Jesse's Girl
Page 5
Everyone screams as Jesse looks down and tips his cowboy hat at Dr. Salter. Jesse’s face seems sad as he scans the rest of the front row. He gives me a fleeting look before starting to rock out on guitar again. The next song is “Agape.” It’s about how he lives for music.
After his third song (“Ain’t No City Boy”), Jesse wipes the sweat off his face with his T-shirt sleeve and says into the mike, “Damn, that popcorn smells good. Can I get some up here?” Ten seconds later, a stagehand rushes out with a bucket. Jesse eats a few pieces. “Perfect,” he says, licking his fingers. “Y’all want some?” The crowd roars, so he throws the bucket out into the crowd, sprinkling us with popcorn.
About halfway through the concert, Jesse makes everyone sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” with him, but instead of singing “Root, root, root for the home team,” we sing “Root, root, root for the Braves!” And then with his eyes shut, he does this insane acoustic rendition of “Amazing Grace,” set to the tune of the Eagles’ “Peaceful Easy Feeling.”
Jesse performs all of his hits, but the encore, “Second Chance,” is the highlight. He sings, “She may have been Paris, but I needed the soft sun, so I let her fly.”
I actually clap when the song’s over, and he looks down at me again. The crowd roars. He may not have a great presence offstage, but when he’s onstage, he’s on.
He yanks off his cowboy hat. “Thanks everybody.” A pause. “As many of you probably know, in November, I’ll begin a six-week tour of North America and Europe.” The crowd roars again. He speaks over the noise. “And after that, in December—” His voice breaks. He takes a deep breath. “I’ll be leaving the industry.”
What?
Boos and cries—mostly cries—rattle the auditorium.
The king of country music is quitting? Is this the announcement Mr. Logan mentioned to Dr. Salter? I turn to my principal. His eyes are watering.
“I just wanted to say—wanted to make sure y’all know—my fans mean everything to me.” His voice cracks again.
And my heart breaks for him, because whatever is going on must be pretty serious. I can’t imagine giving up music for any reason whatsoever.
“Thank you, Nashville!” he yells into the mike and jogs offstage, carrying his guitar.
I find Dr. Salter’s eyes. “He’s really doing this, huh?”
“I guess so… The thing is, Maya, I don’t think he truly wants to.”
Where Is the Love?
After my morning shift at Caldwell’s, where I work reception and do the occasional oil change, I drive my Suzuki straight to Hannah’s garage for band practice. Even though Jesse was an ass and I still can’t understand why in blue blazes he wants to retire, his concert last night totally energized me, and I’m ready to rock out.
I speed the entire way, barely stopping at stop signs.
I formed The Fringe last year, handpicking each member. Nate as lead singer. Me on backup vocals and lead guitar. Hannah on synth, Brady on bass, and Reed on drums. I had planned to do covers of Madonna, Michael Jackson, and of course, Queen, but Nate has sort of taken over. I don’t mind that he wants to lead, but I wish we’d branch out in terms of musical choices. My throat hurts from scream-singing all the time.
But I want to perform. I need to play guitar. The only time I ever truly feel peaceful is when I’m strumming its strings. I don’t know how far I can get with my music, but I want to find out. The Fringe is really good. Nate has an interesting gritty tone, and I’ve been playing guitar since I picked up my dad’s in first grade. Which is why I want The Fringe to try out for Wannabe Rocker, the competition Jesse Scott won.
The Wannabe Rocker audition videos are due in three weeks, and first prize is a deal with Rêve Records. If I want to be a professional musician, I should take every opportunity I get, and it’s high time The Fringe tried out for bigger gigs than playing at the two heavy metal clubs in Nashville.
Wannabe Rocker is going into its twelfth season now, and it’s still as popular as ever. The bands and solo artists who win have all become super famous in the recording industry, in movies, and even on Broadway. It’s my dream to make a living with my music.
I park my motorcycle on the street outside Hannah’s house, pull off my helmet, and walk across the yard, kicking up red and gold leaves. As I get closer, I can see Nate and Hannah through the garage window. They’re standing close, talking. Hannah broke up with her boyfriend last week, and it’s really sweet that Nate’s comforting her.
After his third song (“Ain’t No City Boy”), Jesse wipes the sweat off his face with his T-shirt sleeve and says into the mike, “Damn, that popcorn smells good. Can I get some up here?” Ten seconds later, a stagehand rushes out with a bucket. Jesse eats a few pieces. “Perfect,” he says, licking his fingers. “Y’all want some?” The crowd roars, so he throws the bucket out into the crowd, sprinkling us with popcorn.
About halfway through the concert, Jesse makes everyone sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” with him, but instead of singing “Root, root, root for the home team,” we sing “Root, root, root for the Braves!” And then with his eyes shut, he does this insane acoustic rendition of “Amazing Grace,” set to the tune of the Eagles’ “Peaceful Easy Feeling.”
Jesse performs all of his hits, but the encore, “Second Chance,” is the highlight. He sings, “She may have been Paris, but I needed the soft sun, so I let her fly.”
I actually clap when the song’s over, and he looks down at me again. The crowd roars. He may not have a great presence offstage, but when he’s onstage, he’s on.
He yanks off his cowboy hat. “Thanks everybody.” A pause. “As many of you probably know, in November, I’ll begin a six-week tour of North America and Europe.” The crowd roars again. He speaks over the noise. “And after that, in December—” His voice breaks. He takes a deep breath. “I’ll be leaving the industry.”
What?
Boos and cries—mostly cries—rattle the auditorium.
The king of country music is quitting? Is this the announcement Mr. Logan mentioned to Dr. Salter? I turn to my principal. His eyes are watering.
“I just wanted to say—wanted to make sure y’all know—my fans mean everything to me.” His voice cracks again.
And my heart breaks for him, because whatever is going on must be pretty serious. I can’t imagine giving up music for any reason whatsoever.
“Thank you, Nashville!” he yells into the mike and jogs offstage, carrying his guitar.
I find Dr. Salter’s eyes. “He’s really doing this, huh?”
“I guess so… The thing is, Maya, I don’t think he truly wants to.”
Where Is the Love?
After my morning shift at Caldwell’s, where I work reception and do the occasional oil change, I drive my Suzuki straight to Hannah’s garage for band practice. Even though Jesse was an ass and I still can’t understand why in blue blazes he wants to retire, his concert last night totally energized me, and I’m ready to rock out.
I speed the entire way, barely stopping at stop signs.
I formed The Fringe last year, handpicking each member. Nate as lead singer. Me on backup vocals and lead guitar. Hannah on synth, Brady on bass, and Reed on drums. I had planned to do covers of Madonna, Michael Jackson, and of course, Queen, but Nate has sort of taken over. I don’t mind that he wants to lead, but I wish we’d branch out in terms of musical choices. My throat hurts from scream-singing all the time.
But I want to perform. I need to play guitar. The only time I ever truly feel peaceful is when I’m strumming its strings. I don’t know how far I can get with my music, but I want to find out. The Fringe is really good. Nate has an interesting gritty tone, and I’ve been playing guitar since I picked up my dad’s in first grade. Which is why I want The Fringe to try out for Wannabe Rocker, the competition Jesse Scott won.
The Wannabe Rocker audition videos are due in three weeks, and first prize is a deal with Rêve Records. If I want to be a professional musician, I should take every opportunity I get, and it’s high time The Fringe tried out for bigger gigs than playing at the two heavy metal clubs in Nashville.
Wannabe Rocker is going into its twelfth season now, and it’s still as popular as ever. The bands and solo artists who win have all become super famous in the recording industry, in movies, and even on Broadway. It’s my dream to make a living with my music.
I park my motorcycle on the street outside Hannah’s house, pull off my helmet, and walk across the yard, kicking up red and gold leaves. As I get closer, I can see Nate and Hannah through the garage window. They’re standing close, talking. Hannah broke up with her boyfriend last week, and it’s really sweet that Nate’s comforting her.
