“That sounds like romanticized bullshit.” I chuckle lightly and shake my head.
“Maybe. But what if it’s not?” He straightens up, checking his watch. “The round starts at eight. It’s five blocks south. You’llknow it by the bikes chained to every lamppost and the sound of someone tuning a guitar badly.”
Benny heads down the hall, whistling the same chord progression I had been playing before he knocked on my door. I wait until the door down the hall clicks shut before retreating into my apartment and sitting back down in the chair with the Martin across my lap.
And then I consider my options.
I could stay here, work on the song that’s been haunting me since somewhere between here and Los Angeles. Or I could venture into Nashville’s music scene and risk running into someone who knows me from Reverend Sister. I think that’s my biggest fear—coming face to face with industry people who want to discuss my future plans—who know far too much about the shit Van did.
The thought makes my skin crawl. If cheating on my sister wasn’t bad enough, stealing our band, the songs I wrote, is undoubtedly the worst betrayal.
But Benny’s words stick like a splinter:the music matters more than the career.
That’s some seriously philosophical mind-fuckery bullshit.
But it works because at seven-forty-five, I lock the apartment and walk south through streets that hum with pre-night life energy, with my ball cap low. Musicians carry guitar cases and notebooks. Groups of women, wearing matching shirts crowd around their best friends and brides to be, and head toward whatever restaurant they’re starting their night at. There are buskers on every corner, with their cases open for tips that might buy dinner or gas money to the next city, hoping someone important will walk by and notice them. They’re no different from me and the others. We’re all looking to write, sell and perform our songs, play our music.
People cluster outside The Songbird, waiting for the door to open, smoking cigarettes and discussing song structures. Barstools stack against the window, blocking my view into the venue and making it near impossible for me to make out the silhouettes of the people inside.
The door opens, and the bouncer sets a stool just outside of it. He sits, rests one of his booted feet on the peg, and motions for us to move forward. I pay the cover charge and as soon as I step over the threshold my anxiety spikes for no other reason than as I look around, people who look like music execs are moving toward the front of the stage.
The venue stretches back farther than it appeared from the street—maybe sixty people scattered across mismatched tables and chairs, candles flickering in mason jars, patio lights strung along exposed brick walls and over the exposed beams.
The stage area consists of four wooden stools arranged in a semicircle around a single microphone stand. No monitors, no stage lights, no barrier between performers and audience. Just music and the people who came to hear it.
I find an empty table near the back wall where I can observe. A server with purple streaks in her hair approaches, and I order a beer from the handwritten menu taped to a clipboard.
“First time here?”
“Yeah. Am I that obvious?”
She nods. “I saw you looking around with the what the fuck did I step into look. We see it all the time.”
“Great,” I mutter.
“Singer or songwriter?”
“Both.”
She smiles brightly. “You’ll love it. Best songwriter’s round in town. Rye books incredible talent.” She nods toward the front of the room where a woman moves between tables, checking on customers and adjusting the microphone height.
Rye.
The perfect ingredient for bourbon and whiskey.
Even from this distance, I can see how everyone respects her, and she exudes confidence. Mid-twenties, maybe early thirties, with long dark hair flowing in loose waves down her back. She wears jeans and a black tank top that shows off lean arms and the kind of posture that comes from lifting amplifiers and hauling sound equipment.
But it’s how she moves that catches my attention. Every gesture serves a purpose—adjusting a table’s position to improve sight lines, checking the tuning on a guitar that someone left propped against the wall, nodding approval as the first songwriter takes his seat on stage.
She notices everything. When a customer raises his hand near the bar, she signals the bartender before the guy can wave twice. When feedback squeals through the PA system, she adjusts something on a mixer I can’t see, eliminating the problem before it becomes distracting. And when the waitress returns with my beer and a bowl of popcorn, I lean slightly to the left, afraid I might miss something.
This isn’t someone playing at being a venue manager. This is someone who understands how music works, how rooms breathe, how audiences listen. Rye gets on stage, adjusts the microphone stand and introduces the first performer—a kid who can’t be older than twenty-two—who starts with an original song about leaving small-town Georgia for Nashville dreams. His voice wavers on the high notes, but his lyrics paint pictures that make me lean forward despite myself. Some of the people in the audience are enthralled with the lyrics, while others take notes. My eyes scan the crowd until they land on Rye, standing near the bar with her arms crossed, watching not just the performer but the audience’s reaction. When people start talking duringthe quiet bridge, she moves closer to those tables, her presence alone enough to restore attention to the stage.
The second songwriter is a woman in her fifties who plays finger style guitar and sings about raising children and loving men who couldn’t love her back. Her voice carries decades of cigarettes and whiskey, but every note hits exactly where it needs to.
I watch Rye during this performance too. She’s tapping her fingers against her crossed arms—not randomly, but following the rhythm with the intuitive precision of someone who understands music from the inside. When the woman hits a particularly beautiful chord change, Rye’s head tilts slightly, like she’s physically absorbing the harmony.
The third songwriter brings out a mandolin and plays bluegrass-influenced songs that get people moving in their chairs. Rye disappears toward the back of the room, checking on something near the sound booth, but I catch her singing along to a chorus she’s obviously heard before.
