Page 36 of Echoes of a Southern Song

“All right,” I say, strumming a gentle intro. “This next one’s new. Still a little raw, but I figure if I can’t try it out here, I can’t try it anywhere. You guys are always good listeners.”

There’s a murmur of interest, a few cheers of encouragement. I nod, take a breath, and dive in.

It’s not even halfway through before I can tell this thing is one giant cow pile. The vibe shifts. It’s subtle—shoulders stiffen, conversations restart in the back, a guy by the jukebox checks his phone. I try to push through, hope they’ll come back around by the second verse.

They don’t.

The last chord dies out with a silence that’s a little too loud. A few polite claps. Nothing more. No woo-hoos. No grins. Just... meh.

I nod, trying to play it off. “All right. Tough crowd,” I joke, and that at least gets a chuckle. I move on to an upbeat favorite and the energy rebounds like it never happened. The rest of the night goes off without a hitch. By the end, people are on their feet, whistling, calling for one more.

I give them two to make up for that pile of shit I foisted on them.

After the show, Aggie meets me by the bar with a cold bottle of water and a kind smile.

“Hell of a night,” she says, handing me the bottle.

“Yeah,” I say, taking it. “Except that one song. Man, that one flopped hard. I almost quit halfway through. That’s gotta be one of the most humiliating experiences of my life.”

She laughs. “Jack, it wasn’t that bad. They didn’t know what to make of it, maybe. Or they were just waiting for the chorus to hit and it never did.”

“That’s comforting,” I say dryly.

She punches my arm lightly. “I’m serious. They loved the rest of your set. You can’t win ’em all. Besides, it’s not finished, is it?”

“No,” I admit. “Not really.”

“So finish it. Just don’t stay up all night doing it.”

I nod, already knowing I will. “Jinnie usually knows what to do to make it work.”

Aggie’s smile softens. “You miss her.”

“I do. But she has to work. I can’t use her as a crutch. It’s not really my music if I have to keep depending on her to write it.”

“She doesn’t write it,” Aggie chides. “She gives you feedback. That’s what you need. I would but I don’t know the first thing about music. I know when it’s good and I think you’re good.”

“I’ll use the restroom and then I’ll get started on those dishes,” I tell her.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“But I’m going to,” I say with a grin.

The water’s scalding my hands as I scrub the last of the beer mugs, but I don’t mind. There’s something therapeutic about doing the dishes. It’s like doing kitchen chores at home. I usually stay in back if I’m not playing. I don’t want to get Aggie in trouble by having someone underage in the bar. Once the bar is closed, I’ll go out front and handle the sweeping and stuff like that.

My fingers are pruny, and my back aches from leaning over the sink for so long, but this is part of me paying my dues. The flop of that new song still lingers in my mind like a bad aftertaste, but I’m not letting it ruin tonight. Not entirely.

When I step out of the kitchen, Aggie’s perched on a stool at the bar, sipping from a glass of iced tea. The neon lights are off and most of the chairs are already turned upside down and sitting on tables.

“Finally done?” she asks.

“Yep. I’ll take care of the floor.”

“You didn’t have to stay so late.”

I shrug. “Figured it was the least I could do after that disaster of a song.”

Aggie rolls her eyes. “Stop it. It wasn’t a disaster. It just needs work—you said so yourself.”