Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

The car stops outside a small, dark grey brick building that looks like it’s seen better days. The sign above it is painted on and simply says Bar. Is that its official name? Not even The Bar? Just . . . Bar.

Inside, I find Jeremy, Glasses Guy, Blue Blouse, and a couple of other people I didn’t meet today crowded around a small table. Actually, everyone in here is crowded around small tables meant for maybe two but which currently host upward of six to eight glasses. The chairs are mismatched and scattered in no pattern I can discern, everyone finding a tiny space to fit their ass in.

Jeremy shakes my hand. “Bobby! Good to see you. You ready for this? Tonight’s the night your life changes.”

He makes it sound like he’s got a golden ticket with my name on it and all I have to do is reach out and grab it. But if it were that easy, anyone could do it.

I nod.

A guy dressed in black gestures for me to follow him, and he leads me to a holding area. There are four green folding chairs and a case of water on the floor. Nothing fancy like the hotel, but I wouldn’t expect a bar to be fancy, anyway. I sit as directed and wait my turn.

Too soon, or maybe not soon enough, I’m given the stage.

“Hi, everyone. I’m Bobby Tannen.”

There’s usually a cheer from the crowd at Hank’s, but tonight, it’s quieter than a January morning covered by snow. I don’t let it faze me and go into my set.

I start with Bridge Over my Broken Heart, then do Her because Mom’s song seems like a good luck charm, as though she’s here with me for this. I play the song I wrote today, which I’m calling Dig Down Deep, and that’s when the crowd really falls under my sway. One more original and my time’s up.

It was quicker than a blink and an eternity all at once.

I have done everything I possibly can, cut open my soul, used my blood to write these words, and laid everything I am bare on this stage for these people. If they liked it, fine. If they didn’t, fuck them.

I touch the brim of my ballcap as I dip my head. “Thanks for listening.”

When I stand, the audience does too, clapping madly.

I freeze, standing stock still as it sinks in. They liked it, and a warm buzz starts in my belly, growing bigger and brighter.

Like my future.

Lucky son of a bitch found gold in the twisted tunnels of a working man’s mind.

Backstage, Jeremy comes in smiling and pats me on the shoulder. “Good show, son. Really good show.”

“Thank you.” The ‘son’ thing drives me crazy, and normally, I’d have already corrected it, but I’m giving allowances for Jeremy because of who he is. I hate that, but it’s the truth.

“The car will be here in a few to take you back to the hotel. We’ll get insights from the audience later and the tracks from tomorrow. Car will pick you up at noon for that, so get some sleep tonight. We’ll meet with you again on Monday to let you know. Take Sunday to enjoy the city. But no misbehaving. I don’t think you’d be able to sweet talk your way out a scuffle here like you do at home.” His lips lift as he says it, but the smile is forced and doesn’t reach his eyes. Not a real joke but a warning couched as one.

I grunt, refusing to honor that with actual words.

In moments, Jeremy is gone back to the table, listening to the next act. I’m dismissed again.

I’ve never been in a recording studio, so I have nothing to judge this one by, but I think it’s top-notch. The sound board is almost the size of a sheet of plywood and has more knobs and levers than a space shuttle. The room where I’m sitting on a stool in front of a microphone is bigger than my bedroom at home.

“Okay, let’s try that first one from the top again. On the third chorus, the repeat one, I want you to add a bit more growl to it. Like it’s getting ripped out of your chest and you’re furious about it. Okay?” Miller says into my headset.

Miller seems pretty cool. He’d introduced himself as the producer this morning, promised me that we were going to make some prime music today, and had gotten right to it. His critiques and insights have been spot-on so far, and I think my songs are already better after only a couple of hours with him.

I sing my way through Dig Down Deep, my voice vibrating in my chest as I add the growl he asked for. It hurts, physically hurts, but when he plays it back, I can hear the improvement. The actual pain reads as emotional angst, giving the song that touch of wow that it needed.