I'm Glad I Did (7 page)

“Sweet” Dulcie Brown was a soul/jazz/pop singer from the days before rock and roll took over the airwaves. Nobody else my age would have known who she was, but I did. I'd read all about her in a book called
The Blues Is a Woman
, which chronicled the lives of great soul singers from Ma Rainey and Bessie Smith to Dinah Washington and the woman who was standing in front of me now. The book described everything they had overcome from poverty-ridden childhoods to bad adult relationships. Like so many before her, Dulcie had once been stunningly gorgeous, with a number-one song and a great career ahead of her—and then like so many, she had burned out in a blaze of drugs and personal disasters.

Now she was in the doorway, singing in that voice that was almost too beautiful to bear. It was filled with such obvious pain that I wondered how one person could have suffered so much and found a way to put all those feelings into her art. She kept singing, and my hands fell back to
the keys. Then she moved close to the piano, and by the time we hit the last chorus, she was standing next to me.

I looked up at her. Our eyes locked. When we hit the final chord together, we couldn't help but smile at each other.

She was a few pounds heavier than in her glory days, but she'd been too thin back then. So, now she looked perfect. She still had cheekbones that could cut glass. Her wide-set hazel eyes had some wrinkles at the corners, but they just added to the sweetness of her smile. Even in jeans and a work shirt, she was still a knockout.

“You got a feel for that keyboard, girl,” she said. “Who taught you to play like that?”

My face flushed. “I think you did.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was inspired by the way you sang that song. I have a copy of your record at home. I've played it a million times.”

“But you were a baby when that record came out. How'd you ever get a copy?”

“I saved up for it,” I told her. “And bought it at the Colony.”

“That sure is a compliment,” Dulcie breathed. “My sweet Lord. What's your name, honey?”

“JJ Green, Miss Brown,” I answered.

“My name's Dulcie to you. Are you a writer here?”

“I hope to be, but right now I'm just an assistant.”

She sat down on the piano bench next to me. “Will you play me something you've written?”

I hesitated, staring at the keys. “I would, but I don't really like anything I've written so far.”

“How about what you were just working on? I heard it out there. That didn't sound so bad to me.”

“Really?”

“Really.” She nodded.

I began to play the melody I had just found, becoming more confident as I went along. I'd been following Bobby's orders, listening to the radio, checking out the Top Forty whenever I could. Sitting here now, I suddenly realized that I had been absorbing pop, rock and roll, and rhythm and blues without even knowing it. Some of that world seemed to be seeping into my own writing. My new melody had the ache of Ray Charles's “I Can't Stop Loving You,” with a bassline that added tension until it exploded into a simple repetitive chorus. It was only a melody without words. Still, I was pretty sure it had what Bobby called a hook, that musical phrase you hear once and want to hear again until you can't get it out of your head.

“Play it again, JJ, honey,” Dulcie encouraged.

The second time around, she began to hum along, picking up the tempo a bit, changing the syncopation of my bass riff. The way she sang turned my melodic phrases slightly—in a good way. They actually sounded more radio friendly. I changed what I was playing to match her, and I couldn't help but smile. How could this feel so good? It seemed strange that someone whose frame of reference was a decade past could make my melody sound so contemporary. We ran through it a few more times until I had it all in my fingers.

“You should be my co-writer,” I blurted out.

Dulcie waved her hand and stood. “Hell no, girl. It's
yours. I'm just showing you what you got in there. Now you have to find the right words, and I have to get back to work.”

I frowned. “But you—”

“Hush now,” she whispered, cutting me off. “You made my day by knowing my song.” She smiled, her eyes distant, and absently ran a finger over a delicate gold chain around her neck. Hanging from it was a musical grace note, like Marla's diamond one. Only this one seemed to be made out of something I could actually save up for.

“I love your necklace,” I murmured. “Where'd you get it?”

“A very good friend gave it to me, so I never take it off.” She lowered her voice like we were old girlfriends. “I'll ask him where he got it. Now I have to get back to my job.”

“Will I see you again?” I asked.

Dulcie's smile widened. “I'll be here, girl, so you work on that song.” With a wave she was out the door.

I checked my watch. It was 10:15. I had to be heading home.

A few minutes later, when I hurried out of the office, Dulcie was already gone. It was weird. We'd just met, barely knew each other, and yet I felt she knew me better than anyone else at Good Music. And I wanted to know her. Now I had more than one reason for working late.

I pretended I had cramps on Sunday night so I could stay home and work on my melody when the family went out for dinner together. I hated to pull that excuse—it was so junior high school—but it always worked. Anyway, I needed time alone, and that was the only way to get it.

In my pajamas, with almost three hours to myself, I polished the verses and chorus and even got a concept for a bridge: that third but crucial section of the song featuring a different melody than the verse or chorus. I didn't even try to think of a lyric idea yet.

That part of it scared me to death. Dulcie would be waiting to hear it. How could any of my words live up to the melody she helped me write?

THE NEXT MORNING I
spotted Mr. GE at the elevator. I didn't even glance his way. I had given up trying to get his attention. We were both loaded down with folders. Mine were stuffed with lead sheets I'd been studying and demos I'd
borrowed. His were no doubt filled with all the phone numbers of girls he thought were cute and planned to call, with mine conspicuously absent.

We were the first ones in the elevator. I stood in the center, giving him plenty of room to stay far away from me.

“Look at you two workaholics,” commented Nick. “You kids were made for each other.”

My eyes narrowed to slits. I shushed him. As the crowd surged into the car, someone bumped into me. I was pushed into Green Eyes so hard that we both dropped our folders.

Blood rushed to my face. Everything spilled out onto the elevator floor. I gasped apologies as the other passengers stooped to help us pick up our stuff, handing back the scattered papers and records. When we reached seven, GE pushed his way out without so much as a backward glance, just a terse thank-you.

As soon as I made it into Good Music, I found an empty songwriting cubicle and tried to organize all the lead sheets and demos. Everything of mine was there.

But so was something that didn't belong to me.

It was at the bottom of the pile: a piece of legal pad paper. Lyrics, clearly. But the words were scrawled all over the page as if the person who'd written them couldn't write fast enough.

I read it again. Then a third time.
Wow
, was all I could think. Who was this song about? It had to belong to Green Eyes, but I had no idea if he had written it.

I put the lyrics on the piano, shut the door and began fitting some of the words to my melody. The title and some of the chorus fit perfectly. I made some melodic changes to accommodate the words. The changes actually made the melody better. The verses didn't match my verse, yet somehow I knew it could be a song. The emotion in the music and words meshed as if they had been written together.

It seemed too good to be true. Things like this didn't normally happen to me. I was more likely to find someone's laundry list. I had a feeling Green Eyes would be pissed off if he knew what I'd done. It was a bit nervy.

There was a knock on the door. Rona opened up. “There you are,” she announced. “I've been looking all over for you.”

“Sorry, I lost track of time.”

“Come on, JJ, a whole bunch of new demos and lead sheets have to be filed.”

I followed her and plunged back into the drone work that only last week had excited me. This week it was an endless chore. I couldn't wait to get back to my melody.

At lunchtime, there was a knock on the door of my little file and copy room. When I opened it, I was surprised to see Bernie standing there holding
Cashbox
and
Billboard
. “These are for you, a present from me. You free for lunch?”

How could I refuse?

AND SO WE BEGAN
what was to become our regular weekly lunch-date-and-music-business-education session. Every Monday, either at The Turf or Jack Dempsey's Restaurant, the other Brill Building hot spot. Dempsey's was strictly for the rich publisher/manager crowd, so Bernie favored it. It was really expensive. Roast beef and a baked potato cost $5.75. Even Bobby's writers couldn't afford that. But that was okay, because it meant that it was unlikely anyone would spot us together.

“So, Justice, baby,” he'd always begin. “This is important …”

And then he'd hold forth on some topic like music publishing, or copyright, or royalties—both mechanical and performance—or performing rights organizations like BMI and ASCAP. After that he'd move on to record companies, synch royalties, sheet music, attorneys, managers or record producers. It seemed that the List of Important Things went on forever, and so did Uncle Bernie's knowledge. I knew I'd never remember everything he was telling me. But some of it had to stick. Most of all, I knew I was really lucky to have him in my life.

Still, I couldn't wait to get back to my empty songwriting cubicle.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, RONA
had me checking demo invoices to be sure that the writers weren't spending more than fifty dollars a demo. If they did, it got charged back against them. That explained the heated discussions among the writing teams about whether a song needed a sax or horns. Now I couldn't help but put myself in the mix. I felt a prickle of excitement. I knew when I was ready to record my demo, I'd come in under fifty bucks.

Before I knew it, it was six o'clock. I called home to say I was feeling much better, actually well enough to stay and work. My mom sounded relieved that I had made a rapid recovery and gave me her blessing.

I felt a little guilty for getting around her so easily, but when I thought about seeing Dulcie, the guilt disappeared.

I left the door open a crack. Sure enough, at eight o'clock, there was a gentle knock.

“I heard you playin' for a while now,” she told me. “I didn't want to break your flow.” She had a dust rag in one hand. She was wearing the same blouse and jeans she'd worn on Friday—the same necklace, too.

“Would you come in and listen?” I asked her. “I've even got some words.”

“Sure thing.” She sat down beside me on the piano bench. I was really nervous to sing the lyrics for her. I was worried as to whether she would like it and even more worried that my songwriter singing voice wouldn't do the words justice. I had crafted the chorus to the
words, but the verses still had empty lines. I don't know why, but I knew she would understand it anyway—and she did.