Hallelujah Ch. 07

Teddy nods. "He is. One of the best live acts out there, and he played Skinner's just three nights before we did. They love him there. He burns the place down wherever he plays. Nobody has anything left to give afterward. Fuck me if there were fifty people in the whole place for our show. He must have just destroyed them." He sighs. "Good for Roger, anyway." He coughs. "Say, how have you been? Any word from...what's her name?"

"Jasmine."

"Yeah. Jasmine. The fiery ex."

"Well, she cheated on her husband and now she's living with me."

He stares at me for a minute. "Huh. Did not see that coming."

The others are looking at us with curiosity on their faces, so I clap my hands together. "Let's make a record."

That gets them back on track. There's a lot of nodding, and grinning, and looking around the room and out the window. Then we're all just standing there again. Suddenly I realize that everyone's looking at me, waiting for me to say something, and I feel stupid.

It's your show, Jake. Remember that. "What I was thinking," I tell them, "was that you could just set yourselves up in the big room down below," I point my thumb over my shoulder at the plexiglass. "We'll run through the songs, and just...see what happens."

The band seems happy enough with this, and in a few seconds they're hauling their gear down into the studio.

"Is that...uh...really it?" Brian asks.

"Yeah. Why?"

"It's just...different."

"For Nashville, maybe. But up in New York you see a lot more projects run that way. A little looser, a little less professional. It fits the musicians better, I find."

He doesn't seem convinced. "But isn't it risky?" he asked. It's a funny effect; with that little half-smile he has whenever he talks, he looks like he's making fun of me.

"Yeah, well, here's the way I see it: Phil Spector gets credited for producing John Lennon's first solo album, right?"

He shrugs. "So?"

"So Phil didn't show up but once or twice for the whole damn thing. In fact, he was so thoroughly missing in action that Lennon took a full page ad out in Billboard magazine just to ask him to come visit. Some of the people who played on the record never even met him."

Brian seems surprised. "Is that true?"

I laugh. "Yeah. So, hey, I'm actually here, aren't I? And I haven't pulled a gun on anybody, either, so I'm already a better producer than Phil Spector."

He chuckles a bit and we drop it. The truth is, I'm terrified that he might be right. This is a hugely dangerous way to record, and if it blows up in my face I'll have a lifetime to feel bad about it. A lifetime of not making records.

The first song the band runs through is a shuffle with a beat that reminds me of 50's rock and roll, but with that reverberating slide over it the feel is more like walking nervously across a frozen pond than hip-shaking to an Elvis track. It's got a decent mood, but it feels incomplete and sort of vacant.

Fields's voice almost carries the song. Almost. He's halfway barking the lines, his tone full of amusement, the emotion in his delivery changing by the line. One second he sounds melancholy, the next he's sharing an inside joke with a friend. A second after that, he's snapping at a woman who pissed him off. Then he's talking like he's in love. It's engaging, if exhausting, to listen to.

"Balancing on a hawker's glove," he sings halfway through the first verse,

"you and me and the moon, my love,

talons in the leather, eyes on the dove."

The slide slips upward, and for a moment the song sounds like its lifting off, but nothing much changes. It goes on like before. A few lines later Fields picks up steam again:

"Don't ever learn to tell me 'no,'" he snaps. "A bench racer's got no soul." Then his voice turns softer, sad. "And if you ever somehow catch me...just let me go."

This continues for a few verses, most appearing to be about a woman. It subtly shifts from "you" and "me" to "we" in the second half, which I think is mildly clever. It seems to grow less stand-offish and more caring as it goes. Then the band disappears, and I'm left with just Fields's deep voice, hushed and soothing, and his moaning guitar up above it.

"We're tired and bent," he croons, "magnificent,

and as driven by the return as by the ascent."

The band bursts back in without warning and they jam on the melody, filling it in with passion and gusto. And then...it's over.

As the last note fades away the band looks up at the window, looking for feedback. I rub my chin and glance at Brian. He shrugs.

You know that feeling you get right before the roller coaster drops? Well, there I am. The song is a skeleton of something great, but it just didn't go anywhere. And the truth is, I'm not sure what the fuck it needs to make it work. I've literally got nothing, and I'm so nervous about that fact that I can't even fake it. All this waiting, and just one song in I'm already fucking lost.

I click the talkback.

"Sounds good," I say. "Let's hear another one." Then I turn it off.

The band look at each other, and not in a 'hooray, guys, he likes it,' kind of way. They're uncertain. Teddy shrugs and says, "Yeah. Sure." He turns to the others, and after a second they start a different track.

I could describe to you every one of the twelve songs they play for me before we call it a day, but the truth is that it all ends up in the same place. None of them are complete thoughts. All of them have good qualities that pull you in, but they don't really seem to come together in any way. Nothing manages to put the song over. Soon as they're over, you've forgotten them. And I can't see what will make any of them stand out on their own. When they first played 'As Long As I'm Here' way back when, it spoke directly to me. I immediately knew what it needed. These songs are all similar to that one, in their way. They share the same musical roots, have the same history, and feel like they come from a similar geographical place. They all have lyrics that are a little on the abstract side, but full of little lines and phrases that seem to communicate exactly what you're feeling. Oh, there are slower mood pieces, mid-tempo shuffles, and quick-paced bluesy stomps, but at the end of the day they all have common ground...and they all need something more. I don't have any fucking clue what it is.

I guess I do know that it isn't an acoustic guitar. But my insight stops there.

Everybody seems more than a little concerned when I call it a day without recording anything. But the truth is there's nothing to record. If we did spend what time we have left cutting background tracks, we'd probably have to redo them anyway dependent upon how we adjust the arrangement later. Right now, I just need to get away. I need to step back and have the time to think about what I've heard, because any decision I make right now is going to be the wrong one. I'm practically in the grips of a panic attack, because I'm freaking out about the fact that I'm freaking out. I feign cool assuredness, trying to act casual about it, as the band comes up. I sweat profusely. From the look Brian gives me, I'm sure Bennie Rich will be hearing about this total waste of time. I bet he'll think it's funny.

I sure am fucking glad that I've got six gallons of wine waiting for me at home. I'm gonna need every last drop.

-

Jasmine isn't home from work, yet, when I arrive. But Buck Nelson is. He's not sitting outside, but I can see the glow from his television as I walk to my front door. The sun is only beginning to show the first tiny signs of setting, still far from starting that remarkable display of color on the horizon, but you can already tell it's going to be a little chilly tonight. Well, it is that time of year.

The little hand is approaching the four, and Jasmine is due home at five, so I have plenty of time to think about my problems while I silently go about the process of cleaning the wine bottles Buck gave me and transferring the wine into them. I don't reach a lot of conclusions, except that somewhere around the twenty-third bottle I tell myself that tomorrow I'm going to record something no matter what happens. No more of this inactive insecurity. It's dangerous. I've been putting a lot of weight on this moment, and when it didn't flow the way I expected it to I guess I froze up. That's not any kind of way to go out. Fuck it all up, but don't sit on your ass while you do it.

Maybe we won't get what I imagined us getting, and maybe it won't end up being so great after all, but goddamn it...this record is going to get made.

I think about the songs I heard today, trying to figure out what I could put to them in order to bring them alive. I try to run through every trick I've ever been exposed to, but simply can't make myself hear how those techniques play out in conjunction with those songs. I don't mean to say that they wouldn't work...I mean that, no matter what I try to imagine, I only hear the same take running over and over in my head. It's almost like I lack the ability to re-imagine. Maybe 'As Long As I'm Here' was a fluke. Maybe it just came out right because it WAS right. Maybe it had nothing to do with me.

Shit, Jake, not every good engineer is a good producer. You knew that.

It's not a very heartening thought.

It's also bullshit. I know exactly what I did on 'As Long,' and it was crucial. That same performance of that same song, with more Nashville-friendly hands at the console, would simply not have produced such a solid track. And I may yet ruin this record, but I won't let that take away from me the one accomplishment I do have.

I'm finished corking the bottles and I've tucked all but three of them away when Jasmine gets home.

"How did your first day go?" she asks with a proud smile.

"Not great. I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh," she looks surprised. "I...I'm going to go change. Are we still drinking tonight?"

"I'm on my way to get Buck right now. I aim to be completely trashed by the time you get outside." I don't turn around.

She hesitates. "Okay, Jake. I...I'm sorry things didn't work out today. Tomorrow will be better, right?"

I shrug, knowing full well that it makes me look like a sulky child. Fuck it. I'm not out to impress this one. I grab the three bottles and make for the door.

Buck answers quickly, beady-eyed and thin-lipped. "Let's do this," he says with gruff intensity, like we're mountain biking or climbing a mountain. He curls his lip like Billy Idol...or maybe Sylvester Stallone. Man, I love this guy.

"How did you know what I had in mind?" I ask, glancing down at the red cup in his hand. "It's not even supposed to be ready yet."

"My vino senses were tingling," he winks. "They never lie."

I make a show of looking serious. "Und vat do zees senses feel like to you?"

"Well," he looks up, deep in thought, "at first I thought I was just horny. But then I realized that my liver was crying, and I knew it could only mean one thing. Did the transfer go okay?"

"No trouble at all...aside from hoisting the fucking carboy up onto the table. How much does six gallons weigh, anyway?"

"About six gallons, dude."

"That's a measure of volume, asshole."

He toasts his empty glass to that. "But it's better than a measure of asshole volume, I suppose."

We're in the lawn chairs, Buck savoring his glass while I'm guzzling straight out of the bottle, when Jasmine finally comes out. She's got shorts and a tank top on, revealing wonderfully bronzed skin, but she's also brought an afghan out to cover herself with. And well she should. She folds her legs under herself as she sits, making for a not totally unseductive look. I glance at Buck, and I can see he notices. Come to think of it, Buck never talks about dating or recent conquests. I have no idea what his love life is like, or if he even has one. Yet another person in my life where I have managed to make myself the entire story. I'll ask him sometime when there aren't intruders present.

Jasmine takes her first sip. She hums noncommittally. "What kind is it, again? It's very dry."

"Dry is good," Buck insists. "Is that a problem?"

She shrugs. "It's okay, I guess."

"Well, it's a Barolo. They tend to be tannic and strong when young, with a lot more going for them as they age. I think we can both see that our friend Jake is not planning on aging this one, though, so drink while you can."

She nods and studies the liquid, but doesn't respond. Buck turns to me.

"So how did it go, today?"

"I don't want to talk about it." I take another big pull from the bottle.

"Yes you do," he sniffs. "Otherwise you'd just lie and say it went fine."

I give him a look. Touche, sir. "I sucked. Okay? I really, really sucked."

He gives me a pitying look and shakes his head solemnly. "It's so sad, that you sound so surprised," he says.

I can't help it. I laugh. It's a snorting, surprised laugh that has me spilling wine down my shirt. "Motherfucker!" I blurt out, but I'm still laughing. Jasmine is, too, her hand over her mouth in shocked amusement. She's pretty much like every other woman in history that found herself hanging out with two boys: she's more than happy to find her amusement in our stupidity. And we are pretty much like every other boy in history: we're pleased to provide it.

Things get relaxed after that. I may have a permanent purple stain on what was one of my last two nice shirts, and it's definitely chilly out, but we're all getting very, very drunk. It's fun. Actually, I'm getting beyond hammered. I'm getting stupid drunk...the kind where your only care is to dominate the conversation, impart your great wisdom, and then deny everything in the morning. They humor me well. The wine is disappearing, the conversation is flowing, and the laughter is infectious. It gets late quickly.

The moon is up and keeping a close eye on me from behind two wispy clouds when Buck decides it's time to head off to bed.

"Hey, buddy," he mumbles as he stumbles over his own chair, "you'll do better tomorrow." 'Tomorrow' comes out slurred, so that it almost sounds like a one syllable word. I want to say 'thanks,' but I've moved on to melancholy drunk in the last few minutes. I just toast him and take another drink. By now, five empty bottles are laying on the ground around us. Quite the accomplishment.

"It's a beautiful night." Jasmine is leaning on the railing, looking out at the parking lot as if she could see over the adjacent apartment building and gaze out on the whole city. I push myself up and wobble over to where she's standing. I have a hard time walking straight.

"Yeah," I sigh, "but I don't trust the moon."

She sighs back. "Do you remember how cold it was in New York, this time of year?"

"Of course I do. I stayed, remember? This will be my first winter home." A sense of sadness washes over me. "I should call Grandpa Cooper."

"You say that a lot."

"Do I?"

"Yeah. It's okay." She turns and looks east. "I wonder where AJ is right now."

I look at her, beautiful and sad, and I wonder. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shrugs. "What could I say?"

"You could tell me why," I shift my weight.

"But that would mean that I know why."

"You know why."

She laughs humorlessly. "I suppose I do. It's just...it's not very flattering, you know?" She turns to me. "It would be so much easier if I could have some reason to give myself that would make it easier to sleep at night. The truth...just makes it harder."

"Is that where you've been going, all these evenings? To figure out the truth?"

"I think I knew the truth. I just..." she hangs her head, like she's staring straight down at the parking spaces beneath us, "I just wanted to believe there was more to it. So, yeah. I've been seeing someone. A counselor."

"But not AJ?"

"I did see him. I met him twice for lunch...once while I was staying at the hotel, and then again the day that Samantha woman called you on the phone."

I wince. I remember how callous I was about that. I'd had no idea what kind of day she'd had going into it. "They weren't good meetings?" I ask.

"No. It's over between us. There's no chance for...it's just over. I'm surprised I haven't gotten the divorce papers yet."

"Maybe he's not as certain as you are."

She shakes her head. "It's over."

"So why did you do it?"

"Jake."

"Hey," I scoot closer, "I'm a friend. I'm not here to judge you."

She looks at me. Her expression is one of exhaustion. "I can tell you, if you really want, but you aren't going to like it."

That throws me off guard. "Why not?"

"You're part of it."

"Me?! Hang on...I didn't do anything. I...Listen, lady, I didn't even SHOW UP until this dynamite had already been lit."

"Not like that. Jake...I..." a tear drops from her eye, and she quickly wipes it away. "Maybe I just shouldn't," she says.

"Well, you can't leave me hanging now."

A deep breath. "You know, when we were together in New York, we were so happy."

"But."

"But we'd worked so hard for our dreams, for so long, without payoff. I was going to school, you were trying to get into the music business; we both pushed ourselves too hard. And yet we never seemed to get any closer to where we fantasized about being. After a couple of years of that, instead of seeming like we were making progress, it seemed like we were further away than ever. Instead of having some kind of dreamed payoff, we were just getting to where we had less and less time for each other. We were losing the only thing we actually had to lose."

"I guess I didn't notice."

"I know you didn't. I realize that now. Unlike me, you felt close to obtaining your goal, and it was pushing you to work harder and harder. You were making it happen, and I'm sure you thought we were sharing in that together. And I..." she shakes her head. "I was young. I was scared. And I felt...I guess I felt alone. So I decided to go home, to take a break from it all."

"You needed a break from me."

"All I was getting was breaks from you. I needed to not be reminded of that for a while."

"So what happened when you went home? I've always wondered."

"Nothing at first. But I ran into AJ through a mutual friend, and I guess it just reminded me of how...simple...my relationship with him had been. That kind of teenage nonsense state where nothing really matters. I mistook fond memories and the lack of pressures for romanticism. And he looked so successful on the surface, like he had achieved his dream. He had money, a nice house, a lot of toys and a big smile. It never even occurred to me that he didn't even have a dream. It never occurred to me that I didn't love him."

She pauses, but I don't know what to say. She and the moon both wait for me.

"I didn't...sleep with him that summer, Jake. I know that my track record lately is pretty bad. But I didn't." I'm still speechless. Jasmine bites her lip and gives me a searching look. "Jake...you...you do know that..." She's getting quieter as she stumbles for the words, and I lean in to hear. Suddenly, she's up against me, her lips on mine. Her hand is on my neck. I'm stunned into passive response for about two full seconds. And for those two full seconds, we kiss. It's not a wild tongue-dancing moment of passion, but neither is it a closed-mouth touch of affection. It reminds me of the way she kissed me goodbye when she got on that plane. Then I pull away, just a little, and she seems to retreat in shock. We stare at each other for a moment, wide-eyed. Both our mouths are hanging open. Neither of us knows what to say.

And then, just a little, she giggles.

I stare uncomprehendingly as her giggle becomes a full-on laugh. She puts her hand to her stomach and doubles over. It's catching. I find myself chuckling, then laughing harder and harder as she stumbles and falls to the ground. Within a few seconds we're both on the floor, crying and clutching at our stomachs. Finally, after a few false endings, we manage to get control over ourselves. My side hurts and I feel like I've run a mile.