Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders (26 page)

“Well, all right then.”
 
Eddie set his guitar case down and sat at the table with his
producer.
 
“You decided when we’re gonna
do ‘Wasn’t Supposed
To
End That Way?’
 
I think we oughta do it third or fourth, after
we’re warmed up a bit, but not too late that we might be tired.”

“Whatever you want.
 
We’ll do it when it feels right,” Big Bill
said.
 
“That’s the key with a song like
that, you gotta do it naturally.
 
See,
the great thing about that song is it’s, uh, what’s the word I want?
 
It’s organic.
 
There’s not a false note or an untrue word in it.
 
And we gotta capture that.”
 
Bill shook his head.
 
“So we can’t do it on a schedule.
 
It’s not like a bought single.
 
I bet you didn’t write it on a schedule, did
you?”

Eddie thought about it for a second.
 
“No, sir, that’s true.”
 
He grew serious all the sudden, looking at
his hands and where his wedding band used to be.
 
“That song came out of me like I don’t know
what.
 
Most of my songs I have to think
about and work on but that
one.
. . it was like…
it was hard.”

“Like splittin’ gum logs in August,” Big Bill said, nodding
his giant round head.
 
“I know.
 
I could tell the first night I heard
it.”
 
Bill reached across the table and
touched Eddie’s chest.
 
“It came from in
there.”
 
He reached up and touched
Eddie’s forehead.
 
“Not there.”

Eddie felt comfortable with Big Bill.
 
They were kindred.
 
In a way, he was a father figure and Eddie
just opened up to him.
 
He told Big Bill
about Tammy’s death and how he moved to Nashville
just afterwards.
 
He told him all he
could remember about the five days he spent trying to get the song to come out,
and how it felt when it was over.
 
“I’m
tellin’ you,” Eddie said, “it was rough.”

Big Bill took it all in, thinking it would be good material
for the book.
 
He’d heard others tell
similar stories.
 
Songwriting was a
mysterious process even when it consisted more of steady hard work than out-of-the-clear-blue
inspiration.
 
It was mostly day-in,
day-out spent working with a theme, or taking a common phrase, putting a twist
to it and building a song around it, or telling a story with perfect
economics.
 
It was poetry with the added
complication of being set to music.
 
But
every now and then a song would force itself on a writer, make their life hell
for some time,
then
present itself when it was
ready.
 
This was how many of the best
songs were born.
 
Knowing this served to
bolster Big Bill’s belief that Eddie’s song was a classic.
 
He couldn’t wait to get it on tape.
 
Big Bill stood up.
 
“Come on,” he said, putting his arm around
Eddie.
 
“Let’s go make some music.”

An hour later, Porky Vic and the players were back and it
was like the night before had never ended.
 
It was a recording session the likes of which everyone dreams.
 
And it wasn’t just that everyone was playing
well and getting along, though both of those things were certainly true.
 
The thing was
,
they
could tell they were making a great record.
 
They didn’t know if it would be a commercial success or not, but they
could tell it was something to be proud of.
 
The confidence and camaraderie that followed from that was
palpable.
 
Each player was in perfect
sync with the others, requiring no more than eye contact or body language to
communicate their ideas in the middle of a song.
 
It was a fast break with guitars.
 
They started with a sort of rocking west Texas
shuffle that sounded like it had been filtered through an early Doobie Brothers
hit.
 
After running through it a couple
of times, they compared notes.

“How ‘bout we do three bars on that to the downbeat to the
chorus,” the bass player said.

The pedal steel guy held up his hand.
 
“Wait, wait,
wait
!
 
You wanna make it four minors?
 
That might be cool.”

Eddie thought about it for a second.
 
He looked at his charts, tilted his
head.
 
“11, 55, 44, 11?
 
That’s different from what I was thinking of,
but it might work.
 
Let’s try it.”

The pedal steel guy smiled as they played a few bars that
way before pausing.
 
“Yeah,” he said,
“that works, doncha think?”

“Yeah, four.”
 
Eddie smiled back and nodded.
 
“I’m diggin’ that.”
 
He looked to the control room.
 
“Boss?”

Big Bill pushed the mic button.
 
“I got special tape rolling.
 
It captures magic.
 
Now go!”

Eddie counted it down and they nailed it in one take.
 
Absolutely nailed it.
 
It was impossible, but they did it.
 
There was a pause as the last note faded and
Eddie looked from one face to another.
 
They ranged from sublime smiles to shit eatin’ grins.
 
Eddie leaned into his microphone and spoke
softly, like an announcer on a classic music station.
 
“Gentlemen,” he said.
 
“I believe we have our mojo working.”
 
Everybody let out with hoots and hollers and
high fives.

The door behind Big Bill opened.
 
Megan stepped into the room and waved.
 
“Hey, everybody!
 
That last one sounded good even through the
door.”

The sight of Megan’s wild red hair sent a charge through
Eddie.
 
“Hey girl!
 
Glad you could make it,” he said with a
wink.
 
“We’re on a roll.
 
Just make yourself comfy while we knock out
another one.”
 
He turned to the guitar
player.
 
“How about
‘Homeless in
Love
Town
’ next?”

The guitar player shrugged.
 
“I’ll follow you anywhere, man.”
 
So Eddie counted it down and they did a run through.
 
It was a mournful, lovesick ballad that
wouldn’t have been out of place on a Clint Black or a Randy Travis record.
 
Afterwards, they listened to a playback and
did their post mortem.

“Something’s hinkey,” Porky Vic said.

The guitarist agreed.
 
“Yeah, there’s a seventh on the fiddle.”

“It might be duckable,” someone suggested.

“You don’t like the seventh?”
 
The fiddle player sounded a little hurt.

Big Bill jumped in.
 
“No,” he said, “but only because of the harmonies we’re going to do.
Can’t have that and the seventh, right?”

The fiddler player nodded understanding.
 
“Cool.”
 
After three more takes, ‘Homeless in Love
Town’ was in the can, save the
harmony tracks Bill would record and mix in a few days.

Megan sat in the control room admiring her new man.
 
Even though Eddie was the youngest one in the
studio, she could see the rest of them were glad to have him lead them to the
promised land
.
 
She
kicked back on the sofa and began to imagine a plush future at Eddie’s side.

“Hey, Bill,” Eddie said.
 
“You think the time’s right?”
 
He’d been waiting for Megan, for inspiration.
 
“I’m feelin’ organic, if you know what I
mean.”

“You rascal, I know what you mean.”
 
Big Bill was about to give a thumbs up when
the door behind him opened again and Franklin
walked in with Whitney.
 
Big Bill turned
around.
 
“Hey now!
 
Look who we got.”
 
He waved everybody in from the studio.
 
“Let’s take five, fellas.
 
Eddie, we’ll do the song when we come back.”

The players emerged from the isolation booths and headed for
the control room.
 
The pedal steel player
stopped the guitarist as he passed by.
 
“You bring your two-fifteen?”

The picker smiled slyly.
 
“Yeah, you got an idea for something?”
 
He set his guitar down and pulled his 1955 Martin Style 2-15
mandolin from its case.
 
It was a beauty,
rosewood and tiger-striped maple and an unbound ebony fingerboard with 7
ivoroid dotmarkers.
 
The pickguard clamp
was an unusual shade of jade and brown.
 
The instrument made sounds that might have come from heaven, if angels
played mandolins.
 
The picker pulled a
stool up next to the pedal steel guitar.
 
“What’ja
have
in mind?”

Out in the control room some of the players chatted with
Franklin, whom they knew from prior business dealings.
 
Franklin
made a joke about Big Bill’s studio being the Jurassic Park of Nashville.
 
“I’ll take a digital rig any day,” he
said.
 
“But what do I know, right?
 
I’m just a lawyer.”

Big Bill introduced Whitney to everyone.
 
Whitney tried not to look too astonished at
where he suddenly found himself.
 
After
some small talk, Porky Vic and a couple of the players headed out for
smokes.
 
Big Bill corralled Eddie and
brought him over.
 
“Eddie, I want you to
meet Whitney Rankin, the writer I told you about.
 
He’s our other newest client, wrote a song
that’s going to be a big hit.
 
Whitney,
this is Eddie Long.”

Whitney was a little disappointed Big Bill had introduced
him as a writer only.
 
He thought of
himself as a performer too, but he didn’t think now was the time or place to
bring that up.
 
Eddie and Whitney shook
hands, each looking at the other with a vague sense of recognition, though
neither remembered they had played at the Bluebird open mic that same
night.
 
“Good to meet you,” Whitney said.

“Likewise.”
 
Eddie wondered what was up with the earrings
and the bandana tied around Whitney’s wrist, but he wasn’t going to say
anything.
 
He turned and introduced Megan
as his girlfriend.

She looked at Eddie in mock surprise.
 
“When did I become your girlfriend?”

Eddie smiled, pulling her tight to his side.
 
“Last night, if I’m not
mistaken.”

“Oh, that was you.”
 
Megan smiled.
 
“I knew you looked
familiar.”
 
She arched her thin eyebrows
and smiled at Whitney.
 
“It’s nice to
meet you.”

Whitney tipped his black hat.
 
“Ma’am.”

“Oh, my,” she said in her Southern Belle voice.
 
“There are some real cowboys left.”
 
She looked Whitney up and down.
 
Nothing prefabricated about this guy, she
thought.
 
He was authentic something,
though she wasn’t sure what.
 
He seemed
somehow out of place.

“So,” Eddie said, “where you at with your song, the one
Bill’s talking about?
 
You
shopping
a demo?”

“Yeah, we recorded a bunch of my stuff here coupla weeks
ago, but
we hadn’t heard nothin’ back from nobody yet
.
 
Tell you the truth,” Whitney shrugged meekly,
“I’m not real sure what the whole process is, but Mr. Herron says he’s out
there pluggin’ me.”
 
Eddie nodded his
head as if he cared.
 
Whitney twisted
nervously at the bandana tied around his wrist.
 
“You know, I play too,” he added.
 
“I mean, I’m not just a writer.”
 
He wanted Eddie to know he was a member of the club, hoping to gain a
little acceptance.
 
“Mr. Herron didn’t
mention it, but uh—”

Just then Big Bill rumbled by and slapped Eddie on the
back.
 
“All right,” he said.
 
“‘Nuff of this socializin’.
 
Let’s make us some music.”
 
Bill sank into his big chair behind the console
and rubbed his hands together like he was about to do a magic trick.
 
“Where’s Porky?”

As the players filed back into the studio, Whitney and Megan
moved to the sofas behind Big Bill.
 
Franklin
walked over and leaned onto the mixing console, watching the musicians.
 
He spoke to his partner without looking at
him.
 
“By the way,” Franklin
said, “our boy didn’t win Best New Hat Act.
 
Probably won’t get his deal picked up now.”

Big Bill was busy adjusting something on the tape
machine.
 
He shrugged off the news.
 
“Tough break,” he said.
 
“Maybe he’ll pick up a something at the Viva
NashVegas Awards.”

Franklin
nodded.
 
“Yeah, everybody wins something
there.”

Big Bill punched the mic control button.
 
“”Whaddya say, fellas?
 
We ready?”