Just a Girl (10 page)

June 8

Me

No time for details. Just tell me if I should or shouldn’t do something.

Liv

Is it the guitar player? Then yes.

Me

It’s not that.

Liv

Still yes. And THEN do the guitar player.

Me

Paul.

Liv

Ooh, I get a name. This is getting serious.

Me

Shut up.

Liv

So, what did I say yes to?

Me

Tell you later.

Liv

You better.

I spent the second set vacillating between confidence that there was no way the rest of Jukebox Bleu was going to invite a stranger onto the stage in the middle of their show, and fear that they actually would. I’d met only two of them before. But on the other hand, musicians could be weird. I knew that better than most people.

Suddenly, Kenzie was leaning close to tell me it was the last song of the set. She was off to the bar to get refills on the pitchers, and I’d soon have to meet my fate.

As the band hit the final notes of a Mumford & Sons song, I was startled to find Paul looking straight at me from the stage. I think it might have been the first time he’d looked directly toward the audience at all. Could he even see with the stage lights on? That was answered quickly enough when the lights went out and he stayed focused on me.

Paul gave me a come-here gesture before he ducked out of his guitar strap. I made my way through the crowd, feeling like a fish trying to go upstream. Everyone was trying to get to the bar at once.

Finally I was at the edge of the stage. Paul was waiting for me, his guitars back on their stands, his in-ear monitor dangling over his shoulders.

“Nice set,” I said.

He ignored that. “They’re in.”

As tempting as it was to pretend I didn’t know what he was talking about, I knew right away. My pulse fizzed to life. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. What do you want to sing?”

“What?” How had this happened so quickly?

“You still want to?” Paul put his hand on my chest again. “Is it okay in here?”

I didn’t know if he was trying to convince me not to do this just so I’d understand what it was like to have stage fright. Or was he hoping for company in the panic place? But for the first time in months, I felt a bit of the fire that had kept me in front of a band full of dudes in the rock world, which was also full of dudes. I was used to swallowing my hesitations and fears.

“I’m in,” I said. “You got a song list?”

His eyes showed the barest hint of surprise. Then he recovered. “Come with me.”

He took my hand and kept me close as we worked our way to the back of the bar, where the rest of the band had gathered around Kenzie and her pitchers of beer.

“Guys, this is Presley.” Paul had to raise his voice to be heard.

Seven pairs of eyes focused on me.

“Hey, guys. Great show!” I gave them a wave.

James took the lead, leaning close enough to be heard and pointing to each band member in turn. He gave them all names. I thought I caught “Nick,” and “Spence,” and maybe a “Rob,” but it was hard to hear over the noise of the jukebox and the crowd. I made a mental note to get every name and memorize them as soon as I could get Kenzie to tell me again. That would make it easier for me onstage.

“So you’re gonna do a song with us?” the one probably named Spence asked. He was one of the band-geek types I remembered from the horn section of the stage, though I couldn’t remember if he was the trumpet or the saxophone. He was tall and slim, with a scruff of reddish beard that was a shade or two brighter than the auburn of his short hair.

“Only if it’s cool with you guys,” I said. “I don’t want to mess up your show.”

“Nah, we’ve been known to have a special guest or two before,” James assured me.

“What do you want to sing?” the lead singer, Ronnie, asked. Amazingly, he wasn’t giving me any kind of stink eye.

I asked if any of them had a song list on them and was quickly presented with three different-sized phones bearing a spreadsheet. Startled, I took the biggest phone and scrolled through the list.

Their song library ranged through many genres, though it obviously concentrated heavily on any song in the recent past that had the popular folk-rock vibe: Mumford & Sons, the Mountain Goats, Sheppard, and so on. But I’d seen them in action and it was clear they were all solid musicians. I wanted to sing one of my favorites.

“Anybody know the song ‘I Just Wanna Make Love to You’?” I asked.

“Muddy Waters version or Etta James?” Spence said.

I cocked an eyebrow. “Either.”

“Yeah, I know it.” Spence whacked the other horn player to get his attention and leaned in to give him a hummed-out version of the song.

“Sure. I can do that,” he said.

I looked at the bass player—Nick? “It’s easy blues. A-D-A, repeat—”

“I got it.” He brushed the offer of chords away.

James held up his hands before I could ask. “I can fake it.”

“I know it,” Paul said, surprising me and adding some serious bonus points to his already high score. “Just follow me.”

“You guys sure?” I checked all their faces.

“As long as you are,” one of them said.

“Fuck yeah,” I said.

To my surprise, I was getting excited about the idea. Ronnie gave me a folded piece of paper from his pocket: a hand-scribbled set list for the final part of the show. He pointed to a spot about halfway down. “We’ll call you up here.”

It was settled.

As the third and final set started, I got a familiar fizzy feeling in my stomach. Not stage fright, but the kind of nervous excitement I always got before a show. It was almost sad, in a way. I had been away from performing for so long that a single song at a bar where only half the patrons were even paying attention felt like taking the massive stage at an arena.

It was insane that they were letting me do this. How did they even know if I could sing? Had Paul shown them that YouTube video he’d sprung on me? What were they expecting from me?

The Luminous 6 had been more on the heavy end of the rock spectrum, with steady drumbeats propping up driving bass lines and noisy guitar riffs. We’d rarely even made use of my piano skills, except when we played around with studio mixes. Fronting that band had been all about strut and cockiness. I hadn’t needed my full vocal range for most of the songs.

Blues had been my first love. Though my parents were folksingers, I’d always been attracted to the grimy, loping pace of the blues. But, although it formed the basis of all rock and pop music, it had fallen out of favor as a genre of its own a while ago.

I hadn’t ever performed a classic blues song outside of the Thursday night After Hours shows. And that audience couldn’t exactly be counted on for a reliable opinion, as it so often comprised my godparents, family friends, and other musicians whose careers had long passed their expiration dates.

Was this the right song choice?

But it was too late to second-guess myself, because Ronnie was addressing the audience as the rest of the band milled around onstage, conferring with oneanother. “We’d like to introduce you all to a friend of ours,” Ronnie said. “She’s gonna come up onstage and sing a little song for you all.” He held a hand above his eyes, looking beyond the lights. “Presley, why don’t you come on down?”

I slid off my barstool, desperately wishing I’d taken a moment to warm up my voice a bit, or at least had a glass of water. I literally hadn’t sung a note in months, and now I was about to go in front of an audience and belt out a song made famous by Etta James, one of the greatest voices in the history of music.

Shit. This had been a bad idea.

Like Paul had done earlier, I took a few steadying breaths as I approached the stage. It was too late for nerves. I would look like an asshole if I backed out.

The stage was low enough to step onto easily, but Ronnie offered his hand to me and I took it to join him. Calm came over me as soon as I faced the bar patrons. Like a reflex, the stage worked its magic on me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a big hand to Presley Mason.” He stepped back from the mic, arms extended toward me in presentation.

There was a smattering of applause from the people who’d been dancing in front of the stage, but otherwise no one interrupted their conversations to pay me any attention. That’s okay, I thought. I’ll have them soon enough. It was a familiar thought that I had never expected to have again. It felt…really fucking good.

“How’s everybody doing tonight?” I asked the crowd.

I got the expected halfhearted whoops from a few people.

“Aww, we gotta do something about that.” I clutched the microphone, still speaking into it, but turning my head to make eye contact with a few of the band members. “You guys want to help me cheer the people up?”

The drummer did a little fill-in answer.

“Let’s give it a try, shall we?” I gave them a nod and the drummer set up an experimental riff.

One by one the other instruments joined. It wasn’t the cleanest leadoff, especially given the song, but quickly enough they had it filled out and swinging along in a healthy blues rhythm.

Ronnie had moved out of the spotlight, but stayed fairly close to the microphone. There just wasn’t much room on the stage. He kept an eye on the band, and nodded at me when he’d gotten the high sign to start. The horns laid down a riff, and I opened my mouth to sing.

The words were as familiar to me as they had ever been. It was saucy, sassy, and a little bit dirty. My throat felt rusty at first, but that served me well when it came to Miss Etta James; the woman had enough gravel in her voice to lay down the foundation for a skyscraper. And by the end of the first chorus, I could feel the cobwebs clearing from my vocal cords. I settled into the mic, widening my stance to my favorite stage posture. I just had to hope my short black dress wouldn’t ride too far up my thighs.

Some singers clutch the mic the whole time they sing, or prefer to take it out of the stand to give them the freedom to move. I did that once in a while, but when it came to a song that really put my voice to the test, I liked to keep the mic where it was and bring myself to it.

By the middle of the second verse I could see that I’d gotten the attention of a good portion of the bar’s patrons. That wasn’t enough, though. I wanted all of them. As we moved toward the bridge, I turned up my voice to eleven. This might be the last time I’d sing in public for a while, and I wasn’t going to let it pass by without giving it everything I had.

The band had ahold of the song now. They were communicating silently in the way that only musicians can. Following one another’s cues and the slightest changes, they stayed together as we approached the final bars.

Most recordings of the song faded out, but that obviously wouldn’t work live, so the guys took their cue from Paul and played a classic blues coda. I felt what they were doing as if it were coming from my very bones. I hit one final high note with them, instinctively stopping at the right moment.

The crowd went nuts.

Pride and relief fought for dominance. I could have cried, but experience kicked in and I pulled the mic close. “Thank you very much!” I said to the crowd. “Thank you!”

Ronnie came close. “Presley Mason, everybody!” He gave me a hug, and whispered “Ho-ly shit.”

“Thank you so much,” I said.

“Thank
you
,” he said.

I turned to face the band and pressed both hands to my mouth to blow them all a kiss. James came around the side of his keyboard to give me a quick hug.

“That was sick,” he said.

I thanked him and moved toward the side of the stage where Paul stood. He looked bemused. I paused in front of him to stretch up and give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You were amazing.”

It felt weird to thank him again, but I did and squeezed his arm before I left the stage. I made my way back through the crowd, stopped occasionally by people. They were so nice, telling me I’d done a great job, or that they loved my voice. One even recognized me from The Luminous 6, which startled me.

Eventually I made it back to the table where Kenzie was sitting, keeping a number of empty pitchers and countless empty cups company.

“Oh my God, girl,” she said, sliding off her stool to give me a hug. “You were incredible. I don’t even know how they’re going to finish the show after that!”

I laughed. “They seem to be doing just fine.” Already Ronnie was back in charge of the mic and they were playing an Amos Lee cover.

“I had no idea you could sing like
that.
” She shook her head in amazement. “I mean, seriously, you’re lucky you left that band. They were holding you back.”

I flinched, and hoped she hadn’t noticed. I hadn’t “left” the band. The band left me. And as much as I wanted to be past it, I wasn’t, obviously. Maybe hearing the words I’d always heard from the A&R reps who’d approached me made it worse: “They’re holding you back.” They’d all said it. The band, the genre, the style, the songs—all of it was holding me back.

But I had been so sure. I’d loved being in the group. I wanted to front a band. An actual band. I didn’t want to be Presley Mason and the Whatevers. I liked the feeling of collaboration and togetherness. And I sure as hell didn’t want to be packaged and sold the way the industry did to girls like me. I knew what I was: small, blonde, big voice, decent enough looks that a team of professionals could make me the next Britney or Christina if they wanted to. But I didn’t want backup dancers and a tour loaded with special effects and glittery costume changes.

I also didn’t want all the success or failure hanging over my head alone. But that hadn’t been enough for Brendan, Shawn, and Dixon. They thought I saw it the same way as the industry people. That I was always looking for the right deal to leave.

What I’d never told them was that
any
of the offers I’d gotten would have been enough for someone who was looking to go solo. They were good, solid offers to make a career out of my voice. I had always downplayed the offers or not even mentioned them to the band at all. Maybe part of me had always been afraid that they were going to tell me to take it.

I watched the rest of the show in contemplation. It was obvious Jukebox Bleu saw themselves as a package deal. Even Ronnie, who was the only singer, was a part of the group. That was what I wanted.

Still, a part of me had to admit that it had felt so good to sing again. Even when I was only a guest. My lungs felt bigger and fuller than they had in weeks. And the buzz of endorphins was only adding to the mellow happiness of my few puffs of pot I’d taken with Paul at the last break. All in all, it was the best I’d felt in a while.