“I…” Had no idea what to say to that. Struck dumb by Sourplum. Ha. That rhymed. Watch your back, Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
I was still trying to think what to say when Gretchen turned and walked off. No leaping, just walking. Which seemed wrong, somehow. I guess I’d gotten used to the leaping.
But her thesis wasnotwrong. Itwasn’tbetter to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I learned that early from dear old Mom.
At the end of week one, I was beginning to think I’d made a mistake coming here. Not only had I done zero songwriting, I was up to my eyeballs in children.
There were eighty kids at this camp, and they all had a declared area of focus. Like college majors, except at camp. I felt a little bad for them. My childhood had been shitty in many ways, but I wouldn’t trade the wide-open, unprogrammed summers of my youth for anything. Auden and I had had the city at our feet, and we’d gleefully abandoned both the strictures of school and the unpredictability of Mom in favor of roaming free.
Fifteen kids were doing music, and I was supposed to meet with each of them at least once. Which on paper seemed reasonable enough, but it also meant I was seeing three kids a day that first week, Marion having suggested we try to do our one-on-ones early in the month so the kids could benefit from our wisdom or some shit as they planned their end-of-camp performances. I was keen to get this obligation over with, as after this week, all I would have to do was show up at a few sunrise circles and hold twice-weekly “office hours” in the music studio, where kids could come see me for… I wasn’t even sure. Help tuning their guitars? Straight talk about the music industry that would crush their fragile little dreams?
By Friday afternoon, I was exhausted by the week’s tsunami of teens. They were so oily and awkward. But I’d almost made it; I’d survived fourteen kids of wildly varying abilities. And honestly, I’d done it by putting into action Gretchen’s advice about treating them like adults who were less far along in their careers than I was.
Kid number fifteen was—I consulted my schedule—Anna, going into tenth grade at St. Paul Academy. I think they told us the kids’ schools because it was supposed to mean something to us. I, of course, was clueless. Anna could be a Juilliard graduate for all I cared.
“Hi,” she said shyly, as she appeared in the studio.
All right. One more kid, and it was the weekend. I tried not to look as unenthused as I was. It wasn’t her fault she was stuck with me. “Tell me about you and music, Anna.”
“Um, I love music.”
Great. Don’t we all. I raised my eyebrows.
“I play piano, guitar, and banjo,” she added.
“Banjo!” I exclaimed. I couldn’t help it. So far this week, I’dseen guitar and piano and drums, which I could work with, and a saxophonist who would be better off with YouTube than with me—woodwinds were not my forte. Then two kids who only sang, which was fine for them, but I didn’t know what they expected from me. I’d only sung backup for Concrete Temple, though I supposed that was going to have to change if I intended to put out a solo record.
I gestured Anna in—she was still hovering near the doorway—and pointed at the empty stool next to me. The camp provided a piano and a drum kit, but the kids were supposed to bring their own instruments if they played anything else, and sure enough, Anna was laboring under the weight of a guitar case and a banjo case.
“Let’s hear something on banjo.”
She got her instrument out and said, “You want to hear a cover or an original?”
Well, hell. “Both. Why don’t you start with a cover?”
She proceeded to blow me away with a cover of the Eagles’ “Take It Easy.” I’d have thought that if a kid this age was going to cover music with actual banjos in it, rather than just banjoify a current pop song, she’d have gone with the Chicks or Mumford & Sons or something, not a dude-rock band from before her time—and mine. She changed the opening lyric about having “seven women on my mind” to be about having seven boys on her mind. At first the gender swap delighted me. She was making the song her own, and this girl couldplay. But then the song took a turn, became kind of creepy. When you thought about the lyrics—being owned, having a truck slow down as you’re minding your own business, the simple change of pronouns made it unsettling. Which I was pretty sure was her point. Damn. I hadn’t felt this awake since I arrived here.I got that buzzing feeling in my limbs, as if someone had replaced my blood with gin and tonic. I used to get the feeling from being in the studio with Scott. Though come to think of it, I hadn’t gotten that feeling during the last record.
When Anna was done, I said, “Now let’s hear an original.”
She took a deep breath. She was nervous. But she relaxed as she started playing. Her song was short, and she stumbled over a couple chord changes—she didn’t have this one down like her Eagles song—but it had a hell of a lot of potential.
“No lyrics yet,” I said when she was done.
“No. I don’t have them yet, but I know what it’s going to be about.”
“And what’s that?”
She paused.
“You don’t have to tell me.” I did desperately want to know, which was an odd feeling. I hadn’t felt this strongly about something in a while. Well, no, I had to issue a mental correction as I thought back to that shattered TV at the Hilton Garden Inn: I hadn’t felt this strongly in apositiveway about something in a while. But I respected people’s songwriting processes. It could be an oddly private experience. It could make you feel exposed. Vulnerable.
Which was why I’d only ever done it with Scott. Because I trusted him. Or I used to trust him.
“No, it’s OK,” she said. “I just think you might think it’s dumb. Immature.”
“Try me.”
“It’s about a boy at school I hate.”
