As I let her words settle in, I realize she might have a point. For a small label, Big Little Music has created quite the reputation for themselves. For one, they still care about their artists and not how much money they can get out of them. They are the total opposite of Charisma Records.
Up-and-coming artists like myself don’t usually get signed by labels like Charisma. They already make enough money on their current catalog of talent and don’t need or want to take a chance on nobodies. The only reason I got signed is because I wrote a hit song for Tori, who ran home and told her daddy about me. I highly doubt she raved about how truly talented I was—more like she wanted to keep me around and happy so I could write more songs for her. Fortunately, I signed only a single album deal with Charisma. Yes, it sucks big giant, Texas-sized balls that they get to own the rights to my songs for ten years, but that’s the price you pay when you sign on the dotted line sometimes.
We pull into the parking lot behind the Bluebird. Since there are no dressing rooms for artists to wait in, most just arrive at their designated time slot or hang out with other performers in the back by their cars. I wave at a couple people I recognize as I get out of the car then retrieve my Martin D28 acoustic guitar from the back and start to warm up while standing there. Sosie always makes sure we arrive ten minutes before call time, which I know is padded with a few extra minutes. Once I’m warmed up, I head over to a group of people gathered near the back door.
“How’s the crowd tonight?” I ask, greeting Scotty Wilkins with a pat to his shoulder. I’ve known Scotty for years and have even wrote a couple songs with him. Despite his overinflated ego, he’s a good guy.
“Great crowd tonight. I might stick around to make myself available, if you know what I mean.” He winks at Sosie, who responds by rolling her eyes in disgust at him.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, man. My cousin would chew you up and spit you out.” I give him a cold smile, hoping he catches my warning when our eyes lock. I know Sosie can handle herself, but I can’t help the protectiveness I feel when it comes to my baby cousin. Anyone disrespects her, they’ll answer to me.
Scotty chuckles and shakes his head while smiling. “You know, it’s pretty awesome how tight you two are. I wish I had that family dynamic.” For a moment, something that resembles sadness flashes in his eyes, but Scotty is quick to blink it away and go back to his usual cocky self.
What was that all about? Not that he would tell me anyway. We aren’t close, nor will we probably ever be. I purposely keep my circle close and tight. In this industry, I’ve learned you don’t know what people’s motives are, so it’s best to keep everyone at a distance until they prove themselves to be loyal.
“A couple of us are getting together next week to jam. Look at your schedule, and if you’re free, come join us. It would be worth your time.” Having worked together before, Scotty knows how I operate. For him to say it would be worth my time piques my interest. I look over at Sosie, who nods at me while typing notes in her phone to check my schedule.
“I’ll text you tomorrow with my schedule and you let me know where and when,” I tell him, trying to remember what’s going on next week. If I recall correctly, it’s a slower week, with the end of the month being crazier.
“Good luck in there tonight,“ Scotty says with a nod at me. He pats me on the shoulder, waves at Sosie, and heads toward his car to leave.
“So much for him staying to make himself available,” Sosie snarks sarcastically while watching him drive away.
“You like Scotty Wilkins?” I narrow my eyes at her, trying to gauge her reaction to my question. Sosie has shown zero interest in anyone since moving to Nashville. Her douchebag of an ex-boyfriend did a number on her, so it isn’t that surprising to me that she’s so standoffish when it comes to the opposite sex.
“Seriously, what is wrong with you tonight?” She huffs in annoyance, my smirk only seeming to rile her up even more. “That question doesn’t even warrant a response. Get your head out of your ass, because it’s time to perform.” I laugh at her not-so-motivating pep talk and follow her up to the back door.
We check in with the staff and wait for them to signal me through. I hear the audience clapping and see the performer who was just on stage walk back to us. I smile in acknowledgment at her and then start walking when she’s cleared the hallway. Once I appear into the main room, I keep a smile on my face, my eyes trained on the stool for me to sit on. The room is silent, no one applauding in greeting, because the rules of the Bluebird Cafe are that you are here to listen and immerse yourself in the experience and emotion of the songs. No one gets rowdy here. No one gets up to dance. This is a true, musical experience of listening and dissecting every word and meaning of these songs.