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“How did you deal with the band if they didn’t like the songs you wrote?” There is an edge to his voice and he swipes a hand through his hair.
“Not everyone is going to like your songs,” I tell him. “You have to make them,” I emphasize.
Peter raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“They’re not going to like something you don’t believe in.” I point the rogue drumstick at him. “That goes for the fans too.” Peter pushes the drumstick out of his face and rises from the couch.
“This is a totally different direction than they’re used to.” He pulls a cigarette out of the pack that he keeps in his front pocket and holds it between his teeth for security.
“That’s the reason you came to me,” I explain. “Sometimes you need a little push.”
“Fuck, why is this so hard?” Peter pulls the cigarette from his mouth and holds it between two fingers.
“Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, and difficulty.” My heart constricts as I say these words, remembering the Teddy Roosevelt quote I used the night Jack and I left for L.A. I told him I wanted to dare greatly, and I did. We did.
Peter looks up at me, acknowledgment in his eyes. “Now you’re quoting Teddy Roosevelt?” He rolls his eyes, and he must notice the shocked look on my face. “I’m not a fucking imbecile.”
I contemplate his worries for a moment, understanding how he feels. It’s not easy to take criticism or having the band’s success ride on what you write. Some songs you’re in love with flop with the fans and you get discouraged, but if you are true to yourself, you can never go wrong.
“This is not an easy life, Peter.” I look at him thoughtfully. He knows this. “But would you want it any other way?”
THE BAND IS all set up in the studio. Peter is having a nervous breakdown and Bret is eyeing me in the corner suspiciously, while he barks orders at the engineer. The studio is in total chaos, and I love every fucking minute of it.
A sound erupts from the drums as Erick, Peter’s bandmate, gets impatient. As Sam and Jay re-tune their guitars, Peter talks with them animatedly. The band has been working through the music for the last several hours. Even though Peter and I have worked out the songs, the band members need to make it fit.
They’re having trouble working on the tempo for the one song I know Peter is super sensitive about. It has a melancholy feel to it, and Jay has been fighting to give it a faster chorus. I don’t disagree.
“I’m just not feeling it,” Jay says, pulling the strap of his bass from over his head. Like drummers, bass players drive the tempo of the song. Jay has to be on board with what Peter is trying to accomplish. Every member has to be in sync with each other, or the song, no matter how good, will sound like shit.
“If you don’t like the song, Jay, just say it,” Peter says defensively.
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Jay rakes his hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re not listening to me.”
“I have to agree, Peter,” Sam says as he steps in between the two of them. “It feels too slow, but I think if we pick it up, the lyrics in the chorus will have more of an impact.”
“You can always record a stripped-down version of it, Peter,” I offer as I step in, adding another option. “That’s when you’ll get the full effect of the song, but for the single, you gotta make it pop to a larger audience to get air time. It’s just the way it is.” The crazy thing about this business is that DJs rule the airwaves, and if your song doesn’t get played, you won’t sell a fucking record.
“Now you’re all fucking against me!” Peter sneers and throws his hands in the air as if he’s done with us.
“Don’t be stupid,” I snipe, rolling my eyes. “Don’t you want the song to be the best it can be?” Jay shakes his head as Peter groans.
I can tell Peter would rather be outside smoking a cigarette or taking a drink from his flask than in here listening to me.
“Quit being a baby and learn to take criticism,” I say, and Peter’s eyes flick to mine, spewing daggers. Jay shakes his head and takes a step backward, obviously willing to let me take the fall even if he agrees with me.
“Fuck, I hate all of you!” Peter yells and kicks the amp over with his foot.
“Don’t be a dick!” Jay answers and pushes him before he bends over to right the amp.
Bret starts to intervene and I head for the piano, playing the first few chords to the song, loudly. The arguing stops, and when I look back, I can see Bret has retreated. Now that I have their attention, I continue with the melody. The notebook is propped up in front of me but I’m almost sure I have the lyrics memorized.
For a few moments, there’s nothing but my voice and the piano in the room. There’s a calm that owns this space, and I’m quite sure it’s because these lyrics are powerful in their stripped-down version.
The sound of a guitar joins in, and I look over my shoulder to see Sam smile at me. I nod back at him. As soon as Erick joins in on the drums and Jay on bass, the engineer quickly hooks up a mic for me so I can be heard. I tip my chin for Peter to join me. Reluctantly, he sits down on the piano bench with me and I knock my shoulder into his. Our voices blend together, and once we hit the chorus, I signal Jay to speed it up so Peter can see what we’re talking about.
When Jay picks up the tempo, Peter narrows his eyes at me and I can see he wants to take it down, but he can’t. He has to sing with the tempo to keep up, and as soon as he hits the bridge, I’ve got him hooked.
We’re having fun jamming to this beautiful song, and it makes me long for times past. I’m not sad, just nostalgic that times like this don’t happen very often. I recognize how special this moment is, and the fact that I get to be a part of it fills up this empty part of me. When I started my publishing company, this is exactly how I wanted it to be.
