Webb watched the moon and knew he’d never forget this feeling.

  A swell of river water came from what seemed like nowhere, and the houseboat began to rock. That reminded him of all the times he’d heard the phrase “don’t rock the boat.” Like it was a bad thing to rock the boat. Because everyone wanted the boat to be safe and stable and predictable.

  Well, Webb thought, he wouldn’t be here in this moment if he hadn’t been prepared to rock the boat. The moment he was living was one he’d remember when he was an old man. He didn’t want to look back wishing he’d—

  Then he had it. Live in the moment.

  The whole sweet-clover thing wasn’t working only because the lyrics were bad. The idea behind the song didn’t work. Sometimes you had to try something that didn’t work to find something that did. You had to rock the boat. Live life loud. Bring the roof down. Walk the high wire. Not look back and regret what you didn’t try.

  It wasn’t a new concept for a song, but a fresh way of presenting it began to unfold in his head. He scrambled to grab his guitar, because he could already hear the melody to go with the lyrics that tumbled through his brain.

  You have to know we’re gonna walk the high wire

  Maybe playing with some hot fire

  We spell our names like trouble

  But you know we’re gonna love it.

  Yeah, we’re gonna rock the boat

  That’s the only way to know

  We’re gonna have to rock the boat

  Yeah, that’s the only way to go.

  An hour later, long after the moon had climbed t
o the center of the sky, Webb had finished the entire song. He didn’t need to write it down. He knew every word and every note.

  And felt great about it. A feeling that didn’t even last until noon on Tuesday.

  Two

  Performance-wise, Webb thought he’d killed the new song, but as the last chord echoed into silence in the studio, he did his best to keep a straight face. Webb didn’t like telling other people what to think about his music, even through body language.

  He looked across the studio, waiting for a reaction from Gerald Dean, the producer. Gerald sat in a chair behind the mixing board, leaning back, hands locked behind his head. It was a small room, but it didn’t need to be big. Gerald had a couple of Mac Pros, some large computer monitors, and some high-quality speakers mounted on the soundproofed walls.

  Webb tried to read what Gerald was thinking. Nashville was known for country music, but it had a strong pop and indie scene too, and Gerald was supposed to be among the better producers.

  Gerald wore a dark blue silk shirt, hanging loose over faded jeans. Italian dress shoes, big watch. He was mid-thirties and clean-shaven, with dark hair. He talked in soft tones, never seeming pushy. Webb felt ratty in comparison. His well-worn T-shirt was emblazoned with the black-and-gold logo of the Hamilton Tiger-Cats, a CFL team. It made Webb feel less homesick.

  Finally Gerald gave a so-so shrug, not even lifting his hands away from his head. “Needs lots of work. Lots. You’re not thinking of putting it into production, right?”

  This was the reason, Webb thought, that he chose not to make a big deal about something himself. It hurt a lot less and was a lot less embarrassing when someone shot him down. He’d been too excited about “Rock the Boat,” too in love with his own song.

  “Got it recorded anywhere?” Gerald asked.

  “No,” Webb said. “Like I said, it’s something I wrote last night.”

  It was eleven in the morning. Webb had spent a few hours after he woke up practicing the song. Then he’d taken a bus to East Nashville, where Gerald had a studio in a small house in a run-down neighborhood. Lots of music people, especially indie producers, lived in the area. Music Row, close to downtown, was where the big labels took up real estate.

  Gerald gave another shrug. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I wouldn’t even record it on your iPhone and send it to a friend. Things like that get passed around, they can haunt you. Kind of like posting a bad photo on Facebook that goes viral.”

  “That bad?” Webb said. Man, maybe he knew absolutely nothing about music.

  “Look,” Gerald said. “People in this town, sometimes they write fifty songs and only one is good. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  Difficult not to, Webb thought.

  “Thanks,” he said, thinking it was crazy to thank someone for shooting him down. But Gerald was the producer.

  Gerald scratched the back of his head and shifted in his chair. “Invoices came in from the studio musicians I needed for your songs. Higher than I expected.”

  “Any chance I can have a copy of the invoices for my files?” Webb asked.

  “Sure,” Gerald said. “I can look around and get them to you sooner or later.”

  Sooner or later?

  Webb lifted his guitar off his shoulders and set it in its case. He needed to do something to avoid showing his anger. He snapped the locks shut on the case and straightened.

  Gerald was still leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. This made Webb even angrier, but Gerald had something Webb wanted—the ten songs Webb had already paid to have produced, three that he’d written and seven covers, including a remake of a seventies song called “One Tin Soldier” that he’d done for a friend. Unfortunately, that gave Gerald all the power.

  “Um,” Webb said, trying to sound as casual as possible, “I thought last week you said everything would be finished today. I didn’t know anything about you bringing in studio musicians. I mean, didn’t we talk about budget?”

  For a while now, Webb had been trying to figure out if the producer was telling the truth or ripping him off. It had all started when Webb’s grandfather—as part of his will—arranged for a producer in Nashville to work with Webb and prepaid for production. But the producer kept finding ways to drag out delivery and charge more money. Like now.

  “Look,” Gerald said. “I do high-quality stuff, okay? If you’re going to pitch something to a label that comes from my studio, I have to stand behind it. I needed something to lift your songs to a decent level.”

  Webb understood the implication. The songs would have been crap otherwise.

  He sucked in oxygen. “I need to understand this stuff clearly, okay?”

  “Of course,” Gerald said in his soft, reasonable way.

  But then, Webb thought, it was that soft, reasonable way that had been stringing him along.

  “All through December,” Webb said, “I called to find out when I could get my songs, and then in early January you tell me that I’m still three thousand short.”

  “Demo quality versus finished-and-ready-for-production quality. We’ve been through this, but I don’t mind discussing it as many times as you need to feel good about the process.”

  In the first week of January, Webb had been able to pay Gerald, thanks to an unexpected insurance windfall. Now, two weeks later…

  Webb sucked in more oxygen, feeling ripped off all over again. “And today, the day you promised to let me walk out with the songs, you’re telling me I owe even more?”

  “Look,” Gerald said. “You don’t think I feel like crap? I wasn’t expecting another three thousand in—”

  “Three thousand!” Webb couldn’t help himself.

  Gerald sat forward. “Raising your voice doesn’t change things.”

  “We had a deal,” Webb said. “I mean—”

  “I said I feel like crap,” Gerald told him. “So I’ll eat half of that. I take a $1,500 hit and you come up with another $1,500, and it’s all yours. After that, you can do a CD run if you want to stay independent, or try to chase down a label. Me, I’d go independent. A CD costs maybe ninety cents to produce. If you do five hundred at a time, you can sell them for ten bucks. Start a website for your band—what was it called, mile oneTwelve—and go from there.”

  Webb realized the side of his jaw hurt from clenching it. “Fifteen hundred.”

  Gerald said, “That’s the price of quality. And you understand, from a business point of view, I can’t release anything until the check clears.”

  Sixteen hundred and seven dollars was all that Webb had left in his bank account.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Gerald stood. “Hey, that’s my noon appointment. Just let me know when you’re coming back, right? And think about wearing a different shirt. That tiger is an eyesore.”

  Gerald walked past Webb and opened the door to a girl about Webb’s age. Dark hair, red sleeveless T-shirt, snake tattoo running up the inside of her left wrist.

  She flicked him a quick look and said, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Webb said, still trying to comprehend what had happened.

  Then Gerald pointed at the door, and Webb walked out.

  Bad day, this Tuesday.

  Three

  Walking through an alley, guitar case in hand, Webb was in a can-kicking mood. But there weren’t any cans on the pavement. There were lots of windswept pages from a copy of The Tennessean, Nashville’s daily newspaper. Pieces of bent and broken grocery carts. Even an abandoned couch, green and tattered. But no cans to kick. Not in this neighborhood when there was money to be made collecting cans and bottles for recycling.

  Webb was furious and discouraged, a new combination for him, and that made him feel something else—helpless.

  How was he going to move forward? He was in Nashville because he’d wanted to be where music was made. The deal his grandfather had arranged seemed solid because Gerald Dean did have good credentials. But once Gerald had learned there was only
Webb—that Webb’s grandfather was dead—it seemed like he figured he could take advantage of someone young and alone in the city.

  In four months, all Webb had really accomplished was to write the lyrics and music of a few songs that Gerald had said were worth recording along with the covers. And now Gerald was holding those songs hostage for a final payment of $1,500.

  If he wrote a check for that amount, he would have only $107 left. He was living rent free, so he’d expected he could make his money last a while, at least until he got his green card and could work legally in Tennessee. It would be tough to be down to the last hundred. That wouldn’t last long enough for him to get a job— it wouldn’t even be enough to get him back to Canada. Busking was fun and brought in some money, but he couldn’t depend on it.

  Obviously, Gerald Dean was trying to rip him off, taking the songs and essentially holding them hostage for the $1,500. But did Webb have a choice?

  Maybe what really hurt was the producer’s reaction to “Rock the Boat.” Did Webb know so little—was he so untalented—that what he believed was good was just the opposite?

  He looked again for something to kick. A can. A box. Anything.

  Instead, he saw a sign on a pole: Hungry? Free dinner. All are welcome.

  Webb snorted. That’ll be the day, he thought. Then he remembered. One hundred and seven dollars. That’s all he would have left after he wrote Gerald’s check.

  Why not share a meal with a bunch of homeless people? The way he felt, he couldn’t get much lower.

  Four

  The sign led him to a gathering of people beneath an overpass just outside the downtown. A dozen or so long plastic tables had been set up with plastic chairs. A temporary kitchen was protected by the overpass in case of rain. A handwritten sign said Welcome to Under The Overpass. Every Tuesday night.

  Webb stood at the back of a long line. He guessed there were maybe thirty people in front of him. He had expected a bunch of old-looking men in filthy overcoats. He knew all too well from his time on the streets of Toronto how living rough could make a middle-aged person look ancient, and how important it was to have a long, heavy coat that could serve as a blanket in winter and a mattress in summer.