by Carol Selick
“I like it! How did you come up with the lyrics so fast?”
“Songwriting is like telling a story. You don’t need any poetry or fancy words. Just write from your heart and think of the situation. It’s like you’re telling a story. I learned that when I was writing a Coke commercial.”
“You wrote a Coke commercial? That’s pretty amazing!”
“Yeah, I was having a hard time with it and then I asked myself what does Coke do? It makes the situation better. With that in mind, I wrote the commercial that James Brown ended up recording.”
Meeting with Rose became part of my regular Friday routine. We were making progress on the song, but even more interesting were the stories she told me about her life. She’d graduated high school and hopped on a bus to New York, leaving behind the segregated, rural town in Arkansas where she’d grown up. Her parents wanted her to go to college and become a teacher, but she wanted to follow her dream and be a singer. We had that in common!
A cousin got Rose a job ironing shirts in a Chinese laundry and a room in a Harlem boarding house. She started going to nightclubs in Harlem and singing with different bands. A booking agent heard her and got her gigs in New Jersey clubs where she had to mix with the customers and get them to order her drinks.
“Singing was fun and I was getting paid. I worked it out with the bartender so that when the men bought me drinks, he watered them down. There were some rough characters, but I knew how to fight back if I had to.”
“When did you start writing?”
“A friend of mine got me an audition with a small record company where I wrote my own songs. After my first record came out, another company asked me to write for one of their blues artists.”
“Were you still performing?”
“I kept singing. Songwriting didn’t pay much then. Lead sheets cost money, so I just told whoever did the lead sheet to put their name on the song.”
“That’s not fair! You should’ve gotten all the credit!”
“You gotta do what you gotta do.”
Rose had come a long way from bartering lead sheets for songwriting credits. She and her husband James lived in Englewood Cliffs, right over the George Washington Bridge, a wealthy area where a lot of music and show business people lived.
“Did you sing mostly in New York and New Jersey?” I asked.
“I toured all over. James encouraged me to go. I opened for Moms Mabley in towns across the Midwest and drove all the way to a club in Montreal.”
“That must have been lonely, being away from your husband.”
“It was, but it gave me something to write about.”
“When did Elvis record your songs?”
“I found out about it when I got back from my gig in Montreal. My writing partner, Charlie Singleton, called me up very excited. ‘We got Elvis!’” he said. I didn’t even know who Elvis was!”
“Your life is so Hollywood! They should make a movie about you!”
Rose laughed. “I’d go for that, and I’d like Lena Horne to play me!” she exclaimed, and we both started laughing.
Between stories about her life, Rose was giving me songwriting tips that I could never learn in a book. She knew a woman who’d written a book about songwriting but never had one song published.
“You can’t learn songwriting from a book. It’s a spiritual thing. You just write like you talk and then the phrasing and the melody come from that. Everything in the song has to go back to the title.”
“How do you get your titles?”
“Some mornings I wake up with a song idea. That’s why I keep a tape recorder and a pencil and paper next to my bed.”
“Cool, I’m gonna try that.”
“Sometimes I get a title from something somebody says, but I mostly write from my own experiences.”
“Me, too.”
“You’re too young to have lots of experiences. Are you with anyone, Carol?”
I shook my head no. “I’ve had my heart broken too many times.”
“Hmm, a pretty girl like you shouldn’t be alone. I’m gonna keep my eyes out for someone,” Rose said with a schoolgirl giggle.
I felt my face getting red. Maybe someday I’d tell Rose who I was writing our song about, but I wasn’t ready for that.
“Do you need a ride uptown?”
Rose and I walked across the street to a parking lot where everyone knew who she was. I could feel my eyes getting bigger when the attendant pulled up in her shiny black Cadillac and Rose gave him a big tip. I got in the car and settled into the luxurious taupe leather car seat.
“I love your car!”
“Thanks. I buy a new one every year. Everyone should have two fortunes, Carol. One to blow and one to keep.”
“I’ll settle for one, Rose.”
I was feeling relaxed until I glanced down at Rose’s feet and saw she was driving with one foot on the gas and the other on the brake. It was a really jerky ride.
“Thanks for the ride!” I said as I got out, feeling relieved.
Before I went to bed that night, I put my notebook on the nightstand, in case I woke up with some fresh ideas for our song. When I woke up the next morning, I jotted down some lyrics for the bridge:
Don’t you want to run out in the night with no destination in sight.
Let out what you’re feeling, wrong or right. Bring out the animal tonight?
I reread what I’d written and smiled to myself. It was a damn good song!
I wished I could share them with Bruce. Better yet, I wished I could sing it to him and let him know my feelings. Was it just a fantasy? I needed and wanted to find out.
30
1650 BROADWAY
Lots of good times waiting just for you,
But first you must believe in what is new.
The joy is in the doing, not what’s done.
Your dreams are taking shape now, life’s begun.
I was learning more about the people who came through the doors at 1650 Broadway. Many of them were publishers, agents, and songwriters who’d moved their offices from the Brill Building, the birthplace of rock-n-roll. Rents were going up there and hitmakers were setting up shop at 1650, just a few blocks away. Behind every door beat the heart and soul of the music business and I could feel the heavy vibes as I walked down the hallways. I finally felt like an insider when the doorman stopped asking, “Who are you here to see?” I felt privileged to be part of the scene.
Rose introduced me to some famous people. Millie Jackson’s office was right next door and once Maxine Brown stopped by looking for songs to record. One night when we were leaving, Rose stopped to talk to comedian Nipsy Russell, whom she’d worked with in Harlem years ago. Then there was Otis Blackwell, who’d written many Elvis hits like “Don’t Be Cruel” and “All Shook Up,” two of Elvis’ best-known songs. Rose told me that at one time Carole King and Neil Diamond wrote songs in the building, too. That blew my mind! If I’d met Rose sooner, I might have met them, but I’d probably be tongue-tied and blow it.
My celebrity shyness wasn’t getting any better. No matter how many famous people Rose introduced me to I still could only smile and act politely. I’m sure Rose noticed how awkward I felt, but she was too cool to say anything about it. “Carol,” she used to say, “If there’s something about a person you want to change, just ignore it. You’ll be surprised. It’ll change by itself.”
“I feel so nervous when I’m around famous people,” I finally confessed.
“The bigger they are, the nicer they are, Carol. Just be yourself,” Rose smiled. She was sitting on the couch across from the piano as I worked on the chords to “Let Me Bring Out the Animal in You.”
“I hope someone big records our song.”
“Don’t say hope. Be positive. We’ll make it happen, but it isn’t as easy as it used to be.”
<
br /> “What do you mean?”
“More artists write their own songs and aren’t looking for new material. There was a time when I could scribble lyrics on a piece of yellow-lined paper and walk into a publisher’s office and sing him the song. Before I’d finished singing, they’d either give me money to make the demo or add it to my advance.”
“Did you get paid after the song came out?”
“No. Most of the time I didn’t sign a contract.”
“Did you fight it?”
“It wasn’t worth it. Only the big record companies paid.”
“How do we get our song published?”
“I have someone who can do the lead sheet and we can book studio time downstairs. There’s a recording studio in the basement.”
“That’s convenient.” I was trying to sound cool and professional, but I felt like jumping up and down and screaming out the window, I’m making it in the music business! This is actually happening to small-town, other-side-of-the-tunnel me!
We finished the melody that afternoon and Rose asked me to sing it into her portable tape recorder. When the lead sheet was done, we’d figure out a date for the recording.
“I’ll call you when I get the recording booked. Evenings okay?”
“Yeah, just let me know and I’ll be there! I can’t wait!”
“Do you need a ride uptown, Carol?”
“No thanks, I feel like walking today.” I did feel like walking. And anyway, I couldn’t tell Rose that the way she drove stressed me out. I’d seen how she put her foot on the gas and the other on the brake the last time she gave me a ride. It worked for her, but it freaked me out. Besides, I needed the exercise and time to digest what was happening.
Two weeks went by and I didn’t hear from Rose. I was getting worried and imagining all kinds of negative scenarios. What if she changed her mind about the song or played it for someone and they didn’t like it? What if she got involved in another project? Worst of all, what if she stepped on the gas when she should’ve stepped on the brake, and drove off the George Washington Bridge! Finally, around ten o’clock on Sunday night, the phone rang.
I knew it was Rose as soon as I picked up.
“Is it too late?” she asked. Her little girl voice sounded particularly youthful, the way it did when she was happy.
“No way!” I practically shouted.
“I got the lead sheet and booked the studio downstairs for next Tuesday night, February 13th. Can you make it?”
“You bet! I can’t wait! Did you get the musicians?”
“Yeah, they’re my usual, and the girl you saw me with that day at Maxine’s is gonna sing the demo as a favor.”
“Thanks, Rose! That sounds great! See you soon.”
“Our song’s gonna be a smash!” she exclaimed. “Think positive!”
I hung up the phone and stared out the window. The February snow had started to fall, covering the dirty streets and transforming the city into a blank, white sheet. Was it an omen of new beginnings, or was I reading too much into it? “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” Freud once said. I’d leave the over-analyzing to Bruce.
I thought back to the day I moved into my apartment and my father got the key stuck in the lock to the front door. I’d been through a lot since then and had paid some heavy dues. As I looked out the window, I gave myself permission to feel happy. I didn’t even care that the day after the recording session was Valentine’s Day, and I had no man to share it with. Making a professional recording of my music was way cooler than any corny holiday. There were other ways to get high, and right now music was all I cared about.
I called Nina to tell her the good news. I knew she’d still be up studying. Some days I wished she’d never moved out of the apartment to go to grad school, but she had to follow her dream, too. As long as I had music to play and good friends to talk to, I was okay with being alone on Valentine’s Day. Romance could wait. I had no way of knowing that cupid had other plans.
31
VALENTINE SURPRISE
Take my hand and follow me
And we’ll let the darkness be our guide.
And when we reach ecstasy,
There’ll be nothing left for us to hide.
So don’t hold back, don’t fight it.
You’re so close and I’m so excited.
Give in and let me bring out the animal in you!
I had no idea what I’d find behind the metal door with the sign that read: “Do not enter when light is on.” I looked down at the leather bracelet that had been on my wrist since the night Melanie put it there to symbolize strength and sisterhood. This was my first professional recording session, and I needed all the help I could get. I took a deep breath and firmly knocked on the door. A thirty-something guy with tinted glasses and headphones around his neck opened it a crack and stuck his head out. “You here for Rose’s session?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m the songwriter, Carol Marks!” I said, catching my breath. It felt good to say that out loud, Carol Marks, songwriter.
“Pete. Sound engineer. Rose’s over there.” He pointed his clipboard in the direction of the drum set on the other side of the room. The studio was the entire width of the building, half a city block, a far cry from the New Jersey basement where I’d recorded my demo tape. I blinked a few times as my eyes adjusted to the spotlights scattered throughout the ceiling. Maybe that’s why Pete’s wearing tinted glasses. Or is he just stoned? Probably stoned.
“Carol!” Rose called to me. She and the musicians were huddled around the drum set. I made my way across the room, trying to act like I’d done this before.
“This is Carol. We wrote the song together,” Rose said, putting her arm around me.
The drummer nodded in my direction and went back to setting up. The bass player gave me a friendly hug and the keyboard player shook my hand. They were seasoned black musicians, in their thirties or early forties. I couldn’t believe they were playing on our recording! Rose told me when she’d called about the session that they were big-time players who’d played with the greats. For them, this was just another gig, but for me, it was a big step up. I was in the inner sanctum, where songs became hits and singers became stars.
“We’re waiting for the guitar player. I had to get a sub since my regular guy had a gig,” Rose said as she passed out the lead sheets. “Regina’s in the isolation booth. Why don’t you see if she has any questions.”
I walked over to a small, sectioned-off room on one side of the studio. Regina was sitting on a stool in front of a large shiny microphone that looked like it was dipped in gold. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The only other one I’d ever seen was on the cover of Frank Sinatra’s Strangers in the Night album, at my parents’ house.
Regina looked younger than I remembered. She was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and high-top sneakers and chewing a wad of bubble gum, which I hoped she’d take out of her mouth before she started singing.
“Hi, Regina. Do you need anything?” I asked.
“No, I’m cool. I hope this doesn’t take too long, I have stuff to do,” she answered as she cracked her gum. She looked like she wished she was anywhere but here.
Does she know how lucky she is? What a brat! She’s seventeen with a record deal and she’s already acting like a diva.
As I walked into the main recording area, I spotted the guitar player hurrying in. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater, brown motorcycle jacket, and brown suede boots. His shoulder-length, black curly hair and medium build reminded me of pictures I’d seen of Michaelangelo’s David. Definitely my type, I thought. I took a sip of my take-out coffee, trying to look hip.
He was clearly an outsider, I thought as I watched him tuning his guitar. Not because he was white—musicians didn’t care about things like that—but because of his air of aloofness. Everything about him exuded confide
nce and sophistication, but it somehow came off as a stuck-up vibe, like the guy Carly Simon was singing about in “You’re So Vain”. Stick to the music, I told myself. If his guitar playing is as together as his appearance, he’ll be one hell of a musician!
“The guitar player’s cute,” I whispered to Rose as we took our seats next to the sound engineer in the recording booth.
Rose gave him the once-over. “He is kinda cute. I can introduce you after the session.”
We were sitting next to Pete in the control room, facing the window that looked out into the main recording area. In front of us was a large mixing board with rows and rows of dials and levers and two small monitor speakers. He gave us a pair of headphones and began explaining to me what the dials and levers did. There was a channel for each instrument with bass, treble, and mid-ranges that he could adjust during the recording. Regina would be singing a scratch vocal so that the musicians could follow the song, but after the initial recording, she’d go back and record the vocals by herself. The recorded tracks would be played through the headphones so she could go over the vocals line by line, then go back and punch in notes if needed.
I looked up from the dizzying dials and caught the guitar player staring at me through the glass. I quickly put my head down. Tonight, of all nights, I didn’t need any distractions.
The drummer counted off and the band started playing. The first take was a run-through to get the sound levels and make sure all the musicians knew where their solos came in. I was astounded. They were so good! I couldn’t believe they’d never heard the song before and were just following lead sheets. I wanted to tell Rose how impressed I was, but her head was down, concentrating on the music.
Right from the first take, the musicians seemed really into it. Our song was coming to life! Even Regina surprised me with her bluesy, soulful voice and the growl she added when she sang the hook, “Let me bring out the animal in you.” Maybe she isn’t an ungrateful brat, after all. Rose knows what she’s doing!
The band was on their third take and their playing was getting tighter. The musicians had a good groove going and the energy was building. I couldn’t sit still. I closed my eyes and let my body move to the music. Halfway through the song—splat! “Shit! Cut!” The engineer yelled. I felt my face go red. I’d been so into the music that I’d knocked over the half-filled coffee cup I’d precariously perched on the soundboard. I rummaged through my bag for some tissues and wiped up the spill with shaking hands, trying not to touch the dial settings. I was so embarrassed I didn’t dare look at Pete, let alone the guitar player!