Hallelujah Ch. 10-11

CHAPTER TEN

Bennie Rich watches me with a lazy irritation. His face is almost neutral, except for a slight narrowing of the eyes that seems to go away whenever he looks at anything besides me. Well, what are you going to do? I give him my best 'open to suggestions' look in response. I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing here. It's his show, and I'm happy to let him run the ball.

He taps his pen against the desk, then sets it down and sighs. "What am I going to do with you, Jake?" he asks, a wistful tone to his voice. "What am I going to do?"

I grunt. He's clearly enjoying himself...he really seems to love these little power games...but I'm not going to be the sheepish apologist this time around. "You could always start by telling me what the fuck is going on," I say flatly.

A small smile flickers across his face. "I could, yes. I could do that. Clear the whole mess up, set your mind at ease, etcetera etcetera. I'm not going to do that. But I could."

I lean back, cross my arms and wait. What a jackass.

"You really messed things up for yourself with that record, didn't you Currie?" he smiles sweetly.

I nod, unembarrassed. "Is that why I'm here? So you can gloat about it? I guess I'm okay with that."

"Good," he leans back, putting his feet up on the desk. "That makes me very, very happy. I've been looking forward to doing exactly that. Yes, the legendary Jake Currie...the man who thought he knew best...really learned otherwise. He finally discovered that he's not actually better than everybody else. He's not blessed. He's not unstoppable. That's gotta hurt a little, I imagine. Being taken down a peg, finding out just where your limits sit, always does."

I nod again. Why lie about it? He's going way over the top, but the basic truth is there.

"And now," Bennie waves his hand and opens his eyes wide, like a minstrel telling a tale, "he's as confused as can be. He's confused, because he knows he should be finished. Washed up. Deleted. He didn't just waste an insane amount of studio time, he didn't just cost a label a lot of money with no return. Oh, no. That wouldn't be enough, would it? He also managed to shout at, and insult, the fucking band. The fucking producer insulted the fucking musicians! That's one for the ages, I tell you. What were you even thinking? Musicians are so sensitive and touchy...hell, half of them are drug addicts anyway...that it's like walking a minefield with them until you can really win them over with bullshit compliments and praise. If you ever do. Any engineer or producer worth their weight knows to be careful about how they approach the artist. Even the dumbest ones know." He tilts his head and shakes it. "But not Currie. No, not that guy. He lit into those fucks like it was the Fourth of July. And from what I hear, he still managed to be surprised when they stormed out. Yet another legendary Currie tale that will live on and on for as long as this studio stands." He puts his feet down, sitting up straight, and sniffs. "Yet, so far as you know, the band still wants you to produce. And, so far as you know, the label will still allow it. And now here you are, sitting in the office of the studio manager who once fired you...a man who didn't much care for you even before this little fiasco started. And you wanna know why?"

"Why?"

He reaches over to his phone, a big and aging device with rows of buttons, and rests his finger gently on one labeled 'Front Desk.' He smirks at me. "Because, my dear boy, I enjoy your confusion." He pushes the button down, and the phone beeps. "Now, please, Jennifer."

A second later, the door opens and Walter Russell waddles in. From where I"m sitting, the door prevents his seeing me until he's walked fully into the room. "Bennie," he smiles, "you needed to see..." he trails off as he notices me, and his smile disappears. "What the fuck is he doing here?" he snaps.

Damn. He stole my line.

"Shut up and sit down, Walter," Bennie waves impatiently towards the adjacent cushioned visitor chair. Russell doesn't move an inch.

"Bennie," he says slowly, uncertainly, "I don't know what you think-"

"I said sit down."

"No." His face is getting that blotchy look, and he's breathing harder. "If you'll excuse me, I have a session."

"It's postponed. Doesn't start for an hour. I already called everybody and adjusted the books so the label can be reimbursed later." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You are an adult, Walter. You're not a rock. You're not an island. And you do have the time."

Russell looks at me again, hatred clouding his face, but he walks over and has a seat anyway. "Fine. I have the time. What do you want?"

"I want you to help Jacob fix his session."

Both of our eyes widen. "No way," Russell says slowly. "No fucking way, Bennie. That little-"

"Stop, Walter. Just...stop." Bennie looks between us with a tired frustration. "This isn't about you. It's not about either of you. It's not about liking each other, or being friends, or holding hands. It's sure as shit not about puppy dogs and rainbows. This is about a recording session that is in danger of becoming a real disaster. This is about an artist who has just experienced a small commercial break-through, and has commercial potential. It's about a label that is investing their confidence in the idea that a record is going to be made here," he slaps his desk top, suddenly looking just as angry as his contemporary. "In my studio! It's about business! It isn't about Jacob Currie failing! And," he calms down a little, breathing deep, "it's about music, Walter. If nothing else, it's about that. Help the boy."

"No. If you think he needs help, then you help him." But Walter's voice is softer, now, and his face is clearing up.

Bennie sags a little, revealing a little of that sadness that's lived inside him for decades. "You know I can't do that, Walter," he says quietly. "I can't help him."

Russell has the decency to look embarrassed. He closes his eyes, maybe searching for a way to argue himself free of this whole mess, and then he rubs his temples and sits up straight. "What's the problem?" he asks.

I look at Bennie, but Bennie just looks back at me, so I answer. "None of Teddy's songs sound complete, or finished, but I can't figure out what to do to get them there. It's like I'm freezing up out there. I don't even know how to fake it."

He nods silently, eyes still closed, and scratches his chest as he answers. "You know, kid, I've been working in Nashville a long time. Longer than you're able to understand, yet. I play ball the Nashville way. It's a good way. There are clear rules and no questions. Some people look down on it, you know, but a lot more people talk about it with wonder and respect. And well they should. Even now, after all these years, this is still a town that turns out hit records and beautiful sounding albums with a consistency that nobody else can match. Nobody. I'm part of a machine, yes. But it's a machine that music fans will be speaking about with awe in their voices for years to come. And I do my job well." He stops for a minute, and I wonder if he's done, but he continues. "Thing is, Teddy Fields just ain't a Nashville singer. I don't even know what he's doing here. And you, kid, ain't a Nashville producer. But that's why you worked so well together. That's why I couldn't do shit with that guy. My job is always to take the song and make it fit alongside other artists' songs as best I can. Make it something anybody can hear and just...just feel, without thought or investment. Make it ready for radio. You, though, made a song...that ballad that was on the radio...that went over for the exact opposite reason. It went over because it was different. It didn't sound like other people's records. One listen, and it stayed with you. Two notes in and, if you'd heard it before, you recognized it. It could never be a top ten hit...truth be told, I still think it's a shit song...but it was nothing if not memorable. This question you're asking yourself...'What do I need to do to complete this song,'...I'd wager that it ain't the question you asked yourself when you first heard that track. First time you heard it, what did you think?"

I bite my lip, trying to think back. "I...don't know. I don't think I asked any questions."

"The hell you didn't. What made you treat the drums the way you did?"

"Well, they were already such a powerful component when they came in that-"

"What made you feed so much reverb and emphasize the low end the way you did?"

I blink. He really does remember the song. "I...uh...the feel was already swampy. I just..." and that's it. Just like that, I know what I asked. I stare at him. "I asked myself what made the song unique. And then I emphasized that."

He nods, opening his eyes. "That's why you're the guy to work with Teddy Fields. He ain't no pretty voiced singer, or even some nasally songwriter who happens to write really great love songs. His gift, if you care to call it that, is that he's so damn different. I always thought that if I could streamline him a little, he could really take off. I mean, if you took his originality and matched it to some of that good old Nashville perfection, it seems like you would have something for the ages. And that's what I tried to do. What you did to me, on a personal level, was shit Jake. And the attitude you did it with was contemptuous. What's more, with any other artist it would have been a catastrophe. But it wasn't any other artist, and it wasn't a catastrophe. I suppose you are just the producer for Teddy...and Teddy is just the artist for you. So take your fucking question, and make your fucking record, and leave me the hell alone." He glances over at Bennie. "Can I go?"

Bennie nods. "Thank you, Walter. From me."

"Yeah, well, you got a business to run, and I suppose you have to work with unsavory people from time to time." he stands up shakily, looking old. "But you've always got me to look out for you. As long as I'm here, you'll be safe."

When he's gone, and the door is closed again, I turn back to Bennie.

"You didn't have to do that," I tell him.

"Yes I did," he waves dismissively. "What goes on in my studio is concerning to me, and I won't have failed sessions involving failed producers impacting my integrity. Now, if there isn't anything else, I have work to do."

I watch him go about the business of becoming engrossed in his computer screen. I don't know much about what it must be like to be a teenager craving the approval of a distant, hard-to-please father, but I think I'm starting to get the idea. Part of me wishes I had something more to offer, some magic combination of words to string together, that would both let Bennie know how grateful I am and at the same time impress him somehow.

But that's not going to happen, and soon enough it won't matter anyway, so I quietly make my exit and head for home.

-

They're showing some old woman Buck's apartment when I get there, and the manager feels the need to introduce her to me. She's overly friendly, probably lonely. She can't be much younger than Grandpa was. I promise to help her move in, and she puts her hand on my arm.

"You're a very sweet young man," she tells me. I let her think so.

Jasmine isn't home...even though I'm pretty sure she was only working a morning shift today...so I have a sandwich and a Diet Coke before calling Kennedy.

"Hello?" he answers almost immediately.

"It's Jake."

"Jake, thank god. I was beginning to think you were gonna do something stupid."

"I did. I called you. Why on earth is Teddy still wanting to record with me? I figured it was game over, after the blowup."

"Well, it was. At first, anyway. But the news about your loss came so quickly after the...disagreement....you know, that when I told the band they somehow came to the conclusion that you had been stressed out by your only remaining family member's ill health, and that was what lead to your bad behavior."

"You lied to them?"

"Oh, they drew their own conclusions. I just decided not to correct them when they drew poorly. They felt pretty bad about jumping on you like that, really, and I think they were regretting the whole thing even before they learned about your grandfather. It just gave them an easy way to save face while backing down."

"Why would you do that, though? You have to know that the sessions have been a disaster. Why not just let me go and get someone else to finish?"

"I probably should. But my judgment is clouded by one hundred thousand paid downloads of 'As Long As I'm Here.' Say what you will, Jake, but you are clearly the best man for putting Teddy Fields over. And that means food on my plate."

A hundred thousand? Holy shit. "And if I continue fuck it up?"

"I don't think you will, but that's just me. And if you do, well...the label will eat the cost, and you'll take all the blame. Teddy and I don't stand to lose a thing."

"I can't tell you how heartwarming that is."

"Hey, it wasn't so long ago that you were one of the least forgiving and most finicky negotiators I've ever seen play the game, so don't go feigning sensitivity now. Remember, I saw you when the kill was fresh and the blood was on your chin."

"Maybe, but I guess just don't like you using my grandfathers death in such a crass way."

"I can only hope that when I go there's somebody around who can turn my passing into something of worth."

"I believe that you mean that."

"You should."

I shake my head. "So now what?"

"Now you tell me when you'll be ready to get back to it. And no matter what your conscience tells you, you don't say shit to absolve the band of their false assumptions. Simple as that." He sounds pretty pleased with the whole idea. "Have you talked to Bennie yet?"

"You knew about that?"

"No. But I know Bennie, and last I heard from him he was plenty pissed off about how the sessions were going. The guy can't hardly stand to stay out of something like that." He laughs.

"Oh." Somehow, I'm disappointed. And I don't like Kennedy laughing about it. "Yeah, he helped me out. Quite a bit, actually."

"Glad to know it. Don't tell him I said this, but I almost think he kind of likes you. When do we start?"

"What's open on the schedule at Blackbird?"

"I have Bennie's assurance that he's keeping Studio A open for whenever we're ready to start."

"Wow," I raise my eyebrows again, "that's awfully generous of him."

"Maybe it is," Kennedy sounds like he's getting bored. "So, again...when?"

"Tomorrow." I want to get this over with as fast as possible.

"Tomorrow," he sounds pleased, probably mistaking my hurry for enthusiasm. "I'll tell the band."

We say goodbye and I look at the phone for a minute before hanging up, as if I could look through it and see John Kennedy looking back at me. Come to think of it, I've still never actually met the guy. He's like my first middle school girlfriend...a phone call-only affair, no touching.

The door opens, and Jasmine slips into the living room. She's dressed like someone going in for a job interview, her hospital scrubs suspiciously absent.

"Hi," she says, a little sheepishly. "How was your meeting?"

"Unpleasant, but the results were better than I would have expected. Where've you been?"

I immediately regret asking...it's not really my business. And from the look in her eye, I can see that it has given her a little bit of satisfaction. "I asked AJ to meet with me one last time, before the divorce goes through. I guess I just wanted to know that he was moving on, you know? I wanted to see that life was looking up for him, so I wouldn't feel so guilty about it all the time."

I think of the drunk comedian sitting on my deck chair, not so long ago, warning me about Jasmine who always gets her way. "And is he?"

She nods, but she doesn't elaborate and she looks away as she does it.

"Huh." I don't even act like I believe her.

She looks tired. "Have you eaten?"

"I had a sandwich. I'm not really hungry."

"Oh." She shuffles from one foot to the other. "Are you going to be...recording again soon? Is that what everything was all about?"

"Yup. Tomorrow. I guess I'm finishing this album after all."

She studies my face. "And then?"

I shrug. "It doesn't change anything."

Her shoulders fall a bit. "I suppose that's good."

"I think it is."

"Well. Okay." Without another word, she shuffles into her bedroom and closes the door.

I fall into the couch, dropping my head back onto the cushions and sighing. The whole thing makes me exhausted. I can't wait until it's over.

A bottle of wine would probably do me good, but I seem to have lost my appetite for drinking lately. Just like I'm losing my appetite for a lot of things. This shifting desire has left me with a surplus I don't know what to do with. Don't want it, can't hardly get rid of it. Maybe I should just drink it all down and walk away.

I yawn. Another time, perhaps.

-

The band comes in hanging low, a somber procession of floor-gazing children who know they fucked up. It's an unpleasant sight. I remember what Kennedy said, and I know that the sympathy they feel right now is the only reason we're even here, but I'm not about to purger myself and invoke my grandfather's name for the sake of a fucking recording session. It's a promise I make.

"Go get setup," I tell them immediately, preempting any discussion on the matter. "I have a few ideas I want to try out, and we've only got about five days left to us."

Teddy studies my face. "Yeah. Sure. Listen, Jake-"

"Just go, Teddy. I need for us to move fast. I haven't had my head in the game for a while now. But it wasn't about family, or dying, or any of that. Truth is, I wanted to think it was about you, for a while there. But it wasn't. It's about me. And right now I'm feeling ready to fix all that, so I need you to get the fuck into the studio and play some fucking music."

He smiles through the sad eyes. "Yeah. Sure, Jake." I don't think he believes me, but who the fuck cares? I didn't lie. That's all I can give him.

Brian hasn't said much since I arrived, but he gives me that half-smile now. "Sounds like we're in for it, today. You look pretty confident."

"Well, I'm not," I admit, going over to watch the band through the Plexiglas. "But at least now I'm asking the right question."

In the reflection, I see him give me a sideways look as he turns back towards the console. Whatever. Flipping the talkback, I tell the band to start with 'Open it Up.'

"Sure thing," Teddy says. "Are we recording straight up?"

"Absolutely. But I want to try something. Just humor me, okay?"

"Okay," he doesn't look like he likes where this is going. "What?"

"See that supply closet to your left? On the north side of that is a row of electric guitars. Fish out something that looks like 1959. Underneath me on the wall your facing is a row of little practice amps. Do you see the one that says Rivera across the front? It's a maroon color."

"Yeah. I see it."

"Plug the guitar you use directly into that. Don't change the settings on the amp...I set them up this morning."

Teddy looks over at the closet, then at his band, and then up at the control room window. I know what he's thinking: 'Oh, shit, the kid's still trying to change us.'

"Can I ask why?"

"You said you'd humor me. Just one run through like this...I want to hear how it sounds."

"We have time for that?"

"Your manager pointed out to me just yesterday that if we go over budget, it's my ass and not yours. Let me do with my ass as I will."

He snorts a laugh. "Well, when you put it like that."

While he's fishing out a guitar, I turn back to Brian. "You know what I hear when I listen to this song?"

"What?" he asks.

"I hear 'I Saw Her Standing There,' mixed with 'Houndog,' stirred together with The Stones doing 'Route 66.' You know what I'm saying?"