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“With how well you play, how come you don’t have a guitar?” she asked.
“With how well you sing, how come you’re not on the radio?” I returned, tapping her nose with my index finger.
Her cheeks were tinted with pink. “Touché.”
“Had a sweet Fender and a pretty nice Epiphone,” I said, “Got Ma to sell them and my drums when I was in the joint to go toward the lawyer bills. Just haven’t replaced ‘em yet.”
“You can play the Gibson whenever you want.”
“Thanks, hostage. What help you need?”
“So, I have some lyrics. The melody usually comes to me when the words do. This time, words came hard and fast but… a cappella. The tune is evading me, but I can’t seem to let go of these lyrics. I’ve tried a couple things and nothing’s coming. If I read it to you, will you let me know if you have any ideas?”
“Can’t promise I’m that musically inclined, but I’m happy to listen and see if I can offer any feedback. Try singing it to me.”
“Don’t have a tune yet.”
I shrugged. “Maybe it’ll come if you sing it out loud.”
She smiled and hesitantly started up, strumming once before launching in.
And the lyrics were pretty, though sad. Her tempo was slow, kinda more spoken word than melodic. And I knew it was about her stepsister. About growing up without much. About never winning battles because she always played both sides. About not thinking there was much out there for happiness, so she looked to a bottle, to pills, to a needle to seek joy. About what she could’ve been if she believed there was joy beyond the temporary high.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t depressing. Or it wouldn’t be if it wasn’t sung like a ballad. She chose words and descriptions that let you visualize, know what you were listening to without it being something that’d drag you down. It could be the kind of song that – if it had a catchy riff and beat – people would sing along to, but those who’d been there or who really cared to listen would get the deeper message. Mourning what could’ve been. It wrapped up talking about starting over again, in a new place, with new eyes, and hopefully without memories of what used to be before the old husk sprouted a seed. How a new flower of a different variety grew in the same place.
“It’s good,” I told her when she sang the last note.
“But?”
“But I can’t tell ya what music would work with it. Not got that kind of talent. Like what you did with the lyrics, get the meaning there but it’s not too in my face like some songs. Liked the reincarnation hints. That’s hopeful. Good that you’re thinkin’ that way about her. I think you should do it to a fast tempo, so it comes across as upbeat, but not in a bubblegum pop way. Not sure how much that helps. That rasp you’re singin’ it with really works.”
“Thanks,” she said softly. Though it was just one word, her eyes held mine with appreciation. She dug that I took the time to think about it instead of just giving her an empty compliment. Liked that I got it.
“That’s the problem with some of my songs,” she said. “Sometimes I can hear the tune in my head but I’m not good enough with instruments to get them to make the sounds I want. Because sometimes it’s about more than a guitar. Piano. Fiddle. Drums. Harmonica. You know?”
“Hand me that, baby?” I reached for the guitar. “Instead of singing the lyrics, hum one of those songs you know what you want to sound like for me.”
She launched into the tune I’d heard through the door back at the cabin when she was giving me the silent treatment. Her eyes were closed as she did it, but the emotion on her face hit me. She was feeling what she was humming.
I started to play along. I improvised a little. Then I improvised a lot, picking up the tempo some more. And her eyes popped open with excitement dancing there.
We spent the rest of the afternoon doing this, me interpreting what she was humming. Some of them I could tell didn’t hit the mark, but others, she’d have me do it again and then she’d use her phone to record an audio clip, asking me to speed up or slow down, mulling over where a guitar solo might work.
When I suggested we stop to get some food at the bar, putting the guitar on the floor on top of the gig bag, she jumped me. She had light in her eyes, the most beautiful smile on her sexy mouth.
“That was fun,” she told me.
“Makes me want to put you in a studio with skilled musicians, so you can get it all figured out.”
