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It sat on Congress Street, Austin’s main drag, a street of less than a dozen blocks extending from the riverbank to the south and up to the domed capitol building at the north end. Congress Street is not the center of Austin’s thriving music culture, but on nights when the Paramount has live shows, it is the center of town.
We found Graciella across the street in a pizza restaurant. She was eating a slice of cheese pizza in the doorway and looking at the marquee through the bustle of people, young and old alike, who thronged, waiting to go in.
Where were we, when were we? The cars looked new enough, the clothing people wore seemed contemporary. Certainly this could not have been more than two years ago, perhaps less.
Graciella was dressed for the evening, short skirt, high heels, but not yet in the ostentatiously slutty way she would later adopt in pursuit of tricks. She did not look like a young prostitute, just like a girl dressing up.
She had her guitar slung over her back.
I glanced again at the marquee, in case I had missed her name. But no, it was just Nicolet and the opening bands. No Graciella.
Graciella stepped inside the restaurant and contemplated the bottles of water. She pulled out a change purse and counted five dollars and eighteen cents. Bottles of water were two dollars and fifty cents. It would mean half of what she had.
In the end she asked the counterman if she could have a glass of water and reluctantly he handed her a paper cup, half-filled, which she drank down greedily.
“Well,” Graciella said to herself, “I’m broke with a guitar in Austin. Wouldn’t be the first musician.”
Back out on the street she dithered for a while, starting to cross the street, stopping herself, biting her lips.
Finally she nerved herself up to cross the street, threading her way through the slow traffic, keeping an elbow cocked back to stop her guitar from slipping off her shoulder. She passed the front of the Paramount and went down the alley to the stage door. It was conveniently painted red with the words Stage Door right on it. A dozen or more people, many of them younger, clustered around the door, surveyed by a large man with a Bluetooth earpiece and a clipboard.
Graciella walked straight to the stage door as if she had business to conduct and a right to be there. Given her earlier indecision her nerve now impressed me.
It did not impress Mr. Clipboard.
“Hold up there, miss. You can’t go in there.”
“But I’m Graciella. Nicolet knows me. I’m her songwriter.”
This was a sufficiently bold claim to get Mr. Clipboard’s attention. He considered the possibility that Graciella might be telling the truth. He searched for her name on the clipboard. “Any other name you might go by?”
Graciella shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then you can’t go in.”
“Okay, look, can you ask Nicolet? Can you tell her I’m here? I swear, she knows me. I wrote, like, three of her hits. She knows me.”
Mr. Clipboard sighed, looked skeptical, but tapped his earpiece to make a call. “I have a person here name of Graciella, says she knows Nicolet.”
Graciella waited, nervous, and then Mr. Clipboard pursed his lips and said, “Yes, sir, she’s right here.” Then to Graciella he said, “Her manager, Mr. Joshua, is coming out.”
“Good, I know him! I know Mr. Joshua and he knows me.”
In a few minutes the manager appeared. He did not look happy. He brushed past the doorman, rudely shouldered some of the fans aside, grabbed Graciella’s arm, and pulled her down the alley to a quieter spot.
Messenger and I followed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Mr. Joshua demanded.
“I’m here to see Nicolet,” Graciella said.
“She’s got a show to do. She doesn’t want to see you.”
“But I wrote ‘Jesus Tweets’ and ‘Hard By,’ and they’re on the charts,” Graciella said.
“You wrote nothing, kid. Look at your contract. Nicolet is listed as songwriter. She owns all the rights. And you signed an NDA.”
“I . . . what’s an NDA?”
