Rocking the Pink

by Laura Roppé

  In the modern era of music production, a song is typically constructed methodically, one track at a time. In the case of my songs, we recorded my “scratch” vocals (a rough draft of my vocals, to be rerecorded later) accompanied by an acoustic guitar played to a “click” (a computerized beat, erased later, that ensures the tempo of the song stayed steady throughout). Next, using the scratch vocal–acoustic guitar track as a blueprint, musicians recorded a rhythm bed—rhythm guitar, bass, and drums—that formed the foundational structure, the “bones,” of each song. Only when we had recorded the rhythm tracks for all twelve songs on the album did we begin to add the instruments that would give each song flesh for the bones. Over the next several weeks, a steady stream of professional musicians came in to add lead guitar, banjo, mandolin, violin/fiddle, keys, and percussion. Even Matthew came to the studio to record guitar on several tracks.

  Throughout almost all of the recording process, Brad sat in the studio with me, soaking it all in and grinning from ear to ear. On many days, Dad showed up, too, equally excited to watch the songs come to life.

  Many years earlier, when I was seven months pregnant with Sophie, Dad had hired me as his lawyer in a business dispute. It was a small case, but Dad had wanted to fight it on principle. And anyway, it was a chance for him to hire his pregnant attorney daughter. And that was a hoot.

  I called the opposing attorney, an old-school guy who thought attorneys had to yell to make a point, and suggested we meet in person to settle the case. The attorney’s tone was instantly belligerent as he doggedly demanded that Dad and I drive to his Los Angeles office for any such meeting.

  “We’re gonna do this my way,” he blustered.

  “I’m seven months pregnant,” I replied evenly. “I can’t sit comfortably in the car for a two-hour drive.”

  What could he say to that? A few days later, in my San Diego office, Dad and I sat, composed, at one end of a marble conference table while the opposing attorney and his equally cranky client sat, red-faced and agitated, on the other end. Their arms were crossed.

  At my opening settlement offer, the other client banged his fist on the table and shouted that we were wasting his time.

  With the faintest suggestion of a swoon, I held one hand up in the air and my other hand on my swollen belly. “I simply cannot be subjected to this vitriol,” I declared delicately. And to the attorney, I said, “We’ll step outside while you get your client under control.” With that, I marched out of the conference room belly first, with Dad trailing dutifully behind me.

  After Dad and I had made our way down the hall, into another room, and had safely closed the door, we dissolved into laughter.

  “This is so much fun,” Dad said, and hugged me.

  And now, sitting in Steve’s studio, soaking up every moment of this wild ride, Dad’s elated face made it clear: He was just as proud of his singer-songwriter-dream-chasing-sword-swallowing daughter as, if not more so than, he’d ever been of his fast-talking-attorney daughter. It was an epiphany for me: Dad didn’t care if I was a lawyer, a singer, or the sword-swallowing bearded lady; he just wanted me to find passion and be happy. All those years of trying to garner his approval in a “respected” profession, and—I’ll be damned!—he was a card-carrying member of the Laura-the-Dreamer Fan Club. He just . . . loved me.

  Once all the instruments had been recorded, it was time for me to record my vocals. There was a steep learning curve to singing in a studio, as opposed to onstage, I learned, but Steve was very patient with his inexperienced recording artist. When I sang with my live band, my voice competed with so many other sounds that an off note wasn’t fatal. But on a studio recording, every nuance and quirk in my voice was laid bare for all to hear. Singing for a recording, I soon figured out, required the utmost subtlety—something that had never been my strong suit.

  It was right then in the recording process that a girlfriend of mine emailed me to tell me about a music contest put on by country superstar Kenny Chesney. Chesney was working with radio stations across the country to find the Next Big Star who would open for him at his arena concerts. All a person had to do to enter the contest was submit a recording of his/her original song.

  “You should enter one of your songs!” my friend wrote to me.

  I decided to submit my song “Mama Needs a Girls’ Night Out,” a decidedly country ditty, but we didn’t have the background vocals recorded yet. The deadline for submission to the contest was fast approaching, so we had to move fast.

  Steve was game, and came up with a great idea for a sing-along feel to the song.

  “Can you get a group of your friends here this Saturday to record background vocals?” he asked.

  Does Dorothy wear gingham?

  On a sunny Saturday afternoon in late April 2008, the Bunco Girls crowded into the recording studio, thrilled to serve as the (country-flavored) Pips to my Gladys Knight. It was a case of life imitating art, or maybe the other way around. As Steve checked the microphones and set the sound levels, the Girls guzzled champagne, giggling and hooting like bridesmaids at a bachelorette party.

  When it was finally time to record their vocals, the Girls snapped pictures of one another and shrieked with glee as they put on their fancy studio earphones. It was like herding cats, they were so amped up.

  Finally, the group sang together: “Moms gone wild! Mama needs a girls’ night out!” Their faces were a picture of unadulterated joy. As Steve and I watched them from the producer’s booth on the other side of the Plexiglas, we couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

  When Steve turned his head away at one point to adjust a dial, one of the Girls quickly lifted up her shirt and flashed me, causing me to scream in shock and clamp my hand over my mouth.

  Steve snapped his head up, not having a clue about what had just happened, and looked around. “What’d I miss?” he wanted to know.

  I just shook my head and laughed.

  Some of the Bunco Girls could sing pretty well, actually, while others were completely tone deaf. But vocal chops were not necessary to sing along to this particular song. Only exuberant energy and a soul connection to the song were required. And these girls had both, many times over.

  Within a couple of days, Steve had expertly integrated the Bunco Girls’ voices into the song, and I submitted it to the Kenny Chesney contest. The top four finalists would be chosen after one week of online voting by the radio station’s listeners. For that week, word spread like wildfire among my friends, and their friends, and theirs, that a local mom/attorney had entered this big contest. When I picked the girls up from school, fellow moms shouted to me, “I voted for you!” and flashed me a thumbs up. Every time I checked the radio station’s website that week (which probably amounted to over four thousand times), I was clobbering the competition. I couldn’t sleep a wink at night from the excitement, and yet I wasn’t the least bit tired by day. In fact, I felt thoroughly energized.

  At the end of the week, Brad, the girls, and I huddled around our radio, awaiting the results of the contest, scheduled to be divulged on the morning show. And then we heard it. There was my voice, belting out “Mama Needs a Girls’ Night Out,” on the radio: “She was up four times in the night with Baby . . . ”

  Winning the Academy Award could not have felt any better than hearing my song on the radio for the first time.

  “Wow, I bet lots of women out there can sure relate to that one,” the DJ said. And then she went on to play the three other finalists’ songs, leaving Brad, the girls, and me to jump for joy in our family room.

  Shortly after that, there was a rap at my back door. My neighbor Bunco Girl Tiffanie was standing there with a huge grin on her face.

  “I just heard your song on the radio!” she shouted, and she joined our family jump-fest.

  A few minutes later, the radio station called to officially confirm I’d been selected as one of the top four finalists.

  Awesome!

  Even more exciting, the contest organizer to
ld me, two weeks from then I would battle for the win against the three other finalists in a live “battle of the bands” at the San Diego Hard Rock Cafe.

  Double awesome! . . . Wait, what? Only then did it dawn on me: I didn’t have a band.

  Chapter 30

  Don’t panic, Laura, I thought. I had a couple of options here. First, since the studio musicians on the record already knew all of my songs, the most pragmatic thing to do was to hire them to play the four-song set at the Battle of the Bands. Simple. But after a round of phone calls, I was crestfallen to find out that every single one of them was already booked for the night of the contest, a mere two weeks later. Not yet panicked, I went with option two: I called the guys from Cool Band Luke. Jann, my bass player, was unequivocally in. See? It’s all gonna work out. So was my drummer. Another relief. Rob, in his characteristically self-deprecating fashion, said he’d play guitar for me, too, but he thought I should get a professional if I could. I assessed the situation: I needed a violinist, a keyboardist, and possibly a guitarist. No biggie.

  I did what I always do when I need to locate a difficult-to-find item: I shopped online. A website catering to bands and musicians led me to a photograph of a beautiful blond woman with a violin. The music samples on her website varied from classical to bluegrass. Bingo. When I called this violinist, Jennifer Argenti, we clicked. She was soft-spoken and sweet, an absolute doll, but she was more than that, too: She had played in the Santa Monica Symphony for years, as well as with numerous rock and country bands. Several years earlier, Jennifer had left a corporate career to pursue her music full-time. On top of all that, she was the Western Surfing Association’s Women’s Shortboard West Coast Champion of 2007. My kind of woman.

  Jennifer said she’d love to play with me at the Battle of the Bands. “Do you need any other musicians?” she asked.

  “Well, actually, I could use keys and guitar,” I told her.

  “I’ve got just the guys for you.”

  I couldn’t believe my luck, and thanked her profusely.

  “What about a backup vocalist?” she asked. “I’ve got the perfect girl for the job.”

  “Bring her,” I said, without a moment’s hesitation.

  A few days later, the whole group was exchanging animated greetings inside a small, dilapidated rehearsal studio.

  “Are you all ready?” I asked, brimming over with excitement.

  “Hell yeah!” came the reply, followed by a boisterous rendition of “Mama Needs a Girls’ Night Out.”

  Since the songs on my album had been recorded one instrument at a time, it was the first time I’d heard a song of mine performed whole by a live band. I’d never felt anything like it in my life. It was akin to giving birth to a baby, without the physical pain. It was hard to keep tears of joy from spilling down my cheeks throughout the entire rehearsal.

  A week later, it was time for us to pull off the impossible: play four of my songs at the Battle of the Bands, as if we’d been a band forever. With the help of my fashionable girlfriend Tiffanie, I’d put together a “star quality” outfit (a black-and-red beaded halter top with I-meant-to-do-that ratty jeans and high heels), and my long hair was blown out to shiny perfection. I felt like a million bucks.

  The line to get into the club wound around the block, and the place was packed. A buzz filled the air. Brad was there, of course, along with the Bunco Girls, who held up signs that read GO LAURA! and WE LOVE YOU, LAURA! How could we lose?

  My band was slated to play first, the least desirable time slot. But no matter; we were jacked up and ready to rock, and so was the crowd. I came onstage and, once again, was plagued with shaking hands. But the moment I started to sing and the crowd began screaming, I forgot my nerves and just enjoyed the ride. And you know what? We killed it, though my adrenaline-fueled dancing was a bit over the top.

  When our short set was over, we watched the other three acts. One of the bands, a group of guys about my age, was particularly good; they’d obviously played together a helluva lot. If we didn’t win, I was pretty sure they would. Another guy was clearly a talented singer-songwriter, but the songs he’d selected to play were pretty low-key for an event like this, so I didn’t think he was in contention.

  The last band was led by a young, extremely handsome guy with a heartfelt voice. His sidekick guitarist, a guy in leather pants, no shirt, and an open vest, thrashed his long black hair around and thrust his pelvis gratuitously through every song, obviously trying to look like Slash but looking like Rico Suave instead. In contrast with the band’s organic, boy-next-door front man, Rico Suave’s inauthentic shtick was totally out of place and comical.

  After the fourth and final band had played, the judges went into another room to deliberate, leaving the contestants to stand around, wringing their hands and clutching their stomachs.

  Finally, the head judge called all four bands up to the stage to announce the winner, Miss America pageant–style: “Third runner-up is . . . ” that low-key singer-songwriter guy. “Second runner-up is . . . ” the band of thirtysomethings I had thought would win. Was that a good or bad sign?

  It was down to my band and the good-looking young guy with the Rico Suave guitarist. “First runner-up is . . . Laura Roppé.”

  Damn. We were the runner-up—also known as the losers. (As Will Ferrell’s Ricky Bobby says in Talladega Nights, “if you’re not first, you’re last.”) That handsome young guy—with Rico Suave on guitar!—had won. We were crushed. We just couldn’t understand it.

  A little while later, as my bandmates and I signed pointless forms in the back office, promising to perform at Kenny Chesney’s concert if the winner had to drop out, the head judge pulled me aside to let me know we’d put on a great performance.

  “You were definitely the fan favorite,” he conceded. “But that young guy is just a bit more . . . what the judges are looking for.”

  I was pretty sure that was code for “you’re just too damned old.”

  I was disappointed—that was the truth. But pretty quickly, I was able to look on the bright side: Every band member had said to me that night, “I believe in your music, Laura. I’m on board.” I might have lost the contest, but—snap!—I had just gained the Laura Roppé Band.

  Chapter 31

  My Dearest Jane,

  I have been having dreams in which my children are in peril and I must save them, or where people die senselessly. I am doing so well to deflect my fears about mortality in my waking hours. I would appreciate it if my subconscious would please follow my conscious’s lead.

  Shortly after my second chemo infusion, it was time for the annual Bunco Girls’ Christmas party. I had not committed in advance. “I’ll come if I feel up to it,” I had promised. But, of course, I wanted to go. I missed my life. I missed my Bunco Girls.

  As luck would have it, on the day of the party, I felt like three hundred bucks. I cooked up a big vat of mashed potatoes (my specialty) and hitched a ride to the party, about a mile away, with my neighbor Tiffanie. This year, the party was hosted by much beloved Bunco Girl Rebecca (who also happens to be the wife of my running partner, Mike). Her home was warm and inviting and decked with wreaths and candles, like a scene out of It’s a Wonderful Life.

  As I entered Rebecca’s kitchen, the other Bunco Girls were already drinking wine and swapping animated stories. When they saw me, they “woohoo-ed” with joy and surrounded me in a group embrace.

  I sat down on a kitchen stool, and normal party conversations resumed: “Christmas presents . . . holiday plans . . . kids . . . baking cookies . . . too much to do . . . ” I tried to track the conversations, but I felt myself shutting down. My scalp was suddenly killing me, and I was beginning to feel nauseated.

  We sat down for dinner. Happy conversation continued all around me. I ate my dinner quietly, crawling deeper and deeper into a dark hole, further and further away. Silverware was clinking on china. Laughter. Joking. Compliments about the food. I couldn’t think of anything to add to the conve
rsations around me. Hair loss? Fatigue? Fear of death? Buzzkills, all of them. Staying positive? I was tired of talking about that. Wrapping presents and Christmas shopping? I didn’t care, to be perfectly honest. There was nothing to say. And then my hands felt clammy. The walls began closing in.

  I slipped into the other room to pull myself back together. I could still hear the happy chatter from the dining room. I was all alone. I started to cry. And cry.

  Brad.

  After fumbling to retrieve my cell phone from my purse, I called Brad at home.

  “Baby, come get me,” I whispered. I didn’t want the other ladies to hear me.

  Brad didn’t ask a single question. “I’m coming,” he answered, and then he hung up the phone.

  Two minutes later, Brad blasted into the room like Mr. Incredible, found me weeping in the living room, and whisked me out the front door. Though I was able to squeak out “I love you” and “I’m sorry” to my stunned friends between sobs as I left the house, I couldn’t offer any explanation about what was happening to me. And, really, I didn’t fully understand it myself.

  But I did know one thing for sure: Brad, once again, was my hero.

  A quiet Christmas with family came and went.

  What a difference a year makes, I thought, recalling Sharon’s Christmas party exactly one year before, when Matthew had first offered to demo the songs in my head. Was that really only a year ago?

  On New Year’s Eve 2008, Brad and I sat through my third chemo. Happy New Year. As I sat in my Barcalounger, a tube pumping poison into my arm, I made a list of my New Year’s resolutions:I resolve to do my best at this life, including following my passions, keeping my body healthy, and giving and receiving love with simplicity and honesty.

  I resolve to “say what I mean and mean what I say.”