Read Online Nashville 2 - Hammer and a Song by Inglath Cooper - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Inglath Cooper
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Again, we roll by estate after estate, and Thomas offers up several whistles of appreciation. Sarah’s expression indicates she sees such magnificence every day of her life. Either that, or she doesn’t want to let on she’s impressed.
Thomas pulls up in the circular driveway, and we slide out, silent and solemn-faced. Holden lifts his guitar case from the truck bed. We walk in a straight line to the front door, Holden in the front, Thomas in the back, Sarah and I sandwiched in between.
Holden rings the doorbell, and a housekeeper answers. Dressed in a white unifrom, her instant smile welcomes us. She’s round-faced, round-hipped and warm as a butter biscuit. “Y’all come on in,” she says. “Mr. Case is expecting you. Right this way.”
She leads us through the enormous house, wood floors echoing our footsteps. At the far back right corner, she opens a heavy door behind which sits the most incredible recording studio I never thought to imagine. Red leather chairs are scattered about, dark walnut walls a backdrop to soundproofing boards disguised as artwork.
Behind an enormous recording desk sits Case Phillips and a man I don’t recognize. Case stands, waves a hand at us and says, “Welcome. This is my producer Rhys Anderson. Rhys, I’ll let these folks do their own introductions.”
Holden shakes the other man’s hand and says, “I’m Holden Ashford. This is Thomas Franklin. CeCe MacKenzie and Sarah Saxon.”
The man shakes each of their hands, his smile genuine and also welcoming. “How y’all doing?” He looks smart, like someone who’s been very successful in this business. His clothes agree with the assumption, his shirt and jeans carrying the stamp of some exclusive men’s department.
“This here’s my band,” Case says, indicating the other five people in the room. “And that over there in the corner is my son Beck. He’s sitting in for one of our guitar players tonight who’s out sick. He might look young, but don’t worry, he can hold his own.”
We all smile, and Beck drops us a nod of greeting. He looks so much like his dad. No one would need to be told they were father and son. He meets my gaze and smiles, and I smile back.
“What’d y’all bring to sing tonight?” Case asks.
“Two covers and another song that I wrote,” Holden says, his tone respectful and a little uncertain.
“How about we hear the original?” Case asks. “I’m lookin’ to see who y’all are without the instant comparison to someone who might have sung a song before. Y’all come on in and get set up. You got a chord chart for these guys?”
“I do,” Holden says, reaching inside his guitar case and pulling out the sheets.
“Good man,” Case says.
The players glance at the sheets and almost immediately start to strum at the chords. Under their expertise, the song is instantly recognizable, and I notice the pleased look on Holden’s face. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to him, hearing people of this caliber playing a song he wrote.
“You’ll be playing with them?” Rhys directs to Holden.
“Yeah, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, it is.”
In less than fifteen minutes, Cases’s guys have the song nailed and Rhys directs Sarah, Thomas, and me into the sound booth that runs along the outer wall of the room.
Sarah whispers something in Holden’s ear, clinging to his arm like he’s a buoy in the middle of a raging ocean. I almost feel sorry for her. It’s clear that she’s out of her element. Not that I’m brimming over with confidence. But maybe the difference is that I want this to be a success. And maybe she just wants to get through it.
Holden leans down and says something to her. She walks to the microphone, her expression set and uneasy.
The band runs through the song once without stopping, and I’m amazed at how it sounds like they’ve played it a hundred times before. Thomas, Sarah, and I wade into the melody with tentative effort. I feel their unease as
Again, we roll by estate after estate, and Thomas offers up several whistles of appreciation. Sarah’s expression indicates she sees such magnificence every day of her life. Either that, or she doesn’t want to let on she’s impressed.
Thomas pulls up in the circular driveway, and we slide out, silent and solemn-faced. Holden lifts his guitar case from the truck bed. We walk in a straight line to the front door, Holden in the front, Thomas in the back, Sarah and I sandwiched in between.
Holden rings the doorbell, and a housekeeper answers. Dressed in a white unifrom, her instant smile welcomes us. She’s round-faced, round-hipped and warm as a butter biscuit. “Y’all come on in,” she says. “Mr. Case is expecting you. Right this way.”
She leads us through the enormous house, wood floors echoing our footsteps. At the far back right corner, she opens a heavy door behind which sits the most incredible recording studio I never thought to imagine. Red leather chairs are scattered about, dark walnut walls a backdrop to soundproofing boards disguised as artwork.
Behind an enormous recording desk sits Case Phillips and a man I don’t recognize. Case stands, waves a hand at us and says, “Welcome. This is my producer Rhys Anderson. Rhys, I’ll let these folks do their own introductions.”
Holden shakes the other man’s hand and says, “I’m Holden Ashford. This is Thomas Franklin. CeCe MacKenzie and Sarah Saxon.”
The man shakes each of their hands, his smile genuine and also welcoming. “How y’all doing?” He looks smart, like someone who’s been very successful in this business. His clothes agree with the assumption, his shirt and jeans carrying the stamp of some exclusive men’s department.
“This here’s my band,” Case says, indicating the other five people in the room. “And that over there in the corner is my son Beck. He’s sitting in for one of our guitar players tonight who’s out sick. He might look young, but don’t worry, he can hold his own.”
We all smile, and Beck drops us a nod of greeting. He looks so much like his dad. No one would need to be told they were father and son. He meets my gaze and smiles, and I smile back.
“What’d y’all bring to sing tonight?” Case asks.
“Two covers and another song that I wrote,” Holden says, his tone respectful and a little uncertain.
“How about we hear the original?” Case asks. “I’m lookin’ to see who y’all are without the instant comparison to someone who might have sung a song before. Y’all come on in and get set up. You got a chord chart for these guys?”
“I do,” Holden says, reaching inside his guitar case and pulling out the sheets.
“Good man,” Case says.
The players glance at the sheets and almost immediately start to strum at the chords. Under their expertise, the song is instantly recognizable, and I notice the pleased look on Holden’s face. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to him, hearing people of this caliber playing a song he wrote.
“You’ll be playing with them?” Rhys directs to Holden.
“Yeah, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, it is.”
In less than fifteen minutes, Cases’s guys have the song nailed and Rhys directs Sarah, Thomas, and me into the sound booth that runs along the outer wall of the room.
Sarah whispers something in Holden’s ear, clinging to his arm like he’s a buoy in the middle of a raging ocean. I almost feel sorry for her. It’s clear that she’s out of her element. Not that I’m brimming over with confidence. But maybe the difference is that I want this to be a success. And maybe she just wants to get through it.
Holden leans down and says something to her. She walks to the microphone, her expression set and uneasy.
The band runs through the song once without stopping, and I’m amazed at how it sounds like they’ve played it a hundred times before. Thomas, Sarah, and I wade into the melody with tentative effort. I feel their unease as
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