Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders (16 page)

Bill arrived at the table, chuckling.
 
He could tell by Franklin’s
pained expression what was going through his mind.
 
Bill held his hands out, palms up.
 
“What can I do?” he said, “I’m a famous
producer, you’re a lawyer.”
 
He said it
the same way he might say ‘hemorrhoid.’
 
Residual celebrity status was the one thing Big Bill had that Franklin
didn’t, and rubbing it in was one of the few pleasures left to him.

Franklin looked
up,
eyes mad as Merle Haggard on a jag.
 
“Oh, I meant to tell you this afternoon, but
I
forgot.
. . go fuck yourself.”

Big Bill laughed as he sat down across the table from Franklin.
 
“I understand.”
 
They ordered drinks and sat there, not
speaking, just waiting for the music to start.

The first act was a stunning blonde whose arrangements
seemed influenced primarily by Trini Lopez.
 
When she finished she was approached by several men, each claiming to
have access to important A&R executives for major labels.
 
False promises were made and phone numbers
exchanged.
 
The next two acts were as
earnest as they were unpolished.
 
One
appeared to be doing a poor imitation of Robert Earl Keen while the other was
an uncomfortable cross between Jimmy Dale Gilmore and Little Jimmy Dickens.

The rest of the candidates were out in the parking lot in
front of the Bluebird.
 
A pair of
speakers mounted under the eaves allowed them to hear the performers
inside.
 
Eddie Long was out there,
sitting on a low concrete wall, tuning his guitar.
 
His name had been drawn tenth, so he still
had thirty or forty minutes before he was up.
 
In the meanwhile, he was listening to and criticizing each performer
that came before him.
 
Every now and then
he looked out from under the brim of his hat at the others who were
waiting.
 
Some were cool, leaning against
trucks, smoking cigarettes.
 
Some were
pacing, nervous, having second thoughts.
 
One kid seemed to be saying a prayer.
 
Eddie smirked at that and shook his head.
 
He had the distinct feeling he was the cream
of this crop.

An employee stuck her head out the door, looked at her
clipboard, then called for the next performer.
 
“Whitney Rankin?”

He finished his prayer and looked up.
 
“Yes ma’am,” he said.
 
“I’m right here.”
 
He picked up his guitar and followed her
inside.
 
Whitney waded through the crowd
and stepped up to the microphone, scared to death.
 
The dark haired skinny kid drew the queer
looks he was used to but he shook ‘em off.
 
Still, he was afraid to open his mouth at first for fear he might throw
up.
 
He’d never been this nervous.
 
Too afraid to speak, he quickly slipped on
his harp rack with his Honer 565 Cross Harp.
 
After a deep breath and a glance at his audience he positively attacked
his guitar.
 
It was a dark country rocker
with renegade overtones and something evil bubbling just under the surface of
the harmonica.
 
His voice was sure and
the song was as smart as it was angry.
 
Before he was halfway through, the queer looks were gone.
 
When it was over, some even looked ashamed as
they applauded.
 
“Thanks very much.”
 
Whitney smiled and took a deep breath.
 
“Man, am I nervous.”
 
The crowd laughed with him.
 
Whitney twisted at the bandana around his
wrist as he looked out at the full room.
 
“I guess I’ve written a hundred songs or more, but out of all of them,
this next one’s my favorite.”
 
He tuned a
string.
 
“It seems like I’ve known the
song all my life, even though I only wrote it a few years ago.”
 
He shrugged.
 
“Anyway, I call it ‘Night’s Devotion’ and, uh,
well.
. . here we go.”

The first chords stilled the room, taking everyone by
surprise.
 
It couldn’t have been any more
different than the first song, like a lullaby following Steppenwolf.
 
When Whitney started to sing, Big Bill felt
the strangest sensation.
 
Judging by the
expressions of the others, he wasn’t alone.
 
Big Bill couldn’t explain why, but he suddenly felt like a child being
loved.
 
He couldn’t remember the last
song that made him feel like that.
 
Could
this song possibly be so good?
 
Bill
looked at his glass.
 
It was only his
second drink, so it wasn’t the alcohol.
 
No, this was a good song, pure and simple.
 
Maybe even a great one.
 

During the soft harmonica bridge Bill found himself thinking
of the word ‘lovely’
 
— an adjective
that hadn’t crossed his mind since who knows when.
 
He pulled out a couple of business cards and
wrote ‘Whitney Rankin’ on the back of one.

There was silence after the song ended.
 
Whitney thought he’d bombed, thought his
favorite song was crap.
 
But the crowd
suddenly snapped out of their dream state and gave him the sort of applause
usually reserved for established craftsmen who had just performed an
acknowledged gem.

Big Bill nudged Franklin
and nodded at the stage.
 
“That’ll kill
cotton knee high,” he said.
 
Whitney
stood in the spotlight, genuinely relieved, surprised, and pleased.
 
He smiled modestly, thanked the crowd,
then
headed for the door.
 
As he passed the table in the corner, Big Bill reached up and handed
Whitney a business card.
 
“Hey, kid, give
me a call.”

Whitney paused to look at the card.
 
He recognized the name from the list in
Nashville Scene
.
 
“All right,” he said.
 
“I sure will.”
 
He floated into the parking lot feeling like
he’d just signed a record deal.
 
He would
have stayed to hear the other performers, but it smelled like rain and Whitney
had a long walk in front of him, so he headed home, not even thinking about the
little hole in the sole of his boot.

The other singers stared as Whitney headed out to the road
and started walking east with his guitar case, a new man in black, different
and fearless, they thought.
 
They looked
at each other as if to ask if his song was as good as they thought.
 
The woman stuck her head out the door and
called the next name on the list.
 
The
guy just shook his head.
 
“I ain’t going
up there after that,” he said.
 
She
shrugged, called the next name.
 
There
was no response, but a Ford driven by a recently discouraged singer screeched
out of the parking lot heading south.

Eddie stood up, tilting his hat back.
 
“I’ll go,” he said.
 
The others turned and looked, wondering who
the hell this guy was.
 
The woman stepped
aside, holding open the door.
 
Eddie
walked through the crowd with his big flattop Gibson held above his head.
 
He stepped into the light, looking down at
first,
then
slowly tilting his head back to reveal his
face.
 
“They said I could do two songs,”
he said, “but I think I’m just gonna do one, so everybody else’ll have time to
do theirs.”
 
He strummed the guitar once,
then again.
 
“I wrote this song not too
long ago, after my wife died,” he said, grabbing everyone’s attention.
 
“It’s called, ‘
It Wasn’t
Supposed To
End That Way.’” And then he sang the song.

Just as it had in Starkville,
the song left the entire room breathless.
 
Looking out at the stunned faces, Eddie knew he’d kicked some ass.
 
He politely thanked the crowd as he slipped
the guitar strap over his head, then he headed outside.
 
Big Bill brushed Franklin’s
arm as he stood up.
 
“C’mon,” he
said.
 
“Let’s go have a talk with our
boy.”
 
They caught up with him in the
parking lot.
 
“Hey, Eddie,” Big Bill
called out.
 
“You got a minute?
 
We’d like to talk to you.”

“Sure thing.”
 
Eddie held out his hand.
 
“Eddie Long, what can I do for you?”

They shook hands.
 
“Eddie, I’m Bill Herron and this is Franklin—”

“Big Bill Herron, the producer?
 
Are you kiddin’ me?”

Big Bill smiled and looked straight in Eddie’s crystal green
eyes.
 
“No kiddin’.”

“I sure didn’t expect to see you here.
 
I figured you’d be at the CMC Awards.”

Franklin elbowed
his way past Bill.
 
“By the way, Eddie,
I’m
 
Franklin
Peavy,
Bill and I work together.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Peavy.”
 
Eddie pointed at him knowingly.
 
“Hey, you negotiated that big recording deal
for Luther
Bridges,
didn’t you?
 
That was a helluva deal!”

Franklin puffed
up a bit.
 
“That’s right,” he said, “You
must read the trades pretty close.”

Eddie scuffed his boot on the asphalt.
 
“Oh I just try to keep up with both ends of
the business, that’s all.”
 
Eddie leaned
his guitar case against his car then pushed up the brim of his Stetson.
 
“So what do a couple of big shots like you
want with little ole me?”

Big Bill smiled.
 
“Son, we’d like to talk to you about your career.”

26.

Under normal circumstances Bill and Franklin would have
taken Eddie to The Sunset Grill to discuss career possibilities.
 
The Sunset Grill was an enticing fusion of Nashville
and Hollywood with deep fried
spinach served by hip young waiters dressed in black.
 
Using excess flattery and the big city
atmosphere of the place, Herron and Peavy found they could get most new-to-town
artists to sign almost anything.
 
But
with the CMC Awards wrapping up, it would be too crowded to get within a block
of the place, so they decided to go elsewhere.

Big Bill was at the wheel of his monumental Ford
Excursion.
 
Franklin
was way the hell over in the co-pilot seat and Eddie was two yards behind them
in the first row of back seats.
 
Eddie
was leaning forward, hanging on their every word.
 
Two big-time music industry vets telling war
stories.

Big Bill and Franklin Peavy got along fine when it
counted.
 
And nothing counted more than
signing new talent with an unpublished hit song.
 
They’d done it so many times it was a
dance.
 
One minute Bill would lead,
then
Franklin
would take over.
 
They two-stepped on the
fears and egos of the uninitiated and they rarely stumbled.

“Seriously,” Eddie said, “you really think it’s a good
single?”

“A good single?”
 
Bill looked in the mirror at Eddie.
 
“Hell, son,
it’s
way
more than that.
 
You put that song on the
worst disc you ever heard and I betcha dolla it’d go gold, maybe platinum.
 
You got any idea what a song like that’s
worth?”

“Not really.”

Big Bill smiled inwardly.
 
“Let’s say you sell five hundred thousand units, okay?
 
That’s good, but not as good as I think this
song is, but let’s just use it for an example.
 
A gold record brings in four million for the label.”
 
Big Bill paused to let the seven figures sink
into Eddie’s imagination.
 
“Now, you
don’t get all that,” he said with a smile, “you gotta share some of it with
your producer.
 
But even if you’re not
very good at math, you can tell you gonna do all right.”

“That’s a lot of money,” Eddie said.
 
He sounded almost suspicious.

Franklin
actually said, “You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie.
 
You come out of the gate with a big hit
single like we’re talking and the record company’s gonna wanna keep you happy,
right?”
 
Eddie nodded.
 
“Sure, they got the option on your next seven
discs and
a greatest hits
package but trust me,
they’ll renegotiate.
 
Probably increase
your royalty rate from the standard eight percent to, say, ten percent, maybe
even better if you let me handle it.”

“Better than ten percent?”
 
Eddie smiled like he’d just been let in on a
secret.
 
“You’ve done that before?”

“I’m the one who did it first,” Franklin
said.
 
“I’ve renegotiated some of the
best contracts in country music history.
 
Trust
me,
I can get you a higher royalty than
anybody in town.”
 
For the next fifteen
minutes, Peavy and Herron spun wild stories of success and financial excess
they had personally witnessed.
 
They gave
one example after another about the artists they’d handled and the money they’d
made.
 
“You shoulda seen that girl’s face
when she saw that check for a hundred thousand dollars.
 
I thought she was gonna faint.”
 
It was a sales pitch they’d made a hundred
times and it sounded mighty tempting.
 
Sign with Peavy and Herron and get the keys to the kingdom.