Cory's Dilemma Read online

  “At least you’ve got the new album.”

  “I don’t care about the music. I’ve lost a dear friend; I have a hole in my heart.”

  Cory knew the manager had spit out a canned response. He also knew the manager was truthful. He didn’t care about the music: what he cared about was the money he would be missing out on.

  “I know what you mean. I played on almost every one of his recordings. He was a good guy. I’ll miss him.”

  “You and me both. Look, as you can imagine, I’ve got a lot of things that need my attention. Thanks for the call.”

  * * *

  “Daddy! I can’t talk to my dolls if you keep singing.”

  “Do me a favor, honey. Can you watch a little TV? Daddy is working on a super important song.”

  “But I wanna have a tea party.”

  “Just for ten minutes, okay?”

  Ava frowned.

  “How about a little scoop of ice cream before serving tea to your friends?”

  “Yay! Ice cream!”

  Cory spooned out some ice cream, put the TV on, and went back to practicing the songs. He was getting more comfortable each time he played through them. He had three that he loved and was trying to piece together a strategy.

  Should he go all-in, try to get a record deal using all the tunes, or should he use one or two to secure a contract? He preferred the piecemeal route. He’d get more mileage out of it by stretching the material over a few recordings.

  Though he preferred the slower release, he knew attaining blockbuster status wouldn’t be possible unless he somehow penned a hit or two to go with the material he’d taken.

  Cory took out two of his recent compositions and compared them to the ones he’d stolen. The difference in the openings was startling. It made him remember what someone at Motown had said: "You gotta grab them in the first four bars: give them something to remember right away."

  The lyrics contrasted markedly from what Cory wrote. Cory liked to tell a story with his. Jay Bird’s bordered on childish but were snappy. Maybe he’d have to dumb it down. If he could. He remembered his dad saying to keep things simple.

  Cory grabbed one of his compositions and sat at his desk. He closed his eyes and thought of simple phrases for a new opening line. He wrote and wrote, ripping up page after page. Nothing had the Jay Bird cadence to it.

  He reached for the other song he’d crafted and began writing new lyrics for it. Cory was scratching out a line when his wife came in.

  “You gave Ava ice cream?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “She said you were in here all day.”

  “Not the whole time. I had some stuff in my head I had to try and get out. You want to hear something?”

  “Maybe later.”

  Cory reached for his Gibson. “Hang on a second. I need to see what you think.”

  He rifled through the pages, picking out his second favorite song from the stolen ones. Cory strummed the guitar and began singing.

  “Wow. I really like that.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. You wrote that today?”

  “Nah, I’ve been working on it for, like, two weeks.”

  “I think it’s the best song you ever made. Even better than ‘Mr. Sunshine.’ I really like it.”

  He wrote “Mr. Sunshine” right after they met. That meant she thought he hadn’t written anything better in ten years. It hurt hearing the assessment, especially from the love of his life.

  “I’ve been writing like mad. I have a couple of others.” He reached for another of Jay Bird’s tunes.

  “Maybe later. How was Mrs. Ponte?”

  “Doctor said she’s doing okay. I have to bring her back next week.”

  “Good. I never asked you; how much did you make last night? The rent is due Tuesday.”

  “It was a little slow at the bar, only picked up sixty-four bucks in tips.”

  “You have any gigs coming up?”

  “Just two, but one is a good one, six hundred for the session. And I’m pitching that new record label tomorrow.”

  “But even if they sign you, it’ll be a while before we see any money.”

  “Gee, thanks for the support, hon.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that if we want to have another kid and stop living like this, maybe we have to think about making some changes. Maybe put the music on hold, you know, for a little while, until we save up.”

  She’s sounding like my father. “Come on, I don’t want to talk about that again. Right now, I need to get back to polishing the audition tunes.”

  Chapter Four

  As soon as Cory walked into the studio, Donny Blake said, “Here he comes. The man of the hour.”

  Cory’s best friend and monster player was tuning his electric bass. “How you doing, Donny?”

  “Good, man. What’s with the new look? You trying to get into the Jonas Brothers band?”

  Cory’s agent suggested he get a hipper haircut to make him look younger. “Can’t get stale, you know.”

  “Man, I still can’t believe you were there when Jay Bird crashed. It must have been otherworldly.”

  “It was super eerie. I can’t shake it.”

  “When them drugs get their claws in you, it’s tough to get away. What a waste.”

  “That crap is bad news.”

  “Hey, enough of the negative vibe. You ready to light this place up?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You’ll do it, man.”

  “I’m starting to doubt it, you know. Everybody’s got an opinion on what to do. One day they’re telling me I’m not pop enough, then the next day they say to do it in a folk style.”

  “Just stay true to yourself. Do it the way it speaks to you. If you don’t, you’re not gonna own it.”

  “Thanks, man. Let me get set up and say hello to everybody.”

  They did a soundcheck, and after making minor adjustments, Robin Day, the man paying for the session, arrived. Wearing a puffy yellow vest, the A&R guy for Sharp Five Records entered the booth. He waved at Cory and signed some papers.

  Cory strummed his guitar to quell his nerves. The sound engineer took a seat behind the control panel. Day and a producer from the label stood behind him.

  “Is everybody ready?”

  Cory and the other musicians nodded.

  Cory addressed the band, “All right, let’s kick this off. Don’t rush it, lay it back, guys.”

  The red light went on and Cory said, “One, two. One, two, three, four.”

  Cory thought the introduction sounded good and sang the first verse.

  The producer cut in. “Hold it. Let’s do that again but without the intro.”

  Cory counted it off. It felt awkward without the eight-bar intro, but Cory settled in, disappearing into the music. As he started the chorus, the audio engineer broke in. “That’s enough.”

  Singing, Cory turned toward the window. The engineer was waving his arms.

  “Let’s run it again, but they want to change it up.”

  Pulling his headphones off, Cory said, “What’s the matter?”

  The producer said, “Not that it’s bad, but it’s just not there. I want to try something, all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “In this take, I’d like you to be more soulful. You gotta communicate the emotions of the tune on a gut level. You have some nice lyrics, but you have to connect more. You get what I’m saying?”

  “I guess.”

  “This tune doesn’t have a hook, you know. Not that it’s bad. I kinda like it. I just don’t know how big an audience will get what you’re doing. If we add more feeling, it could be the magic we’re looking for.”

  “Okay.” Cory put on the headphones. Closing his eyes, he began singing.

  “Hold up. That’s not it.”

  “But—”

  “You got anything else you wanna run? Something pop oriented?”

  “Yeah, ‘Empty Pool.’ Th
e third one on the list, it’s super hooky.”

  “All right, everybody. Let’s run it. We’re going use a click track for this.”

  Cory cracked his knuckles. He really liked this tune and wanted to play it first but felt everyone needed to warm up and find a groove before running it. Having stopped after eight bars of the first song, they were neither warmed up nor in a groove.

  The red light came on and a click track counted down, cueing everyone in. Cory had written the song to fit the register of his voice and was into the chorus when the engineer cut in.

  “They feel it’s not working.”

  Cory said, “We didn’t even get to the bridge yet.”

  The producer said, “We need to grab the listener right off the bat.”

  “It’s got a build to it.”

  “Let’s run it again. But this time, add a run toward ‘and she goes’ and hold the last note in bar four.”

  “Like this?” Cory added a string of notes before the phrase.

  “Yes. But give it some zing. All right?”

  “You got it.”

  “And put the guitar down. I want you focusing on the vocals.”

  Cory rarely sang without playing. He’d played many sessions without singing but never the reverse. “But I don’t feel comfortable that way.”

  “Getting out of your comfort zone is where things happen, man.”

  Cory leaned the guitar against the wall and cleared his throat. He flashed a thumbs-up. As the click track counted down, Cory’s heart rate went up. He muffed the opening line, and a second later the engineer broke in.

  “That’s a wrap for the day.”

  “Can’t we do one more take?”

  The producer said, “The muse ain’t showing up today.”

  “But—”

  Robin Day stepped into the room. “Let’s give it a rest. When it’s not happening, it’s better not to push it. Call the office next week, we’ll see if we can have another go at it.”

  The heat rushed to Cory’s face. They hadn’t given him a chance, cutting the session to less than an hour. As a sideman, he’d been on sessions lasting eight hours. The record company never spared a dollar pushing the artists in their stable.

  Packing his guitar up, Cory wanted to hide. He knew they weren’t interested in him. He didn’t have what they or anybody else wanted. He thought of his father as Donny sidled up to him. “Hey man, don’t get down.”

  “They rushed the whole thing. It made me tense.”

  “It’s impossible to make music when you’re nervous.”

  “I don’t know, man. Maybe my old man was right, I’m never gonna make it.”

  “Don’t say that. It takes time, you know that.”

  “What did you think of the tunes?”

  “I liked them, but we’ve been on a couple of Sharp Five sessions together. It’s not really what they do. Everybody’s into the pop stuff. It might be simple, but they sell the shit out of it.”

  “They sure do.”

  “You’re doing the Gilberto session, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, that’s at five, in studio B, right?”

  “Yep, I’ll catch you later.”

  Cory was about to leave when the drummer, Freddy, said, “Cory, you got a second?”

  “Sure man. What’s up?”

  “I’m not just saying it because I have a favor to ask, but I really liked the material today. I don’t know why we couldn’t work out whatever the suits were looking for.”

  “Thanks, man. They don’t make it easy.”

  “I know, it’s what I’m worried about.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’d love to have you on the demo I’m doing, but with the new baby, I just don’t have the scratch to pay you. I feel terrible—”

  “Don’t worry, man. I’m happy to help you out.”

  “Really?”

  “No problem. Text me the where and when.”

  Cory stopped into a Starbucks. He didn’t want to blow four bucks on a coffee, but he needed to eat up some time. If he showed up too early, his wife would know he had failed. He took a seat in a corner and called Dave. They said his agent was unavailable, but Cory knew Dave was dodging him.

  Sipping his coffee, Cory wondered if that had been his last chance. He’d failed again, and though music was a major industry, it was run by a small circle of people. His options were limited.

  Chapter Five

  Before he went into the Gilberto session, Cory called his wife.

  “Hey, how you doing?”

  “Good. How did it go?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Really? Are they going to sign you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Oh my God. That’s amazing. When do you think it will happen?”

  “I’m not sure, these things take time.”

  “What did Dave say about it?”

  “I haven’t been able to reach him. I think he’s flying down to Nashville.”

  “Oh Cory, I’m so excited. You see? All the years of hard work paid off.”

  “Don’t get carried away. Let’s see what happens, okay?”

  “All right. Wait till I tell Ava.”

  “Look, I gotta run. We’re getting ready. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Cory shut his phone off and went into Studio B. The only person in the room was Mike Sosa. Cory had played with the tasteful drummer a dozen times.

  “Hey, man, how’s it going?”

  Sosa was adjusting the drum kit. “Yo, Cory, good to see you’re on this.”

  “You ain’t kidding. I can use the cash.”

  “I gotta say, that session we did over at Threshold was a good time. You played your ass off. I loved what you were doing.”

  “Me? The polyrhythms you were laying down were amazing. I was struggling to find the downbeat of one.”

  He smiled. “I never worry about you. Your time is impeccable.”

  “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

  “You get a record deal yet?”

  “I wish. It’s not for lack of trying.”

  “That’s crazy, man, you’re better than ninety-five percent of the cats out there.”

  “Not according to the A&R guys.”

  “You know, you should go see the guys over at Sharp Five. You’d be a good fit for them.”

  “They didn’t think so.”

  “You went to them already?”

  “Auditioned with them earlier. They cut me off before I had a chance to show them anything.”

  “The suits can’t see the end of their own damn nose. I’m sorry, man.”

  “It’s all right. I’m not giving up yet.”

  “That’s the spirit, man. Keep writing, something will click.”

  “I know. I got a bunch of new tunes I’m working on. Stretching out a bit on them. They’re more mainstream.”

  “Good luck with it, man.”

  Besides Gilberto, Donny Blake was the last one to come into the studio. He spotted Cory and said, “You again? Am I having déjà vu, or did I just play on your audition down the hall?”

  Cory stiffened at the mention of the earlier session. “Hey, when is our fearless leader gonna get here?”

  “He’s here somewhere. I saw his limo downstairs.”

  “Limo? Must be nice.”

  “He needs one; he’s barely old enough to drive.”

  A couple of people filed into the sound booth and the door to the studio swung open. A woman came in and handed out sheet music. “We laid out a spread in the hallway. If anyone wants to get something before we start, now is the time.”

  Cory was hungry but never ate before playing. No one took her up on the offer, and she left. Cory looked over the sheet music. It was simple. It also wasn’t handwritten like his compositions. He wondered what software they were using when Gilberto, outfitted in an aqua blue jumpsuit, stepped in.

  “Hey, everybody. So exciting to see all of you.” He bowed. “I’m really pumped abou
t this new album. I think it’s something special. Everybody ready to roll?”

  A sea of heads nodded.

  “Okay, then. Let’s see what we can make of this. Keep in mind, the vibe for this project is chilled.” Walking to the piano, he continued, “I want everyone relaxed. Let’s have some fun with it. Okay?”

  Gilberto swung his legs over the piano bench and tinkled the keys. “Everybody, pull up ‘Momento.’ Donny, remember the bass line you cooked up?”

  Donny played a funky line. It was uncomplicated and repetitive, but Cory knew it was infectious.

  Gilberto said, “Man, that’s it, sounds good. Keep it going.” He signaled the booth and said, “All right, everybody, we’re going to launch straight into it. One, two, ah, one, two.”

  * * *

  Cory opened his neighbor’s mailbox and grabbed the mail. He unlocked Mrs. Ponte’s door, setting the mail on the counter. The old lady was sleeping in a recliner. He shut the TV off and left.

  Climbing the stairs to his apartment, Cory thought about the session. It wasn’t difficult, and he’d made an extra hundred bucks. He slipped inside. It was after nine and Ava was sleeping. Linda was on the couch. He put his guitar away and sat next to her.

  “I got to tell you something, but how’d the recording go?”

  “It was easy. All bubble gum stuff. I can’t understand how big this Gilberto guy is. He’s playing to stadiums now.”

  “I like his music.”

  “You do? It’s super repetitive.”

  “I know, but it’s fun. He’s getting very popular. He was on that singing show as a judge the other night.”

  “He’s just not that good. He can barely play the piano.”

  “Maybe, but I’m sure he’s making a lot of money. Did you get paid?”

  “Yeah, they gave everybody an extra hundred.” Taking the check out, he thought it should have been more.

  Linda took it. “We could use a few more of these.”

  He took her hand. “It’s going to be okay. Where’s your wedding band?”

  “The silicone started to shred.”

  “They’re supposed to last forever.”

  “Maybe we can send it back and get a new one.”

  “I’m sorry. You deserve a real one. I just didn’t think things would go like they did.”