Twang (24 page)

She didn’t respond.

“I’m remaking my sound, Tonilynn. No more twang. No more of the so-called ‘real country sound’ or ‘tear-in-my-beer’ type music. And I really need your talent and experience in the beauty department. You know, a lighter look to go with my lighter sound?”

Still she was quiet.

“Aw, come on, Tonilynn. I want more dramatic makeup too. You know what I’m talking about. Think Miranda Lambert, Taylor Swift, pop-and-country culture. I’ve heard folks saying Taylor’s music is really the rock ’n’ roll of the sixties and seventies.”

Finally Tonilynn spoke. “You’re not actually serious, are you, hon?”

“Sure I am.”

I heard her take a deep breath. “Mike’s going to blow a gasket.”

“He will not.” I laughed.

“Bet he will.”

Mike picked up on the second ring. “Where have you been, Jenny girl? Thought you fell off the earth.”

My voice was strong as I requested a “business meeting to discuss some things.” He was clearly surprised, but we set a time for the next morning at nine. I loved the feeling of being in charge of my own destiny, and I turned on The Big 98 WSIX so loud I felt the beat of Martina McBride’s “I Just Call You Mine” pulsing up through my bare feet. At the end of the song, while Martina was showing off her vocal prowess, I was inspired to step out the back door to gaze at the sun, a warm gold light streaming through the trees at the distant edge of my property. I let out a long, deep breath, and I knew where I needed to be.

Driving through the night, I could feel a strong yet gentle tug from downtown Nashville, like some great aunt beckoning me to climb up on the back porch and visit a spell. I smiled as I pictured those sweet days of living in the Best Western, me so eager to immerse myself in this city, to know all about her.

When the Nashville skyline came into focus, with the stately towers of the sharply lit Batman Building so tall and impressive, I laughed out loud. At the intersection of Music Circle East and Division Street, I felt another familiar pull, this one a powerful magnet drawing me toward the Cumberland. It had been too long, and I couldn’t wait to see her, feel her quiet strength, tell her everything was going to be all right.

I parked in a lot near the intersection of Broadway and Third Avenue North, and half walked, half jogged to Riverfront Park, then up and across the pedestrian bridge, through the parking lot near LP Field, then down the banks to the cement boat ramp that disappeared into the river. I was out of breath as I knelt and twirled my fingers in the warm water of the Cumberland, watching the reflection of a three-quarter moon glancing off her surface. “I’m good now,” I said to her. “Things are going to be okay.”

For the next fifteen minutes, I sat by the river, inhaling and exhaling her strength. Feeling whole and strong, I walked back to the Lexus, planning on heading home. But on a whim, I decided to cruise along Broadway, past the honky-tonks, smiling at the memory of my ignorance about cover charges. It wasn’t long before I felt compelled to turn onto Fifth Avenue North.

I slowed to watch a stream of people filing into the historic Ryman—the Mother Church of Country Music. Somebody big had to be playing tonight. When at last I saw the sign clearly, I knew the reason for the crowd. It was George Jones. I thought of just continuing to cruise along, enjoying the scenic tour of my town from the comfort of my car, but something wouldn’t let me. I wanted to be a member of the adoring masses, enjoying a concert by the legendary Possum.

I found a parking spot and jogged back to the box office. It was a good thing I was wearing my fool-proof disguise. When
I stepped into the Ryman, it was five minutes until showtime, and to me, still a bit dazed from long days and fitful nights spent sequestered and struggling with the emotional fallout from my career, the lights and the energy felt sort of unreal. I climbed up into the balcony and side-stepped along until I came to my row. My seat was three in, past an ancient man and woman, their hands clasped together in her lap. I slid past them carefully, murmuring, “I’m sorry, please excuse me, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not hurting a thing, dear,” the old woman said, smiling up at me as the old man guffawed, looking down at his feet, saying, “Nope, not hurting a thing. I walk on ’em too.” Which confused me until she began giggling, and I realized he was making a joke.

I sat, waiting in that hundred-plus-year-old sanctuary, aware of the tangible bond of honest, pure affection, the completeness between that couple beside me. From the corner of my eye, I saw she wore a diamond on her frail hand, and I imagined him on bended knee sixty-plus years ago. As a fiddle, a drum, an electric guitar, and a keyboard began making music, a number of people stood up, swaying and clapping, calling out, “We want George! We want George!”

My elderly couple remained in their seats. The old man turned to me and said, “Reckon they’re worried he won’t show up.”

“Really?” I asked, although I knew the story.

“I remember him missing so many booked engagements, they started to calling him No-Show Jones. His drinking had a hold on him.”

I’d heard about George’s legendary alcohol consumption. The tabloids credited his current wife with rescuing him. At last he strutted out, grinning big, wearing his famous amberlensed glasses and a brown suit with sparkly designs sewn on
the shoulders. He had his guitar and without warning launched into, “Why, Baby, Why.” Next he did “Wabash Cannonball,” and then “Golden Ring,” a song he used to sing with then wife Tammy Wynette. The audience knew every word to every song, and sang along raptly, especially when he got to one of the greatest country songs of all time: “He Stopped Loving Her Today.”

That was when I felt the power of a certain presence in the crowd growing even stronger, a totally encompassing sensation bordering on worship.
They’re adoring George Jones, idolizing him, and he enjoys being famous and entertaining them
, I thought.
And I do too. Guess that’s part of our job description as country music stars. But look at this precious man and woman beside me. Isn’t it better to be loved by just one person who really knows you, heart and soul, than by millions who don’t even know your real name?

Once upon a time, this notion of unconditional, committed love would have depressed me to no end because I was afraid I’d never have it. But now a particular face swam into my thoughts, making every single cell in my body fill up with hope: Bobby Lee.

For the first time in months, I slept soundly. It felt good to be finally hungry, starving, in fact, holding a cinnamon crunch bagel and hot espresso at Panera Bread. I’d just settled into my chair when Mike breezed in with a pile of reviews. He plopped them on the table, thumped them with his pointer finger, looked at me, smiled, and said, “Girl, this new song of yours is some kind of hit!” Leaving only the faint woodsy trace of Herrera for Men, he headed to the counter.

I guzzled my espresso and moved my behind to the edge of the chair, ready. Mike returned and began adding packet
after packet of raw sugar to his coffee. Finally he took a long swallow, patted his lips with a napkin, and said, “I’ve been talking to some folks about the next CMA Awards, and there’s some talk about Brad Paisley being the host again, and another equally famous, well-known female country music diva being his cohost. Maybe someone we know?” He smiled with one eyebrow raised.

What a perfect lead-in! As the current Jenny Cloud, there was no way I could picture doing a three-hour show while exchanging funny banter with Brad. Billed as “Country Music’s Biggest Night,” the glittery network television spectacle of the annual CMA Awards was where dozens of country music’s biggest stars would be performing and sharing what they called “backstage stories” and “memorable moments.” It wouldn’t do to carry all that baggage up there, parading it around while trying to perkily introduce singer after singer and answer questions about my own painful songs. An artist who popped into my mind right away was giggly Carrie Underwood. Carrie would be a perky hostess with the mostess—the most smiles and happy comments, unshackled by a dysfunctional past. Or perhaps bubbly Kellie Pickler, a bleached-blonde diva folks were calling a “modern-day Dolly Parton.”

“So what do you think?” Mike prompted when I’d held my thoughts a little too long.

“I’m thinking the producers would rather go with one of the more contemporary artists,” I said. “You know? The so-called new country sound?” I threw those terms out there quickly to judge his reaction. “Somebody like Carrie or Kellie or Taylor? Get more crossover fans that way. Bigger audience, and isn’t that the goal?”

Mike swallowed his coffee down the wrong pipe. “What?” he sputtered. “You ought to be jumping up and
down
at the thought of being a cohost for the CMA Awards!”

My words obeyed my brain and rolled off my tongue like well-aimed BBs. “I called this meeting because I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Mike, and I’ve decided to change my image. I want my songs to say, ‘This is a gal who doesn’t take life too seriously.’ I want fun songs with silly lyrics, more of a mainstream-pop sound. From now on, I’m gonna be the happy-go-lucky country diva. Tonilynn said she’ll do big hair and heavy makeup, and I’ll wear flirty minidresses with cowgirl boots.”

Mike laughed, a humorless little snort. “This is crazy. You’re not the big hair, heavy makeup, and minidresses type.”

“I can be,” I shot back. “I don’t want to pay the high price for ‘lyrics that touch my audience’s souls’ anymore. I don’t want ‘the music to call me home’ anymore. No more so-called ‘reflections about her troubled past.’ ” I was on a roll. “I can’t change the past, but I
can
choose what I sing about, and I’m going to focus on upbeat songs with catchy, fun choruses. I’m going to reinvent myself as pop-country. No more twangy tunes for this gal.”

Mike took a deep breath. “Jenny, you
are
steel guitardrenched, old-school country, tear-in-your-ear ballads. You
are
twang.”

“I’m tired of tears, Mike. When I started out in this business, you decided who you wanted me to be. You pigeonholed me into this angst-ridden singer with the dysfunctional past.”

“You had no part in it? Aren’t all these songs carved from
your
experiences? I didn’t make them up out of thin air.”

“I’m saying I was ignorant about a lot of things. You can’t sit there and tell me all you Music Row executives don’t have your own agendas!”

“Jenny, Jenny, this is extremely serious. You’ve got intensely loyal fans who think they know you, who expect pain inflected, slice-of-life snapshots like “Honky-Tonk Tomcat,”
and “Daddy, Don’t Come Home.” You can’t just go and decide to recreate yourself. Like it or not, those are the ramifications of life spent in the public eye.”

Those words
life spent in the public eye
circled in my head like angry bees as I ripped a bite of bagel with my teeth.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Mike pleaded. “Don’t you listen to the television talk shows? Don’t you read the magazines, the Internet? ‘Jenny Cloud lives out her songs.’ ”

I didn’t answer.

He stabbed a finger toward the stack of reviews. “ ‘Jenny Cloud’s lingering vocals and world-weary sound as she grapples with the memories of her Southern roots!’ ” His loud voice was causing a stout woman with a Liza Minnelli hairdo to stare open-mouthed at us. I pulled the bill of my hat even lower. She looked like a talker, maybe even a gossip columnist.

“Get a clue, Jenny! Don’t you know we’re hit-makers here?” Mike made a fist and pounded the table. “Three consecutive albums debuting at number one on both Billboard 200 and Billboard Country! You want to give all that up? Throw it away?” His face flared beet-red.

I lowered my voice, pleading with him. “Please, Mike, listen to me. I’m not talking about giving up singing. Music’s who I am, and I couldn’t run away from it even if I wanted to. But I don’t want to live like this anymore. I
can’t
live like this because my sanity’s important to me. Those songs hurt me to write, are hurting me to sing. A person doesn’t have to live out the pain in their songs to sing them.” What could I say to explain my precarious mental state? Mike knew I didn’t have a pleasant childhood, but he had no idea the extent of what I’d endured.