Blueberry Pancakes: The Novel

by Anton Lee Richards

  I grabbed them out of her hands and read them at varying tempos.

  The kind of touch that goes right through my body.

  Robin played a guitar riff. “This is a happy song. Think dance. Upbeat.” Why would a guitar player suggest a dance song?

  Your body is my home

  And this feeling is unknown

  Robin stopped. “Create a backing track of generic electronic drums with a basic dance beat. Give it four-on-the-floor. We’ll record over the dance track and see what we can do with it.” We continued after I created a crude beat.

  “This is awesome. I’m stoked,” I said. I couldn’t believe it was coming together like this. I had never used the word stoked before.

  “Isn’t he an awesome player?” Marlene asked.

  “What is your day job?” I asked.

  “This is my job. Sometimes I give lessons, but I’ve dedicated my life purely to performing on the guitar. Like you need to dedicate your life purely to a songwriting.”

  “Star!” I said.

  “My parents demanded I do something other than music, said I should study accounting or some shit like that so I had something to fall back on. People who have something to fall back on, fall back.”

  Like I had fallen back on my secure IT career. Meanwhile, he dared to be who he was. Everyone in this town had an impressive liberal arts degree. It seemed like most people lacked the capacity to run their lives, and even though they could speak four languages. They could recite Shakespeare by heart but couldn’t pay off their $60,000 in student loans working at Starbucks. They all dreamed of becoming playwrights or activists or musicians. At least they dared to turn their education into something that would enrich them. I needed to pay the bills.

  The next day at work I deleted all of Jesse’s emails.

  Part Two

  Pumpkin Pancakes

  Chapter Five

  SONGWRITING CIRCLE

  I wanted to rub shoulders with other songwriters, exchange tips, and maybe learn a few things. Okay, so maybe I wanted to compare how good my songs were to theirs. Somehow, I was still new at this after all these years. The back of the Illinois Entertainer magazine had plenty of resources. There were tons of open mikes, but performing terrified me. There were always seminars to attend, but the best of them were in New York or L.A. Many of the smaller clubs gave you easy access to performing bands, but I’m a little awkward at meeting new people. Besides, my pop songs would get laughed at in a post-punk town like Chicago. No scene around here would welcome me. In the end, all I had was Marlene’s approval.

  I found a songwriter’s circle that met on Saturday mornings. Everybody would play one of their songs, and the other members would critique it while giving ideas on how to make it better. Afterward, they’d discuss topics like publishing, recording, or lyric writing. I hoped this group would be more open to people who only wrote songs rather than singer-songwriters. Marlene could deal with things like finding a manager and promoting herself. I’d leave that up to Marlene.

  My breakup with Jesse was filling me with many song ideas. Productivity surged, and I channeled my negative energy to create something, an improvement over all the moping I did when we first broke up. When I wrote down a negative thought about Jesse in my notebook, the idea was out of my head and now belonged to the paper. I was free from it. The night before the songwriter’s circle, I wrote a new song to bring for critique. I called it “I Can’t Possibly Miss You More,” and it turned out much different from it had started. The original lyrics were dark and angry, but then I came up with a catchy melody for the chorus that didn’t match the tone of the lyrics.

  If I wanted my songs recorded by other singers, dark and angry had to go. My songs needed to be more accessible and lighter. It turned into an all-out pop song. Once the song itself satisfied me, I laid down a mid-tempo drum track. I wasn’t skilled enough to do all those fancy drum fills, but this would do the job for a demo. I finished with a simple bass line and a strummed acoustic guitar. The vocals didn’t fare so well. I could only expect so much from my untrained voice, but at least I got the basic idea across. This song was good enough for my introduction to the songwriter’s circle.

  On a Saturday morning, I went to a bar named New Parlor on the West Side, which prided itself on hosting underground bands and off-color comedy shows. It used to be a restaurant and was divided into two dining rooms. The front looked like a ’20s era speakeasy, with gilded rails and ornate bronze ceiling tiles. The group met in the back where there was a stage with an extensive lighting system. With all the house lights up, the first person to welcome me had a guitar in hand. I hoped I wasn’t the only person bringing a recorded track. Musicians focused on the performance or quality of the demo rather than the song itself. This was a disadvantage for me since I was a lousy singer.

  An African-American man with a shaved head and a Bears jersey scanned the room and smiled. A group of fifteen musicians sat in a haphazard semi-circle facing the stage. “I’m Willie and welcome to the songwriter’s circle,” he said to the room. “Have a seat everybody. In case you don’t know, we spend the first half of our group listening and critiquing each other’s songs, and the second half talking about the music business. We’ll go around the circle playing our songs. Since I see some new faces here, introduce yourself and the type of music you write. I’ll start. I write folk, blues, and rockabilly. Anything but pop. I’ll hold off playing my song until the end in case we don’t have time. Who would like to go next?”

  A moment later a man stood and turned to face the room. “My name is Stan, and I’m not here because I’m a songwriter, I’m looking for songwriters and performers. I have a 10,000 square-foot recording studio in the South Loop, and I’m jonesing to use it on talented young singers. Bring your songs to me.”

  There was something smarmy about Stan as he spoke. He was tall and plump with curly charcoal hair. His face hung like leather and didn’t seem to move as he spoke. All the songwriting books talked about sharks—people out to steal your music by recording songs without your permission. Sometimes, they made millions when they became hit songs, while the real songwriter made nothing. This was a rarity, but if ever there was a cartoon character representing this scenario, Stan was it.

  “Next?” Willie asked, eyeballing a chubby white guy holding a guitar in one hand and a phone in the other.

  “I’m Nick and I write rock and alternative,” he said. His leg bounced as he handed out lyric sheets to the rest of the group. He stood up and strummed a few chords before singing. It was more alt-country than pure alternative, but the song worked.

  “The song is good, but the chord progression could be a little more interesting,” said Willie. “It needs to vary from verse to chorus.”

  “It’s great,” I said. “I agree with what Willie said about the chord progression, but you can change that without making too many changes to the melody.”

  “Any other suggestions?” Willie said to the group.

  Stan leaned forward and talked with a hurricane of self-importance, as if we were just dying to hear him speak. “Bravo, bravo. You are very marketable. With that face and that voice, I could help you take your song to unlimited heights.” He rolled his Rs like an 18th Century nobleman.

  “Next?” asked Willie.

  I wiped my hands on my jeans and stood up. “I’m Duncan, and I write pop songs for other singers,” I said. A few people around the room scoffed, louder than they had for Nick. “I wrote this last night.” After handing out lyric sheets, I played “I Can’t Possibly Miss You More” on my phone. Hearing my own voice grated on my eardrums, and I couldn’t look at anybody’s face. Some lyrics were elementary and the chorus could have been louder.

  “I certainly can’t stomach it,” said a white woman with black hair and noticeable brunette roots, after the music stopped. She hadn’t spoken yet. If Jesse had been here, he would have told her to shove it. She grabbed her denim vest with copper dangles as she sat back in disgust. W
as she like this with everyone? Maybe she’s so experienced that she has trouble putting up with beginners like me.

  “Janet, we’re looking for tips on songwriting, not style,” said Willie. Glad to hear someone was on my side.

  “Works for kids,” said Nick. “You need dumb songs for them. Teenage girls might not think it’s bad.” Dumb songs? I should’ve brought a better song, one that was further polished.

  “This is Disney-like crap that the media is forcing down your throats,” Janet said, with a guttural roar. Her bone to pick was about more than just my song.

  “I’m looking for constructive criticism about the song itself,” I said. “The melody, lyrics, and so forth.”

  “My songs are intelligent, and yours are the opposite,” she said, talking to no one in particular. “That’s how this world works. You’ll get paid for writing crap, and the good stuff will never get heard.”

  “The melody is catchy,” Willie said, glancing from Janet to me. That little sliver of praise balanced out the scales of Janet’s wrath. Maybe I could go on with my songwriting after all.

  “I would have listened to that when I was a kid,” Nick said.

  “I’m sure you would have,” said Janet. Why would she attack him if she hated my song?

  “I, for one, like it,” Stan said. “It may not fit in the category you like, but for the easy pop songs, it works. I’d like to know who you’re writing for and if I could have their contact information. I know someone who told me her little girl can sing up a storm, and I’d need songs to move her career forward.” Marlene would be proud of my easy pop song.

  “Next,” Willie said.

  “As you all know, I’m Janet, and I write alternative blues and roots music.” The tense muscles around her eyes told me she’d been around the block a few times in the music industry. She handed out lyric sheets that contained the chord progressions under the words. “I forgot my keyboard, so I need somebody to play the chords for me on a guitar. I won’t touch this bar’s out-of-tune upright.”

  Nick volunteered. I couldn’t tell by the lyric sheet which chords went to which lyric. It didn’t seem like a simple eight-bar progression.

  “The intro is this, this, and this, same as the verse.” She pointed out each chord to Nick. He strummed, but she stopped him. “No, it’s more like this,” she said mimicking a different rhythm.

  Nick followed along and strummed. She took a few tries to find where her starting note was and asked Nick to start over at the beginning of the intro each time. When she caught on, and we could hear what her verse sounded like, it wasn’t bad.

  “The chord is an E6,” she said, stopping in the middle of the chorus. “E major won’t do.”

  “I don’t know how to play an E6,” said Nick. “It’s pretty much the same chord minus the color, right?”

  “The color that the sixth adds tells a story. It helps emphasize how angry the lover is,” Janet said.

  “We don’t even know what the melody of the chorus sounds like yet,” interrupted Willie. I stifled a laugh.

  “I’m trying to get my point across,” she barked at Willie. She plucked notes on Nick’s guitar until she found the sixth. “Here, just make sure you play this note. Start from the chorus.” They got through the first half of the chorus with no problem. “No, E6 here, too,” she interrupted during the second time through the progression. They began again. “I can’t show you what the song means under these conditions.”

  “What did you all think of what you heard?” Willie asked, sidestepping Janet’s gaze.

  “I can hum the melody. It’s catchy,” I said. When they go low, we go high.

  “I’m not trying to write pop music crap you hum along to.” She shot daggers at me. “The stuff I’m writing is too intellectual for the average listener. I’ll never fit into your categories of any particular genre. Mine supersede all that. I use words with many syllables that don’t need to rhyme. My chord progressions are more interesting than your typical pop song. This is Chicago, not L.A.”

  Willie rolled his eyes and handed out copies of a flier for the Windy City Songwriting Contest. “Wouldn’t it be a hoot if we all entered? Maybe one of us could win.” Everybody squirmed in their chairs as Willie talked about the music business. “I’ve been reading a lot of books on the business these days. You have to promote your music yourself.”

  Stan rubbed his hands together. “I can make it happen for you. All of you.” He emphasized that last line like a character on a TV show playing a car salesman.

  “My production company will make you a demo that’ll blow the socks of managers and agents.” He paused for dramatic effect. “You’ll be a star.” I wonder how much that’ll cost.

  I couldn’t figure out all this business stuff, and without it, my dreams were impossible. Could I win that songwriting contest? If I did, would that get me in the door with a major artist? To succeed, I would need help to make demos and marketing them.

  Chapter Six

  THE FACTORY

  One morning I arrived at work only to find that my password didn’t work and I couldn’t log int. While waiting for the help desk to send somebody, I stalked Jesse’s Facebook page and listened to Robin’s version of “Touch My Soul” on my phone. I was proud although it needed a real drummer. I came across the picture I took of Jesse in the Willis Tower Skydeck. He was facing away from the camera, gazing out. Could there be a more perfect ass?

  “Dude, are you Duncan? The one who can’t get in?” asked a voice behind me. Silas, the tech support guru and help desk administrator, sported a two-day, light brown stubble. Everybody who was anybody in office gossip circles knew who he was. People relied on him for anything. He cycled from desk-to-desk and was one of the few people at my company I knew outside my team. Once, in the office kitchen, I overheard Carrot-top Carol tell a young girl he was getting divorced and that she should move in on him. The girl blushed and asked if she should wait until the divorce was finalized. Carrot-top Carol warned her it would be a little too late by then. Then Carol whispered something in her ear that made the poor girl cry and run out of the office kitchen. Damn! If I only knew what she said. Oh well, I had to settle for day-old donuts to get my kicks.

  “The help desk reset my password, but it still doesn’t work,” I said.

  “Let me try it,” he said.

  He sat down and attempted to log in from my computer and waited. He took notice of the music coming from my phone.

  “Who are you listening to?”

  “The singer is my best friend.”

  He pointed at the headphones. “Can I?” I tapped my finger against my leg because I needed to meet a deadline. I didn’t want to seem unfriendly to the only guy that could get me there. I handed over my headphones, and he listened for a few seconds.

  “Beautiful voice. And I’ve never heard the song either. What song did she cover?

  “I wrote it.” I cleared my throat. “It’s about my ex. You see,” I cleared my throat, “he broke up with me, and I’m sure we were meant to be, but he doesn’t see it that way.” Silas gave a forced laugh. “He thinks I cheated on him with some guy named Alan, but I would never do that to him, because he’s the only one for me, and without him I don’t even know what to do with myself, and——”

  “Interesting.” He turned back to the computer. Maybe my drama wasn’t as interesting to the rest of the world as I thought it was. He dusted off his hands. “All set, dude. Dunno what went wrong, but it’s fixed now. Change your password when you start again.” He looked up at me. “I record bands in my home studio sometimes. Does your singer friend need better demos?”

  He didn’t strike me as the creative type. His polo looked like it came from the same box store as mine, and our khakis could have come over in the same shipment from China. Marlene and Robin would never dress like us. If I was a songwriter-slash-tech guy, he could be a producer-slash-tech guy too. A bell dinged in my head.

  “We write songs together. I do most of
the writing, but she sings them. I record in Pro Tools, but I’m not very competent. She performs them live, but we want to take it to the next level. She’s got what it takes to get there.”

  “What are you doing for lunch today?”

  “No plans.” The Tupperware salad I brought from home didn’t seem too appealing anymore.

  “Let’s grab tacos on Randolph and talk music.”

  Fresh cilantro and bright orange walls punched us in the face as we entered West Loop Taqueria two hours later. Tejano music oom-pahed somewhere above. A hostess sat us at a table next to a picture of a praying Virgin Mary. I stared into her eyes and saw she was praying for my soul. She knew which websites I had been on the night before. The arrival of chips and salsa was a sign from God that I was forgiven.

  “I headed a band in college, and we played all around Milwaukee,” Silas said. “Back then I was recording on a stand-alone digital audio recorder. Now I use Pro Tools like you. I have to play you some material I’ve recorded for other bands and artists since I moved to the Third Coast. Now that I’m married with a baby, I don’t have as much time to record. I don’t even meet bands playing at clubs anymore.”

  “Never been in a band, although I wanted to,” I said. “I started with typical singer-songwriter acoustic material, but then I met Marlene. She moved me toward pop. I wanted to be the next Bob Dylan, but now I’m trying to write songs for the next pop princess, a.k.a., Countess Marlene.”

  Silas pretended to strum a fake guitar like a folk singer. “How’d that happen?”

  I sipped my horchata and told him the story of how I met Marlene at our college open mike about four years ago. Her voice and stage presence mesmerized me, but she only sang covers. All she needed was some decent, original songs, and all I needed was a powerful voice for my songs. We clicked right off and became best friends and songwriting partners. She showed me I have it in me to write pop songs, not just the brooding songs I used to write.