Twang Read online

  Twelfth Avenue was not a hop, skip, and a jump away, and I had to slow my pace after passing several huge, ornate churches, the courthouse, a high school, and a really big building that said Frist Center for the Visual Arts. As I walked on, I began to see a number of dark areas and hulking gray dumpsters, and I decided “gulch” sure fit the way things were looking. I went a while longer and decided that even if they did charge you for covers at this place, I was definitely going to pay.

  I turned down Twelfth, panting hard, my legs getting really tired, until finally, past Demonbreun Street, I saw the Station Inn, an old nondescript concrete block building with a few windows.

  Inside was a plain, low-ceilinged place with plywood floors. Red-and-white-checked tablecloths covered the tables, and church pews situated along the sides and the rear were full of folks holding bottles of beer. There was a stage with no one on it, and I got a rush just picturing myself there.

  A big man in a big white cowboy hat was leaning near the door with his feet splayed out in sharp-toed boots. He smiled at me and said, “Evening, ma’am. Welcome to the Station Inn.”

  “Cover?” I asked, raising my eyebrows in a vague, world-wise manner, recalling the last man I’d spoken to with a flinch of anxiety.

  “Ten tonight.”

  I held out the twenty and waited for my change before I asked. “Can regular folks sing here?”

  “Absolutely. And every mandolin, banjo, or fiddle player who’s anybody can play here.” He smiled. “We are Bluegrass and Roots.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant by roots, but I shifted from leg to leg, thinking of endless late Saturday nights listening to Bluegrass Time on the radio; of Bill Monroe and his Blue Grass Boys, Lester Flatt with his acoustic guitar, and Earl Scruggs with his banjo. Lester and Earl had themselves a band called the Foggy Mountain Boys. Even Dolly Parton and Patty Loveless sang some bluegrass, and Alison Krauss sure could do that high, lonesome sound. My particular sound wasn’t actually bluegrass, but it was acoustic, which is what bluegrass is all about, and it did tell a good story the way bluegrass songs generally do. I knew I could strum my Washburn and sing my song, “Walking the Wildwood,” an octave above my usual. Everything inside me was jumping around and getting all excited as I smiled, lifted my guitar case, and said so clear and strong, “I’d like to sing a bluegrass tune I wrote called ‘Walking the Wildwood.’ It’s a song that comes straight from my heart.”

  The man looked like maybe he could see how much this meant to me, and he must’ve known how much it was gonna crush me when he cocked his big head, gentled up his voice, and said, “Well, that sure sounds nice. You come back on Sunday, when we have our open jam.”

  My heart fell down to my feet.

  He chuckled in a kind way and said, “Hey, hey, now. Chin up. Sunday’ll be here ’fore you know it, and tonight we got Raul Malo. He’s doing ‘Crying Time,’ and everybody loves him. Come on in and give a listen.”

  I could hardly believe I’d hit another brick wall! Part of me wanted to go back to the Best Western, turn on my radio, climb into a hot tub, and sulk. But the man’s voice was so kind, and I’d already told myself I absolutely could not fall apart.

  Crowds make me nervous unless I’m singing, so I walked in, ordered a Coke, and sat in an out-of-the-way corner to watch as Raul took the stage. People started whistling, calling out, and clapping while he tested the microphone and situated his guitar. There was no dance floor so when he began playing and singing, folks were moving their hips and shoulders right where they were, a sea of bodies rippling. Raul’s music was alive, thumping against the walls, pulsing up through the floor. I sat on the edge of my seat through an entire set, thinking Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll go strut my stuff on Music Row. I’ll be living the dream.

  Friday morning came, and I fixed strong coffee and carried a cup back to bed to sit cross-legged in a nest of covers with the Nashville phonebook on one side and my shoulder bag with the demos on the other. I scanned all the listings under Music Producers in the Yellow Pages, swallowing the last thick slug of coffee before I squeezed my eyes shut to rip out the page.

  My retro country-music-star outfit was laid like a flat person on the other bed, and it looked like it could hop up and start singing all by itself. There was a white blouse with a half-circle of ruffles on the chest, and over that a red bolero jacket with a matching knee-length skirt that swished out like a bell when I twirled. Mac McNair had given me a castaway pair of fancy white pumps with ankle straps that were his wife’s from the previous Easter. He assured me she wouldn’t dare show up at church in the same pair of shoes two years in a row.

  I put my outfit on and stood in front of the mirror. Wow, I thought, after I brushed my long hair to one shoulder and put on red lipstick, that woman looks like she stepped out of a brochure about the Ryman! Holding an imaginary microphone to my lips, I said, “Hello, I’m Jennifer Anne Clodfelter, and I’m gonna sing a song I wrote, a song that’s in my heart and I know you’re gonna love. Here’s ‘Walking the Wildwood’ just for you.” The shameless sales pitch didn’t shock me because I’d practiced it ten zillion times. Also, whenever I played my music, stage or no stage, I became an entirely different person who did and said things that ordinarily scared me senseless.

  Curious about the weather, I went to my window to slide the curtains over, smiling at clear blue skies, and down below, the hotel pool sparkling in sunlight. Beyond the pool was a grassy lot with several trees, and across the side street a big building that said BMI. Pressing my nose to the glass, I could see what appeared to be a residential neighborhood behind the Best Western.

  Roy Durden was gone and the lobby was a busy place. A group of men in business suits were sitting on four sofas surrounding a coffee table, and two maids were wheeling a cart to what I guessed was the laundry room. The smell of sausage and warm biscuits was almost enough to lure me into the dining area, but I set my face like flint and stepped outside.

  Nashville on a weekday morning seemed a good bit more subdued, and Mrs. McNair’s pumps were stiff and unfamiliar, but I walked along with spirits soaring, my guitar case like an old friend. Broadway might be where the live music, the partying of my new town, happened, but legendary Music Row, Sixteenth and Seventeenth Avenues South, was the business side of country music. That was where record label offices, publishing houses, musical licensing firms, and recording studios sat literally hip to hip. I fingered the phone book page in the shallow pocket of my skirt as I walked along. My brain felt like a piñata had burst open inside, releasing swirling slips of paper with names of various companies: Bayou Recording, Center Row Recording Studios, Big Machine Records, Country Thunder Records, Elite Talent Agency, Sea Gayle, Big Yellow Dog, Masterfonics, Sixteen Ton Studio, Cherry Lane Music Publishing, Red Ridge Entertainment, Grand & Gee Music, and a zillion more. More than you can ever imagine. And every single one of them held promise, a wonderful opportunity just waiting.

  I’d pictured a line of sterile, businesslike buildings, but as I started down Music Square East, I saw quaint brick and stone bungalows in Craftsman style, the occasional Victorian or Georgian, with columns and awnings and wrought-iron railings, set behind manicured lawns full of oak and magnolia trees. A nice feeling swept over me as I focused in on my first prospect.

  I climbed four steps beneath a green awning, and with hardly a pause, pushed open the door to step inside. “Morning,” I said in my most cheerful voice to a woman sitting behind a desk with a fern spilling over the corner. She looked up from what I recognized as a Krispy Kreme donut box, grabbed at a pair of glasses resting on her huge shelf of a bosom and set them on her nose. She cocked her head, squinted, then frowned with orangey lips underneath a pageboy haircut, which looked like it was on fire from the overhead lights.

  “May I help you?” She looked me up and down.

  “Yes, please. My name is Jennifer Anne Clodfelter, and I’ve got a song that’s in my heart and on my lips I know y’all are gonna love. Here’s ‘Walki
ng the Wildwood’ just for you.” I bent to unbuckle my guitar case.

  “What?” she said in this shrill voice.

  “I’m a singer.” My heart was pounding as I looked up at her shocked face. “I wrote this really great song called ‘Walking the Wildwood,’ and I’m happy to do it bluegrass or pure country. What’s your pleasure?”

  “Well, aren’t we all?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said you’re a singer.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve got over seventy original songs.” I pulled my song notebook from beneath the Washburn and held it up.

  “First of all, I’m just the administrative assistant here, and second of all, we don’t accept unsolicited material.” She nodded at a small poster on the wall with chunky black lettering; “We do not accept unsolicited materials. Due to the large volume of submissions we receive, we cannot always respond promptly.”

  “Well, of course,” I said, more heartily than I felt. “May I please give you a demo?”

  I heard her exasperated sigh. “Drop it over there on that tray on the counter. Mr. Clarke may get to it; he may not. He’s a busy man. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to tend to.” She rooted around in the Krispy Kreme box for a chocolate glazed donut.

  I heard some men’s voices coming from down the hall behind her. “Could I talk to Mr. Clarke? Real quick? I promise I won’t even take five minutes of his time. I’ll—”

  “Leave your demo over there. If Mr. Clarke likes it, he’ll call you to set up an appointment. Now, like I said, I have work—”

  “Please. I’ve come all the way from Blue Ridge, Georgia, and I don’t have a lot of time before my money runs out, and I promise you, ma’am, I’ve got this beautiful song, and I wrote the words and the music, and if you’ll just give me a chance to sing it for Mr. Clarke, then I promise you I’ll—”

  The woman’s nostrils widened. She half-stood behind her desk, and I watched shiny flakes of glaze glide off her lap. “Did you just climb out of the hills? You can’t come barreling in here and demand Mr. Clarke’s attention!” She shook her head in a rude way. “Do you know how many country music singer wannabes I get coming in here? Don’t you know anything?”

  I stared at the lipstick prints on her Styrofoam coffee cup and said nothing for a long time. I had just climbed out of the hills. “I’m sorry I disturbed you,” I said, gathering my things together before I set a demo in the overflowing basket.

  I stood on the sidewalk awhile, feeling shaky. What if none of the labels would listen to a live singer off the street? What would I do? Throw in the towel and go back to Blue Ridge? Nope. That wasn’t even a possibility.

  “That’s just one music label,” I said finally, the warm sun seeping into my skin through my cotton blouse. I closed my eyes, lifting my face for an infusion of its strength. For one fleeting moment I toyed with telling a lie when I walked into the next place, saying I was dying of cancer and my last wish was to sing a song to that particular record label. Everyone has compassion for a dying person, and I knew that once they heard me, I’d be forgiven the lie and welcomed with open arms. But just as quickly, I decided it might jinx me and I’d get cancer.

  I readjusted my shoulder bag, which was bulging with demos, and marched to the next door down, which said Warner Music. Same story, and I left a demo, then crossed over Roy Acuff Place to see a building called Mike Curb College of Entertainment and Music Business. I had no money for college, so I passed it by, but I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to go to a place like that. It would be a dream, not one bit like school. I came to a big brick building that said EMI Music Publishing. I walked in, gave my same spiel, and was told to leave a demo. I crossed Chet Atkins Place, passed by an enormous, columned church called Belmont, and after that paused in front of a pretty red brick house. With a deep breath, I climbed ten steps up to enter Sixteen Ton Studio. The man sitting at a desk in the foyer stared at me with wide eyes and said nothing when I held up the Washburn and asked if I could sing; he only nodded at a shelf. I left a demo and dragged myself back outside to do pretty much the same at four more labels. After that, I knew without a doubt that folks in Nashville’s Music Row didn’t have the time to stop and listen to someone off the streets.

  Still, every single refusal hurt like the first time, and it felt like I was leaving a part of my heart in the basket, or on the counter, or atop a shelf whenever I plunked a demo down. However, I knew that there was nothing to do but methodically step into the various labels and leave a demo until all twenty-five were gone. I worked hard not to picture Mr. Anglin’s disappointed face by reminding myself that I was fulfilling my vow and that the demos he helped me make were full of original songs that made him weep.

  Late in the afternoon, I trudged along, passing Music City Tattoo and the Rhinestone Wedding Chapel, also in Craftsman homes. Then I saw this unusual place that looked like a barn, with a colorful, oversized statue standing in the parking lot. It had a cheerful face that reminded me of the Big Boy that used to be outside of Shoney’s restaurants. I was tired and hungry and I decided to let myself splurge.

  After my eyes adjusted to the dimness inside Bobby’s Idle Hour Tavern, I found a barstool and set my shoulder bag and my guitar on the floor. Bobby’s was an unassuming place, with dollar bills taped to the posts and neon signs reading Rolling Rock and Budweiser Select on the wall. A Washburn guitar hung behind the bar, and this seemed like a good omen. A couple other customers sat at the bar, laid-back older men, holding drinks, watching a television in one corner. The closest one tipped his head and said “Howdy, ma’am,” in a voice that sounded like his words were smiling.

  Another voice spoke to me from across the bar: a pretty, middle-aged woman with long brown hair pulled back. “You look tired, hon,” she said kindly. “What can I get you?”

  “Peanuts and a Coke?”

  She nodded, and it wasn’t sixty seconds until an icy Coke and a bowl of peanuts appeared in front of me. I wolfed them down, and they tasted so good I almost cried. Food in my stomach helped me feel a little better.

  “You a singer?” asked the man who’d spoken to me earlier, his brown eyes measuring me and my guitar case resting on the floor.

  “Sure am,” I said.

  “Sam Watkins,” he said, holding out a hand.

  Did I read anything but friendly in his words? No, I did not. Only a down-to-earth kindness and curiosity. “Jennifer Anne Clodfelter,” I said, shaking his hand. “You sing?”

  “Something like that.” He smiled.

  My heart soared to find someone with a mutual passion. “I write all my own songs and I’ve been delivering demos here at Music Row. Going to break into the Nashville scene.”

  There was a stretch of silence that seemed to go on forever and in which I wondered what was going on in Sam Watkins’s head.

  “Where’d you say you were from?” he asked finally.

  “I’m a resident of Nashville.”

  He lifted his eyebrows, and there was another long pause while he rubbed his scruffy beard. I tried my best to wait for him to speak, but I couldn’t help myself. “Music is who I am. I have lots of experience in the music business. Won tons of talent shows and my chorus teacher worked with me on studying stage presence, and he helped me make demos, and Mac, my boss at McNair Orchards says I’m the next Patsy Cline.” I nodded down at my guitar case. “I’ve got over seventy completely original songs and I’ve been told countless times throughout my life that I absolutely need to be in Nashville, and that Nashville’s gonna just die when they hear me.” My thoughts and words were falling all over each other so fast I didn’t even have time to be sad about Mr. Anglin.

  Sam Watkins cocked his head. “Girl, I admire your spunk, but I’m not going to sugarcoat things. The music business is rough, even for a man like me who’s been doing it twenty years now. You a member of NSAI and SGA?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t know what those letters even stood for.

  “
ASCAP, BMI, or SESAC?”

  My heart sank as I shook my head again. I figured I must seem pretty pathetic, but I couldn’t afford to be a member of anything. Sam Watkins broke into my thoughts gently. “If you’re as good as you say, my best advice is to make sure you get some legal advice before you even open your mouth to sing. You need somebody you can trust to help you plan long-term. Too many sharks out there’ll try to flatter you, tell you you’re the next Loretta Lynn, and get you to sign as an exclusive writer. Then, later you find out you made the biggest mistake of your life.”

  The emotional roller coaster I was riding on dipped even lower as I absorbed all this information about the city’s seemingly impenetrable music scene.

  Sam lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring above his head like a halo. He leaned forward into the warm circle of light that shone over the bar. “You’re not really from here,” he said, and I could tell he meant it kindly. “The place to start is to get involved with a group of other amateurs, local singers and songwriters. Meet some other creative-minded folks. There’s a whole community of us here, you know, and if you want to make it in Nashville, you’ve got to learn the ropes.”

  I felt like I had to defend myself. “But I’m not some beginner! I’ve been writing songs and singing practically my whole life.”

  It got quiet. Sam had an expression on his face I couldn’t read. I probably looked pathetic, my hands shaking on my knees, my shoulders drooped with exhaustion.

  “Listen,” he said at last, a softness in his voice. “Never got me nowhere, but some folks claim open mic nights are the backbone of the country music industry. There’s a dozen or more places you ought to go try your wings at, play some of those original songs you’re talking about. You ought to go sing at The French Quarter or the Douglas Corner Café or the Bluebird’s open mic night. Get you some practice performing in front of a group.”