Sunday Morning Coming Down
A/N For a while now this Kris Kristofferson song (Johnny Cash version) has been a bit of an earworm for me. Claybournesque, I thought it would make a good blueprint for some Deacon flashbacks, told from his point of view. There is also a Rolling Stones reference within, allowing me to make a belated tribute to the eternally cool Charlie Watts. Shout out too for WirtingJustBecause, who's story Forever started popping up on line just after I began writing my work; and has therefore been a source of inspiration and motivation for me to finish it. Finally my thanks to everyone who has taken the trouble to click through.
Verse 1 & 2 Early 1989 – Awe! Who the Flatt and Scruggs books a recording session for Sunday morning? Mr. Finance Edgehil Republic Man, that's who. The label that signed Ray, knowing she was a precious golden nugget and since then have almost toured the soul from her. Running her down an endless highway of shows and support slots, to quote, 'raise her profile.' While in any feasible gap between concerts they expect her to record a second album, out of hours, on the fly, cos that's when studio time is cheap. And you know what, my gal doesn't even flinch. Tonight we play as a duo at a downtown bar. She gives it 110%, grants an interview for the collage newspaper beforehand, and stops on the way out to sign for every one of the kids waiting at the back door. We get back to my apartment at a quarter to Sunday, still wired from the gig. Rayna is wearing her stage gear; a brown ruffled top that leaves her shoulders bare, gypsy she calls it, boots and a pair of Levis tighter than The Wrecking Crew. She looks so darn sexy. As soon as the front door shuts she leaps into my arms.
"Woo, this life is the best. I can't ever imaging wanting to do anything else," she tells me.
"Well I do have one or two suggestions for our immediate future."
We don't even make it into the bedroom to begin with. She paws at the buttons on my shirt, nestles her head against my chest, then starts kissin', then lickin', then whoooo. I can't peel those jeans down past her boots, so she stumbles and crashes onto the couch. I can now see that below the bluejeans my Venus wears a pair of teeny red panties that contrast nicely with her smooth, pale, bare skin. She crosses her arms the way girls do, to pull off her top. With a body like hers it would have been criminally insane to bother with any kind of a bra, so I have something to distract me while she tries to attend to the cowboy boots. We really haven't thought this through. Before I know it she's dragging me to the bedroom door by the buckle of my belt. The next part is kinda personal, but Ladies and Gentleman, there are fireworks and July Forth is still months away.
Afterwards, instead of rolling over she picks up her journal from the nightstand to go through material for the session, and starts fiddling with lyrics. The bed rocks, not in a good way, leaving me feeling sea-sick. So I run out to the bathroom, then to onto the kitchen where a bottle of Jack talks to me and won't shut up. This being my biggest mistake of the night.
I wake with the first light, and wish I hadn't. During the night someone has parked up a dumper in the middle of my head and a couple of platoons of Marines are now marching across my temples. Rayna's a statue. Curled up on her side looking so fragile, her thighs and lower ass peeking out from a creamy, silky thing. A few hours back she was a lioness and I've the teeth marks to prove it. She's way too sweet to disturb right now so I let her be. There is no chance I can face food and the session's coming up fast. Yet I've a cravin' for some stimulation, coffee or beer? That's no contest. A sliver of gum does nothing to mask the alcohol, so more extreme measures are called for. I finish off the pack of Marlboro that I was chainin' last night, my arm stretched out of the open kitchen window to dispel smoke. Fortunately I'm not required to do backing vocals today.
Below the kitchen window is a yard and there's this boy, about 9 or 10 I guess, shooting hoops. Missing more often than not, but the look of concentration in the little kid is someth' else. Eyes lasered onto the target, lips pursed to near busting. And it don't matter none if the ball goes in or spins away, he just picks it up, resets himself and tries again. It reminds me of someone I used to know way back, little runt called Deacon, holding a guitar, almost too big for him, trying with all his might to twist his fingers around a chord, then change onto the next one. The steel strings dig into his pads like they were fit to bleed but he still keeps on going… As I finish the stick I can see in the smoke the image of my Pa's head around my bedroom door. "Hey Son, you got it!" and that sudden unexpected praise burnt my cheeks and made my fingers slip into discord, so he pulled away in disgust. "It's simple boy."
I sidestep Rayna as she comes out of the bathroom, and by the time I pull on a crumpled denim shirt (and they are definitely not supposed to do that) she is prancing around, slice of toast in one hand, mug of black coffee in the other and harmonizing with the bird call from the still open window. Of course her hair is perfect in its pony tail, butt so cute and legs go on forever. She's had roughly half the time I had to prepare, and looks twice as ready.
Her Mercury is parked out front, its dusky gold paintjob glinting in the sunlight. I know I'm a crap passenger but it safer to let her drive us to the studio today. Standing on the sidewalk, that's when the smell hits me, as I'm loading the guitars into the trunk. Chicken, and not the mass produced stuff either. This is home cocked, the odors dancing up my nostrils, pushing aside the stale Reds like a fullback on a mission. Someone has taken the trouble to properly marinate the meat. In a heartbeat I'm back at the family dining table, sitting between Dad and Beverly making damn sure he can't get within reach of my sister. Mama lays out the plates, Grace is slurred and Gideon takes a first mouthful. The world stops. I've seen plates upturned, glasses smashed and Mama sobbing into her apron, but in this memory he just swallows and smiles. "This is good… come on, come on, eat up, don't let it go cold after all your Mom's hard work. I can't abide wastage, you should know that." We tuck in thankful, and I'm prayin' the after-lunch drinking will send him to sleep and not into a rage. In the now, I just slide into the passenger seat. There must have been more childhood Sundays like that fragment, must have, so how come my brain won't give me access?
Rayna dazzles a smile at me, "You OK Babe?"
"Yeah," and I realize I mean it, "Yeah I am. Let's get to work."
I am not sure if the band have slept, or simply rolled on from party to studio. The air is full of slang, sweat and testosterone, by rights Ray should be a fish outa water, grappling to make any impact in the macho bravado. 'Cept the tension makes her raise her game another notch, and as soon as the boys are warmed up she's ready for take. She may have not hit twenty yet, but Rayna Jaymes knows exactly what she wants, and when for a third time the bassist fluffs she gives him the sort of look that would wilt nettles. We are cutting one of her songs and the band soon realize how important that is to her. Before we start the guy on slide questions her detailed instructions for the intro, making her pull off her cans and step up into his personal space. Then she flashes the sunniest smile you could ever see.
"I'm sorry, let me explain. There are two choices here honey. Either we do this song my way and get it done in 5, or we go your way…. and be here all day…" The guy simply doesn't know what's hit him. In the background the drummer smirks, knowing as well as I do that you do not mess with my lady.
Next up, we track extra guitar and a new vocal onto one of mine. Ray is sitting in the vocal booth on a high wooden stall. She takes a breath, her shoulders drop, then as she looks across at me through the glass the outside world simply disappears. The engineer plays the backing tack in and we are locked together as one.
"Sitting here tonight…" it pours from her like sweet honey, my figures move around the Gretsch of their own accord. It's like I know exactly where she is going next the very millisecond she does. We've only played this number on stage a few times and already I know its som'thin' special, but Rayna today takes it to a whole new level.
The hard work is done now, so Rayna retires to an old leather couch and grabs another cold drink. I'm happily doodling on the guitar, someone in the band pulls out a bottle of tequila and things soon start to get real messy.
Verse 3 & Chorus, Early Fall 2004 - "Deacon, Bucky. She says can you get your ass down to Southside studios tomorrow at 10 and bring your favorite guitar." I cradle the phone. It's Saturday, I am properly sober and now very much summonsed. Must admit things have been going a lot better since I was able to stop thinking about drinking every second of the day and only have to battle that devil about once every two and half hours. Rayna and I managed to make our peace at the Johnny Cash memorial concert, I played a bit on her last record and then little Daphne popped out into the world. She's the sweetest bundle imaginable, Rayna tells me that Maddie looked just as perfect at that age, but always scowled the moment she needed feeding. I can't remember. I mostly kept away then, tearing up the road with anyone who would have me, drinking hard and feeling so jealous of Teddy Conrad that I couldn't see who the hell I'd become or how much of a millstone I must have been to Ray. Still can't believe my luck that the final rehab program actually stuck, far better folks than me have been less fortunate.
Morning, nip in the air when I pull the bedsheets back, orange juice down the neck and the radio switched on to sooth me awake. My refrigerator is mainly a blur of stark white empty shelves, so it's probably a good job I don't own the kind of massive sleek unit Teddy has installed uptown. To be honest I've no real idea why Rayna wants me today, being a new Mom takes up so much of her time. Perhaps she's planning a Christmas single? It's just the kind of stunt The Label would love and I literally shiver at the thought of putting my name to something seasonal, tinsel tacky, false and toe curling. No Ray wouldn't do that, would she? Even if Bucky produced all the charts and stats telling her it was the right thing to do. Especially if Bucky pulled out the charts and stats.
The studio is located opposite a park. On its fringe a play area for little kiddies, sandpit, mini carousel, old slide and some swings. On one of these rocking up and down a small girl is squealing with delight, legs dangling down, kicking the air has her Daddy pushes her. Then I realize it's actually Teddy and Maddie. I wonder across, guitar case in hand.
"Woo, up you go Princess."
"Hello Teddy."
"Deacon." He manages to put the single word out there flat, but with an undertow of menace.
Maddie swings to a halt. "Hi Uncle Deacon."
"Well you look like you are having fun."
" Daddy says we can play in the park all morning. I'm going on the slide next." She informs me.
"Be careful sweetie."
"Oh she will, I will take care of that," Teddy says. "Rayna's inside, I expect she's waiting for you."
"Can you swing me higher Daddy, Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?"
"You are going quite high enough young lady."
"Uncle Deacon would swing me higher."
It's weird, every time Maddie says 'Uncle Deacon' there is a flick of anger in Teddy's eyes, like I've got no right to be there with Rayna's daughter. Sure I know I screwed up in the past but if Rayna can accept me into her working life after all I did to her, it ought to be easy enough for Conrad.
"Not when your Daddy says no," I reply.
"I wish they made swings big enough for Daddies," muses Maddie "Then Uncle Deacon could push you."
I laugh. "If your Daddy went up on the swings he'd turn green." As I walk away I'm rewarded by Teddy nearly getting a stomach full of swing.
I freely admit I'm the one who's green, envious as hell. Never fully appreciated what I had with Ray until I lost it. Ah, sweet Joni knew a truth or two. That things are what they are is entirely my fault. I simply could not see passed the crazy distortion of a glass bottle. Any time that I can now work with Ray is a precious joy, but it's incredibly hard seeing her as a mother and somebody else's wife. Don't go feeling all sorry for me now though. Some fine looking women have crossed my path since Rayna and I spilt and I got sober, but it's weird, they can't compete. So every single time I let them down and wind up hurting myself more. As I cross back over the road to the studio, I can hear children's voices on the breeze. There's a small Sunday School two buildings down and they are singing a hymn to some over enthusiastic and very bad piano playing. I smile.
The girl on reception barley looks up from her magazine when she buzzes me in. I make my way down a narrow corridor and push through the double doors and onto the studio floor. Everything is dark and empty, is this some kind of wind up?
A detached voice booms from the speakers, "Deacon, in here." Rayna is in the control room, Daphne strapped up in a carry seat next to her. Rayna's eyes look tired, lined but excited and nervous too. Often when we meet these days an awkward silence fills the room, else we both try to talk at once. To get around this problem Rayna has obviously decided to cut to the quick, without any kind of a thank you for coming out on a Sunday. Like she assumes I have nothing better planned.
"So, you know that the label wants more product from me?"
"I do now."
"Well I've not got the time for writing or to sift through new material, so instead I've agreed they can release a deluxe edition of 'Cowgirls' with bonus tracks.
"And my role is, what, exactly?"
She sighs, "Deacon I need your help. This was the record where it all took off. You were there as a part of its birth. You and Buck are the only ones who really knew what I was moving through at that time. If I'm going to sanction Edgehill putting out some previously unreleased material I want us both to be proud of it."
"Ray, I can scarcely remember things that happened 3 years ago, nevermind the back end of the 80s."
"Well let's try. Dwain's put together up a show real of tracks he thinks I may want to include. Just take a listen." A button lights up of the desk.
The first thing I hear is an intake of breath, then a muted "1,2,3,4" and I realize you do not need a DeLorean to time travel. Ray's voice was half a shade lighter back then and while she was always totally confident on stage the relative newness of the studio still slightly daunted her. There's a vulnerability to this take of 'It's my Life' that is so pretty. The solo's different too and I wince where I hear my younger self goof. Rayna laughs.
"We can patch that. But it's pretty good huh?" The next track she plays me is a stark acoustic rehearsal of 'A Life That's Good' that gets me in chest, I want to run out of the studio, but the ghost of Rayna's voice, sweet and fresh glues me to my seat. Then on comes some random guitar licks that sound like a song I never found a way to finish.
Rayna looks at me and raises an eyebrow. "You don't remember?"
"Remember what?" I know it's me playing but from when and where I could never tell you. Suddenly I become aware of a buzzing on the recording that grows in volume. Must be a fault on the original tape, no, shit, it's someone snoring! Everything floods back into my brain from 15 years ago like a tide that's burst a damn. "That's the day we nailed 'Life That's Good'" I'm laughing to myself now. "You know until they rolled the tape I'm pretty sure I was three quarters out of it that morning."
Rayna corroborates "The band were in a much worse state than you Deac. The bassist ended up falling asleep on the consul, so that jackass of slide player thought it would be fun to open up the talkback while you were jamming." I'm grinning at the memory of something that until now I did not know I still held, and at that moment Dwain the engineer returns with take-out coffees.
"Thing is, I was thinking," says Rayna, speaking slowly with a mouth full of cookie, "What if you were to add some more guitar to that track, and try to blend the snores in with the music?"
"Yeah, that could work, you got anything in mind?"
"Nothing that you couldn't do 100% better Deacon."
So Dwain sets up a loop of the snoring and I begin a riff that can weave in and out of its gentle buzz. Without even realizing I've taken the hook from that hymn those kids were singing, same chord progressing just played about with the emphasis and timing. Truth is the music I make isn't really that difficult, I just hope no one ever finds me out. The result turns out pretty neat though, even little Daphne wakes up and burbles along to the playback. To sit there watching Rayna with her daughter is wonderful and magical, and utter torture. I also put down a new solo for "It's My Life" that they guys can drop in later. Ray's claps her hands delightedly when I'm done and it's as if the last 5 years never happened. More than that in fact, we are propelled back to a time before the poison fully took hold of me. Mentally circulating around each other, sizing up and wishing to hell Dwain wasn't there. Then Maddie comes running in.
Teddy follows on behind and the atmosphere changes in an instant. That spark I felt, heck that I know Ray felt too is drowned by reality. That though is only as it must be. The relationship I share with Rayna now is just a musical one. At least that's something Teddy can't get hold of to dent or smash, the way I managed to do with my drinking. This is all I can be trusted to have with her, and even that can get tuned off and on like a light switch. Beverly is always telling me I'm more than Rayna Jaymes' wing man, well maybe she's right, but it is so damn hard.
Teddy is hustlin' to get them away, something about going on to Lamar's and Daphne wakes up again, senses the tension and starts crying. As I walk with my guitar case to the door the last view I get of Rayna is her bobbing up and down, baby over her shoulder trying to coo her back to a happy place.
On the street walking back to the car I can't help but notice a single bell ringing out from the Sunday School Church. Solid, monotonous and chilling. For me it tolls out the time away from the woman I love and sends my stomach dropping deep. I need… no that's wrong, I want a drink, very much. Hell, I would even take a joint from one of Luke Wheeler's road crew right now, anything to dull this pain. The bell stops and for a moment there is nothing but heavy air. No cars passing through this part of town, no shouts from the park, not even a bird song. Nothing but myself to stop me from feeling The Lord's Sunday presence; and at this moment I am utterly and hopelessly alone. Reluctantly my feet tap out a new beat on the slabs. I am heading for home with the memories of today, and another recording session 15 years back, and all the baggage of my screwed up existence and my stupid, petty, uncaring, wonderful family crowding out my head. If I hurry, I'll get home in time to watch the kind of old movie they always put out on a Sunday.