I sigh as my inbox remains empty. Nix would get notified before me, but I still can’t help but check.
“New demo?” Caleb asks, and I try not to let my disappointment show. I haven’t really discussed how much I want this role with Nix and Caleb. Although they know about the audition.
“Yeah, Jack said my songwriter had something new for me, so hopefully it came through.”
I click through the email, now looking for Jack’s name since my agent hasn’t gotten back with me, unable to say Baylor’s name this morning. In all honesty, I have other songwriters. I have even written a few of my own songs. No real hits, though. But, when Baylor and I split, he had made a deal with the label for a certain number of songs. He writes them, and I get first refusal.
That original contract has been modified and extended over the years, the negotiations always between the label and Baylor’s brother, Jack.
There is an app where Baylor posts new demo tracks so I can pass or take the song – it’s more secure than email — but it has no function to message or chat. Jack just tells me there is a demo and I go download it. Simple. As for everything else, I just keep it as professional as possible: the contract, a new demo, a take, a pass.
My only connection to Baylor is through the email exchange I have with Jack. Those messages are Jack’s blend of professionalism and personal connection, and I hold on to ever tidbit he gives me about life in Bear Valley.
I’m sure there are other things that still connect us. Fan mail that gets directed to me for Bee isn’t too odd. The studio screens all of that, but I know there are some hard-core fans that follow Baylor’s writing.
I do know that Jack is married now. Jack invited me to the wedding, but I was out of the country, although hopping on a plane for ten hours to burst back into Baylor’s life was a near thing.
Baylor has won big awards, but he never goes, leaving Nix or the label to accept it for him each time. He has won song of the year with other artists, too, but he never goes to the ceremony and writes under a different name than Baylor Mann. He’s a private kind of guy like that, but I’m not sure if he skips to avoid me or because he doesn’t want his face in the public eye.
Not that it matters. He’s one of the Mann brothers for goodness sake. That makes him known even outside of Colorado. He’s always on the most eligible bachelor list onVIP, a celebrity gossip site that talks about everyone from A-list stars to influencers and D-list celebrities, or even people like Baylor’s brother, Matt and his guy, Theo, who have popular cooking videos across several platforms.
I have never won Album of the Year at theGrammy’s, although I have been nominated. My last album consists only of songs written by Baylor, and I really hope that one gets the win. Not that he needs the notoriety. In fact, I have passed on some great songs I know someone else can sing better and I know those went for far more than what he gets out of his contract with my label, not to mention the royalties. But, I’m not going to sing his words if someone else can do it better.
Speak of the devil, I finally find the email from Jack that has been sitting in my inbox for a few days. I hadn’t opened it, waiting for this New Year event to be over. As I move to open that one, I see a new one come through.
It must be damn early in Colorado, and I imagine the Mann brothers about to ring in the first day of the New Year with some skiing and Jack sending me a message from the ski slope.
I read it twice, before my fingers can linger on the screen, trying to reach through time and space to touch something from Bear Valley.
“Fuck,” I say, reading it one more time just to make sure. A block of ice sinks in my stomach and rushes through my veins. I can’t focus on all of Jack’s words. Those words don’t matter. They aren’t the ones that race through my brain and flash in my eyes over and over like an over lit sign against a dark night.
FYI — After the song I sent a few days ago, there is only one left on this contract.
My eyes tear away front he message, unfocusing on the reflections on the dark glass windows. How are we already down to just one song on this contract? Shaking my head, I continue reading.
Baylor’s not sure about an extension. Will let you know more when I do. Just wanted to let you know ASAP.
Jack.
Not sure about an extension?What. The. Actual. Fuck.
It has literally never occurred to me that Baylor and I wouldn’t be doing this for the rest of time. That he might. . .notextend the contract when it was time to renegotiate. . .notwrite words I could sing?
“Cas?” Caleb asks me, but he seems far away. My ears are ringing too loud to hear anything. “Cas. . .” Caleb’s wide hands are on my shoulder.
Suddenly, the need to get out of the bus is overwhelming. I can’t fucking breathe and I just need to move.
I grab my phone and my headphones, Caleb’s hands dropping away. I tuck the pods in my ears as I walk back to my room to grab my shoes, and I hear Caleb move to get ready. He’s a fucking Marine. He will be dressed and halfway through stretches and warm-up cardio before I even have my shoes on.
In no time, we make our way through a twisty run that takes us through most of whatever town we are in. It has a river running through it, so it makes for a nice view I can’t be bothered to enjoy. The whole cliché about musicians traveling so much they don’t know what town they’re in hasn’t ever been applicable to me. I always know. At first, I prided myself on being able to determine the city by the feel and smell on the ground once I started a run. I don’t know today, though, for the first time in thirteen years of touring, because my mind does not have the bandwidth for that information.
After about a mile, I feel loose and ready to listen to this song. I have to prepare myself sometimes for Baylor’s lyrics. They are always tight, and always cut deep. Baylor can sew a narrative into words I have heard my whole life, used even, but he can give them this deeper, richer meaning combined in lyrical ways that send you reeling.
When he’s at his best, it’s as intricate as lace. A construct of words and phrases that are both delicate and unbreakable. Baylor puts into words things regular people can only feel or capture in a picture.
He’s a storyteller.
Rolling Stoneonce noted that it was nearly impossible to use words to describe the lyrics of one of Baylor’s songs. In fact the article said just that, and that the reviewer couldn’t even try, so just go listen to the song. It was a two sentence long glowing review.
