Don't Break My Heart – 2
A/N In the spirit of crossover, Kinky Friedman is a real life former country artist who later turned to novel writing. Words attributed to him here are based on my interpretations of the fictionalised account of himself from his own novels. Chris Noon is a completely fictional plot device. Thanks for clicking through.
Rayna completed the chorus and stepped back from her microphone as Deacon's solo sprung from his fret board. From inside the vocal booth she exchanged smiles with the bass player and closed her eyes. It was early afternoon in sunny Tennessee, but indoors, the darkened studio was a world unto itself. A month on from signing her new contract and agreeing to the label's choice of producer, album sessions were in full swing.
"And cut it there." A voice from the Gods broke the mood. She looked up at the control room, and the impenetrable mirror sunglasses of Chris Noon.
"Awe c'on Man!" cried Deacon, skidding out of his solo. "What was wrong with that one?"
His answer was amplified around the room and echoed inside her cans. "Absolutely nothing Mr Claybourne, but I only needed the second verse and the first 6 bars of your solo to fly into take 4. We can then overdub a 2nd bass part later."
"Excuse me for being a lowly guitar picker," rasped Deacon, his voice as iced as the coke on the stool by his amp, "but I was under the impression we were making a record here, not undertaking a jigsaw puzzle."
The producer swivelled in his chair and Rayna could now see the long ponytail, scrunched at the nape of his neck. "It's nothing personal. Mr Claybourne". She joined the other musicians on the main studio floor.
"Well your damn right about that. There will be no personality to this song what-so-ever if you keep hacking it like firewood." Deacon took a long swig.
"Easy hun." Rayna said deliberately, "It's getting hot in here."
He turned to her, the tell-tale look of wildness in his glint.
"Were you drinking at lunch Deacon?"
Cursing, the half-hearted peppermint mask on his breath told her before he did. "Yes! Two, if you really want to know. Trouble is," and Deacon's voice broke with his own mirth, "those kind boys keep topping me up before I reached the end. You know? That 2nd glass probably had more added to it than one of Mr. Production-perfect's masters. "
The control room voice was terse. "I am simply here doing the job I am paid to do. I would be grateful if you were able to do the same."
"But you won't let me play my solo in one take, and it's so easy. Watch!" Deacon attacked his guitar, too fast and from too sharp an angle. The plectrum spun out of his hand and one finger cut on the metal string. Deacon pulled his hand to his mouth. "Now look what you made me do."
"You are making my point for me perfectly." The producer's voice was cool, detached, his shoulders relaxed. If Rayna ever tried to argue with Deacon she became be a swirl of arms and shrugs. "As I said we have enough material for the song now. So Miss Jaymes, can we please try a vocal take of 'Blue Afternoons' just you against the best basic rhythm track? Mr Claybourne can take five. His part can wait until he is a little more, ahum, engaged."
Rayna, feeling Bucky on her left shoulder dithered between making a stand and acquiescence, long enough for Deacon to butt in again.
"You haven't a clue about this pal have you? She needs my slide to bounce her voice off. That's how I wrote it, that's how it works."
"I know exactly what I am doing, and what my singer is capable of."
Deacon's lips tightened again, a motion Rayna knew only too well, these last few days of recording sessions.
"But this is my song."
"And my record, Mr Clayborne."
"Then screw you asshole." Deacon picked up the glass and Rayna could almost see sedimentary whiskey falling to the bottom through the cola, in slow motion she watched the arc of his strumming arm as he threw it up and across the studio where it hit the control room window and crashed down. Slivers of glass twinkled in the dark brown stain spreading over the wooden floor.
"I'm driving you home and that's final." Rayna spat the words out in the parking lot, but from the moment he had made to leave, pushing sullenly passed a leggy 19 year old assistant under orders to clean up, the fight had gone out of her guitar player. The journey passed in total silence, she had a million things she wanted to tell him, but only one she knew she must; and she struggled to find the right words to express that. Like one of his best lyrics he opened the way for her when she pulled up at his.
"I'm so sorry babe, guess I'm just tired of performing like a pony. Let me sleep and we'll crack this tomorrow. Dr fancy pants might even grow some humanity overnight."
It was going to have to be now. Close confined in the car, with no back up. She tried to look at him but couldn't meet those eyes. "We both know that won't work. This whole album is just not going to be your style. So I think you'd better… sit this one out." There was no air left in her lungs.
"Are you firing me Rayna Jaymes?"
Ignited by unfairness and a whiff of self-guilt Rayna raised her head. "No. I'm saying this record is never going to happen with you and Chris at each other throats."
"So it's him or me and you've chosen him."
"It was the label who chose him, you know that. Listen, if money is going to be a problem…"
"Good God. You're sounding like Tandy now. Thinking that throwing enough dollars around will solve everything. No, I do not want to be on a retainer, a Ray-tainer. There are other people in this city who will gladly take me and my music." At some point he must have stopped shouting, slammed the car door and stomped into his house. At some point the weather had broken and rain had spattered onto the car roof. Rayna was only fully aware of all this when she realised she would need to turn on the wipers on before driving away.
Back at her home there were 3 answerphone messages from Bucky, culminating in a 2nd hand threat from the Chris Noon that Rayna would have to decide between her producer and lead musician. Bucky tactfully implied it was her call but reminded her of the investment Edgehill had made in Noon. She rung Bucky back feeling like she was stuck between two squabbling kids from the 7th grade.
"How did he take it?" Bucky asked mildly when she told him the deed was already done.
"How do you think? Not well, but I had no real choice. Now we need a short term guitar player and a new lead single. I'm not doing 'Blue Afternoons' without Deacon."
"Of course not. You can tell Chris that in the morning. He called me yet again, just before you did, demanding a breakfast meeting at his house."
"Sure." Rayna was idly flicking through the local paper as she talked. "Can you fix me another meeting tomorrow too?"
"I'll do my best, who with, Edgehill?"
Rayna circled an article in red felt tip. "No an author doing a book signing in town. I've just had an idea."
Rayna cradled the phone, looked at it for a moment and checked her slim diamond studded watch. Five to six, he was bound to still be working. She dialled.
"Mr Conrad? It's Rayna Jaymes… Yes I'm good thank you. I'm calling you about Jackson Street, you may count me in."
Just like Rayna, Chris Noon was currently in rented accommodation, and while Edgehill Republic were funding both properties, the difference was that Noon's bills were paid directly by the label and his 1 bed apartment was about as centrally located as it was possible to get. Shiny, practical and cold thought Rayna, as she stepped out of the bathroom. Just the sort of potential to get Teddy Conrad's juices flowing. However Chris had made an effort for her. There was freshly brewed, pungent coffee and warm, shop brought bagels. He had even taken off his shades, revealing eyes of sea washed bluey green.
"About- I'm so – yesterday – sorry."
They both stopped talking over each other. "You first." Chris said.
"What happened yesterday was totally unprofessional. I want to apologise for it and let you know that Deacon has agreed to step out of this project, for the sake of the record."
"You personally have nothing to apologise for Miss, er, Rayna." He coughed. "I'm sorry, I like to keep things formal in the studio, but you're my guest here and I hope first names are acceptable?"
"Of course Chris. You know I'm on something of a journey with this record and I have to be totally committed to what we can do together."
"Me too. What you see is what you get with me. I have my methodology and if Edgehill had wanted a Daniel Lanois type record, well then they should have hired Daniel Lanois."
"It's just that I've never made a whole album without Deacon before." She said softy and bit into cream cheese bagel.
"And they are fine albums. I bought 'Cowgirls' myself, when it came out, with my own money." He caught the giggle on her face. "Seriously!"
"I believe you. Your secret is safe with me."
"But you're a fully rounded artist Rayna, There is so much more we can do with that voice of yours in a studio environment."
Turning on the charm Rayna leaned forward. "So I need a favour, a couple of weeks break to get a replacement guitar player and find some new material."
"That will not be a problem. I can work on what we already have. I'm afraid to say the label was not that enthused about the rough mixes. I'll tighten them up and sort new guitar tracks."
For the first time since she had arrived Rayna felt she had lost control. "Not sure when I'll have a new player. It's going to be hard to fill Deacon's boots."
He laughed. "Ah, but you are forgetting about my contacts." Chris tapped the black leather Filofax on the counter. "I'm sure you would not object to having somebody like, say, Mark Knopfler guesting on 3 tracks of your new record. I happen to know he is on vacation in the States right now." Despite herself even Rayna was impressed by the chutzpah. "Excellent, shall we talk in 2 week's time? I look forward to hearing what you can offer me." He snapped the sunglasses in place and Chris Noon, record producer was back in the room.
The man who opened the fourth floor hotel room door to Bucky's knock was dressed in a black shirt, dark pants and a bootlace tie. He also wore a black cowboy hat, that gave the strong impression of rarely being detached from its owner, outside or in. When he spoke it was with a Texan drawl. "Rayna Jaymes! To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Thank you for meeting with us Mr Friedman."
"Please, call me Kinky, as it were."
Instead Rayna completed the introductions. "I believe you already know my manager Bucky?"
"Hi Kinky how you doing? Whatty sends his regards. Says he still remembers that aftershow party in Amarillo"
"If Whatty White can remember an aftershow in Amarillo then he definitely wasn't there." Kinky Friedman, one time country singer, now comic crime writing novelist, moved aside to let them into the modest, impersonal room and perched himself on the bed. Rayna took the only chair, Bucky remained standing.
"How is that too darn talented guitar man of yours Rayna?" asked Kinky. She told him. He nodded sadly. "It happens." he said, almost too himself. "The road's a hard mistress and the studio can be a very vindictive wife. I'm not out where the busses don't run, because they both threw me over. Though I hope you aren't here to ask me to play on your record. These day that at baby only comes out at the end of book signings." He pointed to the battered guitar case in the corner of the room.
"It's not that," Rayna replied, "with Deacon out the picture I need some new material and the label has asked for… What did they call it Buck?"
"Up tempo, contemporary melody with accessible lyrics, that will attract AM/FM crossover radio-play and appeal to the B-D demograph of both genders." Bucky parroted.
"A novelty song." Kinky said, "All thanks to king Billy-Ray I guess."
"Well you have written some of those in the past." said Rayna, "The boys sing them on the tour bus, though I don't think my covering 'Biscuits' would go down well with anybody. So I was hoping you could help me out with some ideas."
"Oh I can do better than that." Kinky said smiling broadly, he took a piece of hotel note paper and wrote down a name and number. "Give this booger a call, say I put you onto him. Tony Lester, lives in Waco. Computer nerd by day, hot songwriter after hours, knows is way around both sorts of keyboards. Should appeal to your Noon-goon."
"Thank you so much."
As they made to leave Kinky handed them both signed copied of his latest book. "Rayna, please don't give up on Deacon. That man may have the face of a hound-dog, but he's got the old soul of a cat. And cats generally have nine lives and land on their feet."