Page 36 of Playing By Ear

“Ho, what happened to the purple one?” Perry asked.

“That’s my busking guitar, Lisa. This is Wendy, the one I use for songwriting.” He stroked the mahogany body of the old Taylor 510 dreadnought, remembering the day his dad had bought Wendy for him.

He’d been six, old enough to learn guitar—and apparently old enough to witness a shakedown, of the man who owned the butcher’s beside the music shop. The task of visiting delinquent vassals was usually beneath his dad, but he’d made an exception, since they were in the neighborhood.

“Clever branding,” Perry said, “with the purple guitar. Makes you stand out from the other buskers. Is it an homage to Prince, like the guitar names?”

Jamie blinked himself back to the present. “Erm, aye, he’s my favorite. As a bonus, my football team’s colors are purple and white.”

His fingers were knackered from a day of busking, and lifting weights at the gym hadn’t exactly rejuvenated his hands. So he tuned the guitar down a half step to make it easier to form chords. Then he warmed up with an Iron and Wine song. The mozzarella had left his throat a bit phlegmy, so this tranquil tune would give his vocal cords a gentle stretch.

The look on Perry’s face banished all Jamie’s aches and fatigue, that serene smile warming his scalp and sparking a tingly contentment deep in his chest.

As the final chord faded, Perry applauded. “You make the songs your own without calling attention to it. That’s rare.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most cover versions are either identical to the original, which makes them pointless, or they’re ostentatiously different, which makes them gimmicky.”

“I used to think making a song my own meant being pure quiet or loud, just for the sake of contrast.” He stroked the low E string with his thumb. “Now I try to be creative, but not so much the audience can’t recognize a tune. It’s no fun for them if I act like I’m better than the song they love.”

“Makes sense.” Perry nestled deeper into the corner of the couch. “Have you got a theme song?”

A clever way to learn more about him. Jamie flipped through his mental repertoire for something apt that fitted the E-flat tuning. He smiled when it hit him. “You’ll know this one, so do sing along.”

“I can’t sing.”

“You cannae be any worse than Buchanan Street pedestrians.” He tweaked one of Perry’s big toes through his black sock. “’Mon, you know you want to.”

“Okay, okay.” Perry pressed his palms to his cheeks but failed to hide his blush.

Jamie shifted the pick between his fingers, then started playing Nirvana’s “Dumb.”

Perry laughed, then did sing along, softly at first but gaining volume. Toward the end, they were harmonizing on the signature line right to the final moment.

“See?” Jamie let the last chord fade. “You sang and no one’s ears bled.”

“That was fun.” Perry nudged Jamie’s knee with his heel. “And it’s not your theme song, because you’re not dumb.”

“Maybe I’m just happy.”

“I hope so.” Perry wiggled his toes. “Will you play one of yours?”

Jamie froze, and he was glad Perry couldn’t see the look on his face from the other end of the couch. “I suppose.” His pulse raced as he re-tuned his instrument. “Apologies for the lack of lyrics. I’m crap with words.”

“You’re not. I saw that ‘Football Crazy’ video you did for the Warriors, with its millions of views. And your Glaswegian version of ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’ is brilliant.”

So Perry had explored his YouTube channel.

“Those are just me messing about with someone else’s concept. Any five-year-old can make up silly rhymes. What’s harder is setting down my own ideas.”

Not hard. Dangerous. It wasn’t that he couldn’t find the words. It was the bleak words he did find that would shock those who thought they knew him.

But that was the point, wasn’t it: letting Perry know him? If not this man, then who?

Still, it was too soon.

With the tuning finished, Jamie pulled in a long, slow breath. “I call this one ‘Sincerity in E major.’”