I follow her to the center microphone stand, where I meet Monty, the lead guitarist, an older rocker who reminds me of a not-so-anorexic-looking Steven Tyler. “We’ve been rehearsing around the clock, Miss Barrett,” he says, offering his hand for a shake. “I think you’ll like what you hear.”
“It’s Bird,” I say. I smile and shake his hand enthusiastically. “And I’m sure I will.”
“Let’s get to it, then,” Jordan says, checking her sporty black wristwatch. “You have the stage until five, then Jolene will come in for sound check. And she doesn’t like it when her openers run over.”
I nod and take my place behind the mic, a bundle of nerves even though I’ve performed live music for over half my life. The first song on the set list is “Yellow Lines,” and as I look out over the empty arena, following the aisles into the upper decks above, I can’t help but feel a tad overwhelmed.
“How many people will be here?” I ask, pulling my lucky rock pendant out from under my shirt and clutching it tightly.
Jordan adjusts her headset. “It’s a sellout crowd, so I’d say eighteen thousand three hundred.” She winks. “Approximately.”
“Oh,” I reply, not wanting to make a bad first impression. I gulp down the panic in my voice and plaster on a smile. “That’s a relief. Nineteen thousand would’ve been a little daunting for my first arena performance, but a measly eighteen thousand three hundred? Child’s play.”
Both Jordan and Monty chuckle, and we all settle into our places. Thank God I have Maybelle, my fiddle, the one thing that is tangibly familiar in this surreal moment. As Monty counts us in, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then, right on cue, I attack the fiddling pass, completely thrown off when a fiddler in the band starts in at the same time. My eyes fly open, and I spin around, the other guy grinning broadly as if I’m supposed to like the fact that his style is totally different from mine and that two fiddles before the first verse packs way more introductory punch than the song calls for. But I just grin at him and turn back to my mic, determined to finish the entire song before I start ruffling feathers. Surely Monty hears it, too.
When the first verse comes around, I relax my arms and let the other fiddler take over the easy stuff, knowing I really do need to focus on my vocals. I smile out at the empty arena as I start to sing, trying to project energy all the way to that fan who will be in the upper decks:
“The wheels are rolling down the highway.
The county lines are all a blur.”
This is what I love about rehearsals. Even though the stage is bigger and the stakes are higher than during my days in the Barrett Family Band, rehearsals are the same. They’re the grace period, the creative space, the free zone to play around with the show and figure out what will work when the seats are full. This song is fast paced and fun, so I snatch the mic off the stand and walk toward the front of the stage, bolstered by the music blaring from the speakers and filtering into my earpiece. I remember the way I felt the first time I publicly performed “Notice Me” last year at Stella’s school and try to recapture that high. I was a wild woman that night.
As I sing now, I get pumped up imagining her friends filling the seats right here in Omaha. I run from one side of the stage to the other, giving it all I’ve got during the chorus:
“Another school, another town,
Another round of good-byes.
Adventures wait and life unfolds along these yellow lines.”
And then, before the bridge, I holster the mic and bring Maybelle to my chin. If the other fiddler joins me, I don’t even notice because I play that pass like it’s my territory, my moment, my time.
After the first song, the nerves are gone. I am alive with anticipation. Tonight, this whole place will be filled with people who love Jolene Taylor’s classic country sound, but I’m going to do everything I can to leave them wanting to hear more of my sound: new country with a bluegrass twist. When Monty counts us in on “Notice Me,” I raise the mic and do it all over again, gearing up to give a performance worthy of a headliner I’ve idolized for years. I only get forty minutes tonight, and I’m determined to make them count.
“Bird,” Monty says, abruptly cutting the song. “Your enthusiasm is catching, but you’ve got to have a voice tonight.”
“Oh,” I say, blinking.
“You don’t have to prove anything to us,” he says with a grin. “Save something for the ticket holders, okay?”
I nod, feeling both scolded and flattered at the same time.
For the next couple of hours, I sing with discipline, strong but smart, stopping when Monty directs us to rework instrumental breaks and add in moments for vocal riffs. We decide to strip “Before Music” down to bare bones, going completely acoustic, and we also switch up the set list so that we open with a fan favorite, “Notice Me.”
By the time I end the last song, I feel like I’ve been through boot camp. My hair’s falling out of my ponytail and my shirt clings to me, but I’m invigorated.
“That was incredible!” I say to the band. “Thank you!”
Monty approaches me, smiling and looking every bit as spent as me. He reads from scrawled notes on the back of his set list. “Not bad, guys. We need to talk about getting Bird a break between the second and third songs, and listen, we need to…”
But he trails off midsentence when Jordan hustles toward him with a worried look on her face. Over her shoulder, I see Jolene Taylor, winner of a slew of awards, including at least four Grammys, and the person who sang one of the very first songs I ever learned on the guitar.
I smile broadly, self-consciously tightening my ponytail. I’ve been dying to meet Jolene Taylor. I wonder if she heard any of my set.
“Let’s go, guys,” Jordan commands the crew brusquely. A group of roadies make their way onstage, rearranging equipment for Jolene’s band.
As for the music legend, she frowns and makes a show of pulling her cell phone out of her pocket, glancing at the screen, and tucking it away again.
“Okay, gang,” Monty says. “We’ll meet up in the dressing room in fifteen to go over some notes.”
Hurriedly, my band puts their instruments away. I grab Maybelle and my set list and follow Monty off stage right. As I get closer to Jolene, I can’t believe that she’s actually prettier in person. That just doesn’t seem possible. Her dark brown hair is in a stylish shag and her trim body looks great in a yoga getup, but it’s her eyes that take my breath away, light blue and bright as if LED lights power them.
“Hi, Miss Taylor—or Jolene—or—” I stammer, holding the mic out to her. Get it together, Bird. I shake my head. “Gah, sorry, I’m just nervous actually meeting you in person. I love your music. I’ve been a fan of yours since I was a little girl. Seriously. I am so excited to be on the Sweet Home Tour. Thank you for—”
“Glad to have you,” she says, cutting me off and giving me the vibe that she doesn’t quite mean it. She offers a closed, tight-lipped smile and takes the stage, accepting a rhinestone-covered mic from Jordan and leaving me standing by the stairs holding my arm out like an idiot.
Confused, and a little shocked, I look at our stage manager wide-eyed.
“I told you she doesn’t like her openers to go over,” Jordan whispers as she relieves me of the plain black mic in my hand.
I pull out my own cell phone. “By three minutes?” I ask, incredulous.
“That’s Jolene,” Monty grumbles as he walks past.
Disappointed, I follow him down the stairs to the backstage area. As her band strikes up a hit song that I used to blare in the RV, I realize this is the first time in my life that I haven’t wanted to sing along.
3
“SURPRISE!”
I look over the shoulder of my makeup artist, Sam, who, like me, jumped when the door flew open. He pulled his mascara wand away faster than a hand on a hot stove, smearing some on my cheek.
“Oh my gosh, what are you doing here?” I scream when I see my best friend, who’s s
upposed to be back in Tennessee, standing in the door of my dressing room, arms open wide.
“I came to see your first professional football game,” Stella teases, gesturing to the black line under my eye.
“Ha-ha,” Sam deadpans.
I jump up, and we meet in the middle of the room. Stella’s giant hug is just the thing I need to distract me from the ticking clock and the thousands—thousands—of people taking their seats in the arena at this very moment. Then her mom walks in behind her.
“Shannon!” I shout, and I rush her for a big hug as well.
“Oh, Bird, it’s good to see you,” she says, her dangly earrings tinkling in my ear as we embrace.
“I can’t believe nobody told me y’all were coming,” I say as Sam politely yet firmly leads me back to my makeup chair.
Stella leans toward my mirror, straightening her thick bangs. “We wanted it to be a surprise,” she says with a grin.
When I signed with Open Highway at the end of last summer, Dan paired me up with an established songwriter, Shannon Crossley. She helped pen a lot of the songs on Wildflower and really took me under her wing. That’s how I met Stella, and honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without either of them.
“You look amazing, Bird,” Stella says as Sam finishes the touch-up. “Like yourself, but even better somehow. It’s like you’re glowing.”
I turn toward the mirror and take myself in. I see a tall, skinny girl with long, wavy, coppery hair wearing a jean jacket, white tank top, magenta shorts, and an incredible pair of custom-made Justin boots.
“What’d your dad say about those Daisy Dukes?” Shannon asks with a sly smile.
“He doesn’t like them, but apparently he doesn’t get a vote,” my dad answers as he walks into the room with my mom and brothers.
“Was she surprised?” Dylan asks as he throws an arm around Stella’s shoulders.
“Totally,” she says, quite smug, crossing her arms.
“You two and your schemes,” I say, pointing at them accusatorily. Last Christmas I thought I’d lost my lucky rock—one I’d found the day I was offered a record deal and carried with me all the time—but in reality, Dylan swiped it when I wasn’t looking. He gave it to Stella, who encased it in silver wire and attached it to a long silver chain, making it into a necklace so I’d always have it with me. It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten. No matter how my stylist dresses me, I never take it off.
As my brothers help themselves to the contents of my minifridge, and everybody else settles in around me, I realize that my nerves have morphed into excited energy. I feel revved up, ready, like a car gunning its engine at the starting line. I have people here—my people—and I’m ready to do this thing!
“Bird, it’s almost time,” Jordan says, knocking on the door.
“Okay, thanks.”
She vanishes, on to her next stage-managing duty.
“Well, gang, it’s been a crazy year, that’s for sure,” my dad says as he circles us up. I squeeze between Dylan and Jacob, and we join hands just like the old days when we were touring together as the Barrett Family Band, playing honky-tonks and dive bars almost every day of the year. “I’ve gone from Bird’s father, to her band leader, to her manager, and to who-knows-what-next! But let me tell you something, that girl is happiest with this group of people around her.”
My eyes blur all of a sudden, and I look up, blinking rapidly, determined, as my dad goes on, not to cry, even if they are happy tears. Then both of my moron brothers squeeze my hands, and it happens anyway. I lean over and dab a wet cheek on each of their sleeves, and they pretend to hate it.
“And I’ll tell you one more thing,” my dad continues. “She has a level head, even with all this craziness. You all are our family”—I look over at Stella, who flashes me a megawatt smile—“and all this success is due in part to your support. So we thank you.” He looks at the clock on the wall and turns back to our group. “We’ve got to wrap it up and get this girl onstage, so let’s bow our heads.”
I take advantage of this minute of peace—of pause—to thank the Big Guy Upstairs for this crazy career, this unexpected success, and, most important, these amazing people I call family. And as always, I remember my little brother, Caleb, who died too young, but who ultimately led us all to music. We end the prayer as we did in the days of the Barrett Family Band, and join in with my dad, “Take good care of our boy. Amen.”
“All right!” Dylan says, clapping his hands loudly before lifting me up and spinning me around.
I hug the rest of the group one by one, and the crowd thins until it’s only my Open Highway team, who has shown up at the door. Anita barks orders at somebody on her phone while Dan talks to Monty about the final number. My stylist, Amanda, tears off a new sheet on her lint-brush roller; my hair stylist, Tammy, tests the curling iron; and Sam is at the ready with a makeup sponge.
“Wait, Stella!” I call, grabbing my phone and passing it to Stella. “Here, will you text Adam? It feels weird that he’s not here for all this.” Adam was my muse for “Notice Me,” the only guy I’ve ever really liked and the one person I would do anything to see right now. We shared an amazing kiss in January, and I know he was as into me as I was into him, but I got so busy with my career that I somehow lost the opportunity to be with him. That was six months ago, though, and tonight’s a big night, and, well, I miss him.
“What should I say?” Stella asks, eyes wide.
I frown. The last time we talked on the phone, Adam told me I’d hate myself for putting a guy ahead of my music. We’ve played phone tag and texted back and forth a little since then, but without him really in my life, my music hasn’t been the same.
I close my eyes as Sam sets to work fixing the smudges. Then I slowly dictate a text, trying to figure out what to say as I go. “Put ‘Hey, Adam, I’m about to play the CenturyLink in Omaha, which made me think of that dive bar here, Lucky’s, where the fountain Coke wasn’t half bad. Remember? Anyway, wish you were here to share one with me after this show. I’m pretty nervous, and there’s going to be, like, a million people out there, and I was thinking of you and thought I’d say hey and hope everything’s going well in Austin. Or I think Jacob said you might be back in Nashville this week. Wherever.’ ”
I pause, my eyes still closed and my fingers gripping my lucky pendant tightly. “I can’t think of anything else, Stel, so just put something like that. Or is that too much? Should I just put ‘Hey, how’s the road?’ or ‘How’s the demo?’ and leave out anything that’s too ‘I miss you’ sounding?”
“Um…”
I open my eyes as Sam moves on to my lips. “What?”
Stella holds the phone in her hands like it’s hot. “I thought you meant that’s what you wanted to send. I just typed as fast as I could and sent it. I mean, I—”
“You sent all that?” Sam asks, arching one perfectly plucked eyebrow and looking aghast.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” Tammy tsks, shaking her head as she smooths the hair on mine.
My face pales. “Is it awful?”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” Stella says, throwing my phone into my lap and edging into my mirror to check her own lips. “It’s done. And who cares? He’s lucky you’re even texting him at all.”
I try to look down at my phone, but Sam keeps my chin up with a remarkably strong pinkie finger. I sigh and close my eyes, hating how awkward things are with Adam. Everything was always so easy with him before, comfortable, and now I second-guess texts and secretly stalk him on Twitter. It’s pathetic.
Sam pulls away, and I open my eyes again. He studies my face while Stella grabs one of my hands. “Listen, you are going to kill it tonight, Bird. Murder it. Annihilate it. I don’t know what Adam would say right now to make you feel better, but take it from your best friend on this planet: You are going to be phenomenal. You are beautiful and your songs speak to everyone. When you’re onstage, people can’t help but feel happy, and I can’t wait to get out there and cheer you
on.”
I grin. “Thanks, Coach.”
“And you’re opening for a le-gend!” she adds, stomping a turquoise vintage cowboy boot. “I mean, Bird, come on! Jolene Taylor is one of the greatest stars of all time, and you are her opener! Can you even fathom that?”
I shake my head. No. I actually can’t.
“What’s she like, anyway?” Stella prods. “I mean, I was kind of hoping to get a pic with her. You’d better not get any ideas about replacing me.”
“Ha.” I laugh dryly, thinking back to the brief encounter I had with Jolene today. “No worries there. I don’t think she’s as excited as we are about my being on her tour.”
Stella’s entire demeanor changes. “Screw her. She’s old and washed-up. And she wears rhinestones. Please don’t let them put you in rhinestones, okay?”
“Never,” Amanda says, disgusted at the mere mention of bedazzlement. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Looks like you’re surrounded by good people, Bird,” Stella says, clapping me on the shoulders. “Now I’ve got to get out there so I don’t miss a single second. I heard the show opener brings the house down.” She winks and blows me a kiss before heading out.
Then my dad comes over with Dan and Anita, who wish me luck, and there’s nothing left to do but sing.
4
I TAKE A deep breath and rush the stage, climbing the steps two at a time, putting one boot in front of the other and hoping these butterflies will carry me through the show. Even though this is Jolene’s tour, a few pockets of people in the crowd go wild and I spot some homemade signs meant for me.
I grab the mic and stare into the bright lights, willing myself not to freeze. The last time I had stage fright like this was the first time I sang lead for the Barrett Family Band at the Station Inn, but Dylan helped me through and Adam was in the front row. It was the night my whole world changed. I glance over at my dad in the wings now. He gives me two thumbs-up. I gulp and look back out into the arena. I wish I knew where Stella was sitting, or my brothers or my mom.
The Road to You Page 2