Page 44 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

Three guys who look like they stepped out of a Nashville catalog—perfect hair, pristine boots, smiles that don’t reach their eyes, all file in. The room isn’t exactly big and now it feels like a box.

“Hey, man, I’m Chase,” he says. “Liz asked up to come in and help.”

“Colin,” another one said. “Heard you’re stuck. We’ll get you unstuck.”

“I’m Alex,” the last one said as he sits down at the desk. “I’m the music man. Those two are the word wizards.”

“So, what’re we working with?” Chase asks.

I grab the yellow pad I’ve been doodling on. There are a few songs, but they are in their infancy. “I don’t have much,” I murmur.

Chase flips through the pages. “This is... folksy.”

He hands the notepad to Colin. I can see the expression on their faces. They don’t like it. Folksy isn’t a compliment.

“It’s authentic,” I say. “It’s my sound. I don’t have to stick to any one style. I can’t do a lot of different styles.”

Chase gives me a pitying look. “Authentic doesn’t sell, brother. Let’s punch it up. Alex, pull up his other tracks and we’ll see if we can match his voice.”

Alex nods and pulls out his laptop, fingers flying over the keys. The room fills with the sound of my first single—my voice, my songs, filtered through the polished production that Liz had insisted on. It’s jarring to hear it now, like looking at a photo of yourself that’s been airbrushed into someone else. I can still hear my sound underneath the post-production. I like it. Not as much as I like just me and the guitar, but it’s decent.

Chase and Colin start tossing out ideas. Listening to them talk, I can tell they work together a lot. “Let’s add some synth,” Chase says.

“Maybe a feature with a rapper?” Colin suggests.

I bristle. “That’s not me.”

“You sure about that?” Chase asks, leaning back in his chair. “Because right now, you’re not anything. You’re stuck. And unless you want Liz to start pulling songs from the catalog, you need to get unstuck.”

“I don’t need a rapper or synth or whatever else you’re suggesting. I need space. I need time.”

“Time’s up, man,” Colin says bluntly. “You’re on a deadline. And if you can’t deliver, they’ll find someone who can.”

I know they’re right—Liz isn’t going to wait forever—but the thought of compromising my music makes me sick.

“Look,” Alex says, his voice calmer than the others. “We’re here to help, not take over. Let’s find something you’re comfortable with and go from there.”

What follows is three hours of musical torture. They take my simple ballad about hometown heartache and layer it with synth beats. They suggest changing the key of my most personal song to make it more “radio-friendly.” They replace my raw, imperfect bridge with a polished, soulless riff.

By the time we finish, we’ve completed four more tracks.

They sound like every other song on the radio.

They sound nothing like me.