CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Buddy Collins leaned back in his office chair, his boots propped up on the massive oak desk, looking over paperwork. His entire colorful office was a shrine to country music with wall-to-wall bookshelves crammed with memorabilia and framed pictures of the past two decades of himself with some of the most successful country celebrities of all time. The decorated walls looked like a virtual art gallery, displaying vintage posters advertising events at the Ryman and more photos of famous bluegrass, honky-tonk and contemporary country artists winning awards under the Warner Music label. Mounted on the walls were several largemouth bass and the giant head of a buck with impressive antlers in between some of the posters, a testament to his love of hunting and fishing. Clay couldn’t help himself and chuckled at the sight of his bigwig friend wearing reading glasses.
“Clay!” he startled, sitting up quickly and swiping the glasses off his face. “What a nice surprise. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Hey, Buddy. Sorry to interrupt.” He leaned over the large desk and firmly shook his hand. Clay sat in an expensive club chair across from Buddy and rested his booted ankle across his knee.
“What do I owe the pleasure of your visit today?” Buddy asked, picking up a white ceramic coffee mug and taking a sip. Clay could see the lettering on the cup and stifled another smile. The cup read, “The porch light’s on, but no one’s home.” A gift from one of his redneck hunting buddies, he supposed.
“I want to talk to you. Seriously.” He hesitated to know that Buddy would probably go out of his mind when he told him his decision. “I’m in.”
Buddy furrowed his bushy eyebrows and stared back at him with sharp eyes. “You’re in?”
Clay grinned and ran a hand through his hair, waiting for his comment to sink in. “Yeah. I’m in. The Ryman anniversary show, touring—everything your other artists do.”
The lights suddenly came on in Buddy’s eyes. “Oh! Fuck! You’rein!” He just about fell out of his chair as he struggled to stand. “Holy shit! This is great news!” The big man came from around his desk and pulled Clay to his feet, tackling him with a bear hug. “Oh, my god, Clay! This is the best news I’ve had in years! It’s not April Fool’s Day, is it? You don’t have a hidden camera in here trying to punk me or anything?” He looked around quickly.
Clay laughed. “No man, it’s true. I’m in.”
“Well, damn boy!” He squeezed his shoulder. “You certainly surprised me. This is cause for a celebration toast. Have a seat.” The big man went around the massive desk, opened a lower drawer, and pulled out a small bottle of bourbon and two shot glasses.
“Is that what I think it is?” Clay asked, eyeing the expensive bottle. He recognized the bourbon from a tasting he had been fortunate to be a part of at the Historic Hermitage Hotel a few years back with some of the label heads. He had a fondness for good whiskey and bourbon, instilled during those early days in Nashville. The bottle in Buddy’s hand was probably one of the best and most expensive bottles of bourbon in the entire state.
“Yes, it is. Jefferson’s eighteen-year-old Presidential Select. This baby only sees the light of day when somethingextraordinaryhappens. And believe me, this is it!” He poured the amber liquid into the small glasses and handed him one. “You know what they say? Nashville is a drinkin’ town with a music problem.”
Clay nodded and laughed.
“Seriously. Cheers to the future of the talented Georgia Clay finally signing with Warner Music Nashville.”
“Cheers…” They clinked glasses and threw the shots back. Clay closed his eyes, allowing the woodiness of the drink to infiltrate his system. It was damn good. “Holy fuck, that’s smooth!”
Buddy smiled and nodded toward his glass, pouring him another shot. The two men sat back down and sipped.
“Here’s how it’s gonna go, Clay. Things will move pretty quickly. We’ll get a contract together and send it over to your lawyer. Once you’re cool with everything, we’ll get on the horn and get this tour set up fast. I’d like for you to be on the road for a special holiday excursion. You’ll need to go over your current catalog and figure out what lucky bastard you want to produce your first album and what songs—”
“I’ll have a say in that?” he interrupted.
“Yes, sir.”
Clay was flabbergasted. “I don’t get it, Buddy. Most new artists don’t have a say in anything with their first record or tour. Why are you giving me a choice? What’s the catch?”
Buddy set his glass down, interlocking his fingers on top of the desk and looked Clay in the eye. “There’s no catch. Do you not realize how big you already are in this business? You’re country music royalty! Of course, Warner Music is going to pull out all the stops to make sure our new prince is happy. You have a knack for hit songs, and you’re a talented son-of-a-bitch. We’re gonna make a ton of money together.”
“Wow.”
“Yes,wow! Now between studio time recording and working with your new tour manager getting your show put together, you’re gonna be a busy guy. First and foremost, we need to sit down and talk about the Ryman Anniversary show in September. You’ve got about six weeks. Each artist on the roll call is doing two songs. I want to showcase you last as a special finale welcoming you into the family, so I’ll need four songs from you.”
“Four?”
Buddy laughed. “Yeah, four. And they need to be songs that will come out on your first record. Preferably songs that will shoot to number one.”
Clay’s head was spinning, and it wasn’t from the alcohol. It was obvious Buddy had spent some time already thinking about the possibility of him agreeing to his offer. Four songs performed at the Ryman Anniversary show? That was two more than some of the featured biggest names in country music. His heart was racing. Buddy seemed to sense his nervousness.
“Now don’t be getting all out of whack. You got this, Clay. It’s just like the Bluebird, only more people in the audience.”
“If you say so…”
Buddy leaned his elbows on the desk, pushing himself forward with authority. “I do say so. You were born to do this. I’m just happy you’ve finally come to your senses. What was the deciding factor, if you don’t mind me asking? Was it that pretty little Atlanta girl who came to see you a couple of weeks ago?”
