But here, there was little of the tangy smell of men who had not bathed in months. Some people were dressed as if headed to watch a Saturday soccer game. There were mothers with young children. Some people met his eye, some looked away. Some stood with shoulders bowed, some with chins high and backs straight.
Seeing the children shook away some of Webb’s self-pity. They were reaching up to hold their mothers’ hands, bewildered by all the people around them.
When Webb reached the front of the line, an older woman with short graying hair and a dark vest over a purple shirt gave him a smile that looked genuine.
“Glad you could join us,” she said. Nothing in her tone or manner suggested she scorned him for needing free food. “You decent with that guitar?”
“Some days,” Webb said, watching as she scooped potato salad onto a paper plate for him.
“Well,” she said, “if this is one of those days, I bet a couple of the kids would be a little less anxious if you played for them after the meal. It’s really hard on kids when their mother has to get them away from a bad situation. Some of the other folks here, well, they’d be in a hospital if they could afford it. Music might make them forget that, even if just for a little while.”
She plunked a hot dog in a bun onto his plate. “Fixings at the table.”
Webb saw a little girl already sitting at a table and thought about why he’d been homeless for a while. He and his mom had needed to get away from his stepfather, who was hurting them. But his mom hadn’t left. Not then.
The girl had badly cut dark hair, and she was clinging to her mother’s hand. Even though there was food on the table in front of her, comfort was obviously more important to her right now.
What a schmuck he was. Moping around like his world had just ended, thinking it was the lowest of lows to accept a handout.
The little girl was the one with real problems. Her mother too. Webb figured it wouldn’t take much convincing to get them to trade places with him. His problems were nothing compared to theirs.
Webb didn’t have to look into a little girl’s face every morning and wonder in desperation what the day might bring. Webb didn’t even have to worry about money if he didn’t pay the producer. He had $1,607 in his checking account. He could use it to get on a bus and go to Toronto, move home with his mother and live a great life, find a job and think about saving up for university. He had choice, and he had freedom. No one was making him live in Nashville.
The girl and her mother, on the other hand, probably had neither choice nor freedom. Nor did the people who needed medical care they couldn’t afford.
Yup, Webb concluded, he was a real schmuck.
As soon as the meal was over, he took out his guitar and quietly started to play. Not in a way that made it look like he was trying to put on a show to make money. As if he was just trying to pass the time with some tunes.
He played songs he knew people would like. No sense bringing out one of his own songs, like “Rock the Boat.” According to one of Nashville’s top producers, that would be a bad idea.
One of his favorites was “One Tin Soldier.” Webb hadn’t written it, but it was going on his album. It was not the right song for this situation, though, with its lyrics about the horrors of war.
Instead, Webb played “Drift Away.” He loved singing the chorus: “Give me the beat, boys, and free my soul…”
He looked up and saw the little girl smiling and singing along.
Oh yeah, Webb thought. Nothing like getting lost in a song.
Five
Music Row, just southwest of downtown Nashville, was where you went to find the offices of the major labels, publishing houses, video-production houses and music-licensing firms as well as all the businesses that supported the music scene in Nashville.
The big trees along the sidewalks provided gentle shade. Some of the houses, long converted into offices, had been there a century. Others, like the Sony building, shiny with reflective glass, spoke of power and wealth.
These were the buildings where the legends had cut songs. These were the sidewalks those legends had once walked as unknowns, guitars on their backs, just like Webb.
But Webb wasn’t walking these streets today to pitch his music.
He was here to kick producer butt.
The name of the law firm was etched in the glass of the door: Bing and McGee.
Webb took the elevator to the tenth floor. He’d done some online research and found a firm that specialized in music law.
He felt nervous. This was a new type of journey for him. He was a long way from home. The only real friend who could have helped—a Vietnam vet named Lee Knox—was on a two-week vacation, and Webb wasn’t going to call and bother him on the beach. Maybe if he couldn’t resolve the problem himself by the time Lee came back, Webb would ask for a favor. Nor was he going to call his mom in Canada. She’d get worried but wouldn’t be able to help him, so why add stress to her life? For now he was alone. If he didn’t do this, who would?
Webb pushed open the door and stepped onto a rich-red plush carpet. The room was hushed. There were empty straight-backed chairs on one side of the room. They faced floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Music Row. At the back of the foyer, behind a burnished-wood desk, sat a woman about his mother’s age. She wore cat-eye glasses, and it looked like her hair had been styled just before he opened the door—not a wisp was out of place. She gave him a neutral smile.
He took a couple of hesitant steps forward. The name plate on her desk said Ms. Planchette.
“My name is Jim Webb,” he said. “I called and set up an appointment for this time.”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s nice that you’re prompt.”
It didn’t seem to bother her that Webb was young. Or that he had a guitar with him. Of course, in this business, some musicians his age were already brand names. She’d probably seen plenty of types come through the door.
“Stampeders?” she asked, eyeing his red-and-white T-shirt.
“Long story,” Webb said. Wednesday. Different day, different CFL team.
“Attorneys love long stories,” she said. “Not me. If you don’t mind, I’ve got a form for you to fill out.”
“I only have a couple of questions for Mr. Marvin,” Webb said. “It’s about—”
“Ms. Marvin.” Ms. Planchette’s voice grew distinctly cold.
“Ms.?” The law firm’s website had listed Jordan Marvin as one of the attorneys. When Webb called for a morning appointment, Jordan Marvin was the only one available.
“Yes,” she said. “Ms.”
The implication was clear. Webb was a caveman for assuming the lawyer would be male.
But Webb wasn’t in a mood to be pushed around. He’d already let Gerald Dean do that to him. For weeks.
“Really?” he said. “You’re going to bust me for assuming that Jordan was a man’s name? Because it is, you know. I bet I’m not the only one who has made this mistake.”
That thawed Ms. Planchette a little. “Maybe.”
“You mentioned a form?” Webb said.
“Also,” she said, “we’ll need a retainer. Credit card or certified check. Cash too, I suppose, but..” She let her voice trail away, as if only drug dealers would deliver cash.
“Retainer.” Webb took a breath. “Would you mind explaining that?”
“Ms. Marvin’s hourly fee is $250. We need a minimum deposit to cover her first two hours of billing.”
“Five hundred dollars.”
That would leave him with $1,099, because he’d already spent eight bucks on some Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and milk, as well as bus fare.
Doing more simple math, he realized that if he paid a retainer of $500, he wouldn’t have enough money to get his music from the producer. He’d be gambling on being able to legally force the producer to give him his songs. And if he gambled wrong…
“Um,” Webb said, “all I need to find out is whether Ms. Marvin can help me with this. I’l
l explain what’s happening, and if she thinks she can do something, how about I pay the retainer then?”
Ms. Planchette leaned forward as if she were going to speak confidentially, even though it was only the two of them in the office.
“You seem like a nice kid,” she said. “Are you new to Nashville?”
Webb nodded.
“And you don’t have a car, right?”
Webb opened his mouth to ask how she knew, then hefted his guitar case as an answer.
“Exactly,” she said. “You’re not here to audition. This is a law firm. So why bring up your guitar unless you don’t have a car trunk to keep it in.”
Her voice was growing more sympathetic. “And you don’t have an agent or a manager. If you did, they would have made the appointment on your behalf and fought your battles for you. Which means...”
“I’m a kid without a car, and I don’t even have a contract anywhere. Otherwise, someone else would be here for me.”
“Exactly,” she said again. “Fast learner. Which means the firm is going to need a retainer as the first step. Otherwise Ms. Marvin might as well sit in a coffee shop and answer questions for anyone who doesn’t understand the business.”
“A producer ripped me off,” he said. “I just want to—”
“Believe it or not, I’m trying to help you,” Ms. Planchette said. “From your perspective, you think a producer ripped you off. It’s going to take someone like Ms. Marvin to tell you whether that’s true from a legal perspective.”
“What he did was—”
“I’m not an attorney,” she said. “Telling me won’t get you anywhere. You’re going to need legal advice.”
“How do I even know if I have a chance of getting my songs unless I explain the situation and ask a couple of questions?”
Ms. Planchette said, “The answers you get from Ms. Marvin are what would be considered legal advice. To repeat, I’m not trying to mess with you here. I’m just trying to give you a clear understanding of the situation.”
Webb said, “I thought some legal firms gave a person a chance to find out if it’s worth hiring the lawyer.”
“Sure,” she said. “Legal firms who have lawyers who are desperate for clients. And those kinds of lawyers are often very happy to string you along so that they can bill you for an hour or two anyway. At Bing and McGee, our attorneys don’t need to play those games.”
Webb gazed out the window. Sony seemed a lot farther away than across a mere strip of pavement on Music Row.
Paying the retainer guaranteed he wouldn’t be able to pay the producer. In the short term, that meant he’d have to give up on getting his music. In exchange, there was only a possibility the lawyer would tell him he could claim his songs in the long term. And even if the lawyer said he had a chance, it still meant he wouldn’t get his songs anytime soon.
That’s what it came down to, he decided. Weighing a certainty against a possibility. If he wanted those songs, he’d have to pay. This was something Gerald Dean had no doubt known all along.
“Well,” Webb finally said to Ms. Planchette, “I appreciate your help with this. I won’t waste your time by filling out the form.”
Six
Despite telling himself he shouldn’t whine about his situation, Webb was in a bad mood when he reached Nashville’s downtown core after about a forty-five-minute walk from the law office. He stepped off the curb across from the Bridgestone Arena, where the Nashville Predators played, and realized that affording a ticket to watch a game live was an impossible dream at this point. He reminded himself he should at least try to enjoy the weather and maybe make a few bucks while he played music.
Late January, and it was T-shirt weather. He peeled off his jacket and hung it over his shoulder. He was wearing a red T-shirt with a white horse logo—the Calgary Stampeders. Each day he chose a different team. At first he’d done it because he liked being reminded of Canada as he chose his shirt for the day, and that was still a good enough reason. But he’d also noticed that it helped with his busking in the downtown core. Lots of the tourists were Canadian, and they liked being reminded of home too. It put them in a better mood, and that bumped up the amount of money they threw in his guitar case.
Webb needed the money, of course. He’d cover some classics, because that paid the bills, but every fourth or fifth song would be one of his own.
As people streamed past him on the sidewalk, he didn’t immediately look for his own corner. His first stop was always a guitar store with hundreds of guitars; the people who worked there were passionate about guitars. They didn’t put pressure on anyone to buy and were happy when people came in and treated it like a guitar museum.
Webb walked inside, guitar on his back, and made a beeline for the Gibson section. He stood in front of the guitars and just soaked up the vibe, imagining great guitar players from decades ago with their Gibsons, wondering about all the places the instruments had been, all the beautiful sounds they’d produced. Yeah, Webb liked his Gibson J-45, but it would never hurt to have more than one.
He had needed to be recharged, and when he stepped back outside again, he vibrated with energy. There was a spot on 2nd Avenue he liked, across from a bar called Coyote Ugly, where he could stand in the late-morning sun. He considered it a prime place to play.
Long before he reached the spot, however, he saw an older, gray-haired man putting his guitar case down exactly where Webb always did.
Webb didn’t see the guy as competition, though, and felt no irritation. The guy was wearing a ballcap—Nashville Sounds, the city’s baseball team—low on his forehead, and it covered most of his face, like he was embarrassed at his age to have to busk. He looked scruffy enough, with his long hair and thin corded arms, that Webb wondered if maybe he had alcohol problems. In theory, someone of this guy’s age should have a decent job to keep him busy during the day. If he didn’t and needed to make money busking, times probably weren’t good for him. Webb knew the bottle was often an escape for someone like that. He’d rather give the man food than money.
Remembering how it had improved his mood the afternoon before to help someone else—when his playing had put a smile on a little girl’s face—Webb made a detour into a bagel shop and ordered a cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich with cheese to go. It hurt to dig into his cash, but a little busking would cover it sooner or later.
When Webb was on the street again, coffee in one hand, breakfast bagel in the other, the old guy was playing some amazing riffs. Nobody needed to feel sorry for this guy, Webb decided.
He felt his chin bobbing to the rhythm of the guitar riffs as he stepped closer to the man.
Nobody else was around yet.
The guy was leaning against the wall as he played. When Webb’s shadow hit him, the man played a few more chords and then looked up. Only a little. The shadow from the ballcap still hid most of his face. He flicked his eyes up and down, examining Webb but still hitting the tune. Webb liked the guy’s guitar, a black-and-white Fender Stratocaster. At least things weren’t so bad that the guy had to pawn his guitar, Webb thought.
The man, who was wearing an Elvis shirt, squinted at Webb.
“Early to be headed for a gig in one of the places around here,” he said. “Were you looking to busk somewhere too?”
“Sooner or later,” Webb said. He leaned down and set the bagel and coffee beside the man’s empty guitar case. “Lots of times I’ve been busking, people bring me food. Figured you wouldn’t mind if I did the same thing.”
The guy snorted. “Yeah. Never hurts.” He nodded at Webb’s guitar. “You any good with that?”
It wasn’t said like a challenge but as friendly conversation.
“Don’t think I can hit that complicated riff you did in the middle there.” Webb hummed the piece. “How exactly did you do that?”
“Here,” the man said. “Let me show you.”
Seven
“Harley,” the man said, arching an eyebrow as he strummed a s
imple riff. “You?”
“Webb.” He set his guitar case down, opened it, pulled out the J-45, straightened, dropped the strap over his left shoulder and shifted the guitar into place. He casually flipped his guitar case shut. Nobody else was nearby, but Harley had chosen the spot, and Webb wanted to make it clear he wasn’t here to compete for money.
Webb ran his left-hand fingers up and down the frets, picking, not strumming, with his right-hand fingers.
“Early Lou Reed,” Harley said. “I like it.”
“Loved Velvet Undergound,” Webb said.
“You know what they say about the debut album,” Harley said. “Commercial failure. Only sold thirty thousand copies. But every single one of us who bought the album started our own bands.”
“Mile oneTwelve,” Webb said. “That will be the name of my band. At least, someday…”
Webb dipped his head and kept playing. Harley picked up on the riff, slipping into some of the open places.
Webb grinned and held up his right hand, stopping Harley mid-riff. “What was that thing you did?”
Webb recalled the chords Harley was playing when Webb walked up with the bagel and coffee. He played the first few riffs, stopped and played them again, satisfied he had replicated that much, then stopped again.
“It was right after that,” Webb said. “Something…”
Harley hit the notes. Quick and hard. A four-on-the-floor beat.
“Yeah,” Webb said. “That.”
“Here,” Harley said. He slowed the tempo. Webb watched the man’s fingers on the strings.
“Aaah,” Webb said. “This.”
He played it at half speed a few times, fumbled it, found it and picked up the pace.
Rock the Boat Page 2