“Oh, Transcendence,” I said, going back to the lyrics search. “Ilovedtheir last album.”
“Funny,” he said.
“Look, here’s the thing,” I said. “I don’t want to transcend my genre. I love my genre.” I held up the phone: bingo.
“You haven’t chosen one,” Bern said, leaning forward. We were swapping industry secrets here. “Yet. There’s space enough for every perspective, every style, sure. The internet is a wide, wide world. But if you want to find an audience, to connect with hearts and minds and make them goddamnloveyou, you have to know who you are. You of all people have to know. And it should be someone in particular. Somethingin particular. Something like what’s selling, sure, but also something no one’s ever seen.”
“No problem,” I said under my breath.
I’d found the lyrics. “Oh, bury me beneath the willow, under the weeping willow tree.”
Gah, good thing I was already hanging low, you know? Why had I agreed to that one?
“The universe of country music contains multitudes,” Bern continued. “But any label rep I bring to your show next week is going to want to see clearly what your story is. If we need to clean a little house to make that happen, you’d be willing to do that.”
I looked up from his phone. Label rep? Nextweek? Bern hadn’t phrased any of this as a question. He was making the assumption I wanted it enough to do anything he suggested.
“Clean house,” I said. “You just mean the playlist, right? Figuring out our sound?”
Behind me, the boys were taking the stage, Matt giving a few tentative kicks to his bass drum to give me a heads-up. I pulled Alex’s sweater over my head, my T-shirt underneath riding up a bit.
The guy at the bar, yeah, watching. Watchingrealclose.
“We can talk about this another time, when you’re not in the middle of an ego trip,” Bern said. “Go get your adoration. Fill up the tank.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” one of the plaids onstage announced importantly.
What did I love as much as the sound of a voice trumpeting my ascendance to the stage? Very little. I packed light in this life. I could name everything I valued on the fingers of one hand, including people, and that’s the way I liked it.
Ego trip? Watch this, y’all.
I handed Bern’s phone back.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the voice through the mic again. Over Bern’s shoulder, the guy at the bar had turned in his chair to watch me with naked interest. “Ladies and gentlemen, do we have atreatfor you tonight.”
33
Hey, if you’re thinking I went home with that guy from the Rose, just stop.
Yeah, I considered it.
What would you have done? If you’d slayed the audience with a Patsy Cline wail and then buried them under that willow tree, and stepped off the stage to yips and howls and a standing ovation from your maybe-manager and then a congratulatory gin and tonic from the handsome stranger who’d been shooting you looks the whole night and chose that moment to approach? If you were young andaliveand maybe in a pretty bad place emotionally, financially, and all-aroundily and already had on deck some pretty serious self-esteem issues?
Right.
But I had the sense not to do that. I accepted that drink and, after Bern left, a couple more—but made no plans, made no promises. I entertained people stopping by Bern’s table, which had becomemytable, and at three in the morning, the place closed down around me. The hopeful guy had already bailed, and the buses had long ago stopped service for the night. I couldn’t hail a rideshare, but the Rose’s owner took pity on me and called me a cab I couldn’t really afford.
Credit card debt is practically a developmentalmilestone, right?
Still riding high on the performance, I imagined, someday, the media flack backstage at the Americana Music Awards asking me about my struggles. Well, I’d say, I used to be in a pretty one-sided relationship. With Visa.
In the cab I relived the audience response, the boots stomping the floor. At one point while I stood onstage, I’d become aware of my own outsized shadow on the wall, arms thrown wide and monstrous.
“Miss?” the cabbie said. “Where should I let you out?”
I looked up to find that we’d reached McPhee’s block of Milwaukee Avenue.
“At the pub is fine,” I said.
