Jesse's Girl
Page 18
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I inhale again, filling my stomach with air, and Jesse says, “That’s it. Now start singing.”
I rattle off another measure, trying to push Jesse’s hand away from my stomach. It takes a lot more effort than usual, and I can’t hear anything different in my voice, but whatever. He’s the expert.
“Better,” he says, one side of his mouth upturned.
Mr. Logan paces back and forth across the studio, staring at Jesse. He doesn’t seem all that interested in me or my voice, just his star client. Is he as surprised as I am that Jesse is being kind to me?
Then Holly pulls out the big guns and the real work starts. For the next hour, she has me sing scales and melodies that are way out of my comfort zone. My voice cracks a couple of times, making Jesse wince again like when I screwed up on guitar. Harsh critic.
Holly hands over various sheet music for me to try, and Jesse makes me sing along with a guitar and then the piano and then a cappella. An hour later, my stomach is killing me. Holly is very clear I will not be singing from my throat anymore—I have to sing from my diaphragm—but it’s tough to get used to. I take a break to sip some warm water.
“Maya sounds edgy,” Jesse says.
Holly adds, “I love her raspy tone. She’s got soul. You can’t learn that.”
“Thanks.” It feels good to hear. But it also slices deep. It reminds me that I’m not a part of a band anymore. It’s not like I have anyone to sing with, and I won’t be doing any shows anytime soon unless I find another band.
“You’ll have to work hard on your mechanics,” Holly adds, rising from the stool. Pushing on my tummy and back, she edges me into an uncomfortable posture. “You’ve started late in life.”
“But Uncle Bob was right,” Jesse says. “You have a good voice, but you need a lot of practice and training if you want to become something.”
“Thank you.” I smile at Jesse, and he nods, his gaze floating from my eyes to my nose stud.
“Let’s have some fun,” Mr. Logan says. He grabs a set of earphones. “Let’s get you in a booth and see what you sound like on tape.”
I take a step back. “No, no, no.”
“Why not?” Mr. Logan raises one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows.
Ever since I fainted while singing “Scarborough Fair,” and then the talent show “siren” incident, I’ve avoided being recorded. Those two are up on YouTube for all eternity. “I just don’t want to hear myself, okay?”
Jesse takes my elbow. “It’s okay. How about we do some scales instead? Me and you?”
I shrug. “Whatever.”
Jesse sits down at the piano. “Use the breathing technique you just learned.”
While Mr. Logan and Holly listen, Jesse and I sing for so long my stomach muscles feel like somebody’s ripping them in two.
“How do you do full concerts like this?” I ask and sip some water.
“People think my life is easy. It’s not. I work crazy hours, and when I’m not practicing or playing a gig, I’m writing or exercising. I never get much sleep.”
“You have to truly love music, or you’ll never make it,” Mr. Logan adds.
Jesse begins playing piano again—something classical—slowly, not methodically, with lots of flavor.
“I remember when I first heard you sing on TV,” I tell Jesse. “I must’ve been nine or so. I could tell how much you loved singing.”
“Still do,” he says quietly, softly drumming the keys.
“Want to sing your new song, Jess?” Holly asks.
He shakes his head. “Today’s about Maya.”
“I’d love to hear your song,” I say.
He looks at me, pensive, as he stops playing piano, stands, grabs an acoustic Fender, and slings the strap over his shoulder. He takes a deep breath before beginning to pluck out a melody. Shutting his eyes, he sings in the purest voice, “Eight years old when we first went fishing. Now ten years on, I wish we’d never gone. They say to live in the moment, to live right now. But I’m back there, when you loved me for me.”
Who’s the song about? His dad? Or Dr. Salter? Or somebody else?
When he’s finished, Holly pats his arm. He winces and opens his eyes. He takes a step away from Holly, and with a sad expression, she begins stacking sheet music into a pile.
She and I glance at one another before I say, “That was gorgeous, Jesse.”
A guy who clearly loves singing, who loves performing, and puts so much emotion and love into his songs—why would he quit? Give up something that is his whole world? The reason has to be big as life, right?
I rattle off another measure, trying to push Jesse’s hand away from my stomach. It takes a lot more effort than usual, and I can’t hear anything different in my voice, but whatever. He’s the expert.
“Better,” he says, one side of his mouth upturned.
Mr. Logan paces back and forth across the studio, staring at Jesse. He doesn’t seem all that interested in me or my voice, just his star client. Is he as surprised as I am that Jesse is being kind to me?
Then Holly pulls out the big guns and the real work starts. For the next hour, she has me sing scales and melodies that are way out of my comfort zone. My voice cracks a couple of times, making Jesse wince again like when I screwed up on guitar. Harsh critic.
Holly hands over various sheet music for me to try, and Jesse makes me sing along with a guitar and then the piano and then a cappella. An hour later, my stomach is killing me. Holly is very clear I will not be singing from my throat anymore—I have to sing from my diaphragm—but it’s tough to get used to. I take a break to sip some warm water.
“Maya sounds edgy,” Jesse says.
Holly adds, “I love her raspy tone. She’s got soul. You can’t learn that.”
“Thanks.” It feels good to hear. But it also slices deep. It reminds me that I’m not a part of a band anymore. It’s not like I have anyone to sing with, and I won’t be doing any shows anytime soon unless I find another band.
“You’ll have to work hard on your mechanics,” Holly adds, rising from the stool. Pushing on my tummy and back, she edges me into an uncomfortable posture. “You’ve started late in life.”
“But Uncle Bob was right,” Jesse says. “You have a good voice, but you need a lot of practice and training if you want to become something.”
“Thank you.” I smile at Jesse, and he nods, his gaze floating from my eyes to my nose stud.
“Let’s have some fun,” Mr. Logan says. He grabs a set of earphones. “Let’s get you in a booth and see what you sound like on tape.”
I take a step back. “No, no, no.”
“Why not?” Mr. Logan raises one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows.
Ever since I fainted while singing “Scarborough Fair,” and then the talent show “siren” incident, I’ve avoided being recorded. Those two are up on YouTube for all eternity. “I just don’t want to hear myself, okay?”
Jesse takes my elbow. “It’s okay. How about we do some scales instead? Me and you?”
I shrug. “Whatever.”
Jesse sits down at the piano. “Use the breathing technique you just learned.”
While Mr. Logan and Holly listen, Jesse and I sing for so long my stomach muscles feel like somebody’s ripping them in two.
“How do you do full concerts like this?” I ask and sip some water.
“People think my life is easy. It’s not. I work crazy hours, and when I’m not practicing or playing a gig, I’m writing or exercising. I never get much sleep.”
“You have to truly love music, or you’ll never make it,” Mr. Logan adds.
Jesse begins playing piano again—something classical—slowly, not methodically, with lots of flavor.
“I remember when I first heard you sing on TV,” I tell Jesse. “I must’ve been nine or so. I could tell how much you loved singing.”
“Still do,” he says quietly, softly drumming the keys.
“Want to sing your new song, Jess?” Holly asks.
He shakes his head. “Today’s about Maya.”
“I’d love to hear your song,” I say.
He looks at me, pensive, as he stops playing piano, stands, grabs an acoustic Fender, and slings the strap over his shoulder. He takes a deep breath before beginning to pluck out a melody. Shutting his eyes, he sings in the purest voice, “Eight years old when we first went fishing. Now ten years on, I wish we’d never gone. They say to live in the moment, to live right now. But I’m back there, when you loved me for me.”
Who’s the song about? His dad? Or Dr. Salter? Or somebody else?
When he’s finished, Holly pats his arm. He winces and opens his eyes. He takes a step away from Holly, and with a sad expression, she begins stacking sheet music into a pile.
She and I glance at one another before I say, “That was gorgeous, Jesse.”
A guy who clearly loves singing, who loves performing, and puts so much emotion and love into his songs—why would he quit? Give up something that is his whole world? The reason has to be big as life, right?
