We pass through the hallway to the third door on the right. Paul pushes it open with his heel. He gestures to a couple of worn armchairs beside a sealed-over fireplace. The room is cozy. Paul’s desk is cluttered with papers, and there’s a giant sound system in one corner. On the wall, a framed photo of his five-person, two-canine family is blown up to the size of a small television.
I take a seat in the armchair facing the door. Paul leaves it cracked, then walks over and sits across from me.
“I have some questions for you, Paige.”
I nod slowly. This is a potential business partnership. He wants to make sure I’m a serious musician. He wants to make sure I’m levelheaded, good with commitment, reliable. Also, that my demos aren’t all I’ll ever be good for, that I’m not a one-trick pony.
“Of course. Please, ask away.”
Paul stares at me with narrowed eyes. “How’d you get Marty Maitland to write you a letter of recommendation?”
Our mutual connection. Of course.
Marty Maitland is a songwriting legend. A behind-the-scenes star. You don’t know his name unless you’re in the industry, but if youarein the industry, you get what a big deal he is, what he’s done for the careers of so many performing artists.
Marty Maitland has precisely the jobIwant to have.
“He guest taught one of my songwriting courses at Belmont,” I say.
Paul crosses one ankle over his knee. “He’s guest taught a handful of courses over the past few decades, but Marty doesn’t write recommendations for Belmont students. He once told me it was a stipulation in accepting the position because he knew the requests would get out of hand.”
My eyebrows pull together, my face going pink. “I swear it’s not a fake. He offered.”
The look Paul shoots me is totally blank. “He offered.”
“I honestly wasn’t sure he’d remember me,” I elaborate. “Considering I was only a sophomore when he taught my class. But he mentioned being impressed with my range, and that I was quick on my feet when it came to implementing suggestions. Marty said he would write a rec for me when I graduated. I emailed him the first demo when it was ready and he sent the recommendation a few weeks later, wishing me luck.”
Paul looks sideways. “That does sound like something he’d both notice and say.”
It’s quiet for a moment, and I fiddle with the hem of my shirt. Have I done something wrong? Something right? Why can I never tell? Navigating the business side of songwriting has felt damn near impossible since I graduated.
Paul’s stare refocuses. “Next question. Why are you just now pitching? You said in your email you’re twenty-five?”
“I didn’t start college directly after high school,” I explain. “I took two years off.”
His eyebrows jump. “Why?”
“Couldn’t afford it,” I admit bluntly.
“But eventually, you got a scholarship?”
“Full.”
“You from Nashville?”
“Bristol.”
He says “Ah” very quietly. “Sothat’sthat accent.”
“It’s gotten better since I moved here.” My tone is defensive, and to back it up, I do my best not to roll my vowels.
“I didn’t mean that as a bad thing,” Paul says.
If that’s true, he might be the first person from a professional environment to ever bring up my accent and not mean it as a bad thing.
Paul is quiet for another moment, still watching me. Now I’m beginning to feel like a piece of art he wants valued for purchase. Finally, he asks, “How many songs are there in total?”
The number leaves me before I can overthink the honesty of it: “Twelve.”
