Red Dirt Rocker (9 page)

“
Frank’ll
be working on some other projects and appearances for you as well. Good luck, boys—you
are
the real deal! I’m truly impressed," Dan ends earnestly, with a flash of his gleaming, oversized Hollywood smile.

When Dan finishes, Jake, Randy, Cody, and I practically tackle him with an out-of-control group hug. Dan regains his balance and begins to chuckle. He shakes our hands one more time before exiting the club. The music mogul is laughing all the way out the door as he steps out into the black night. The Cain's Ballroom sign glows orange and red above his head like a midnight sun. Dan’s phone buzzes once again. This time he picks it up.

“Hey, Frank! I'll give you a shout in the morning. I’m taking the red eye back to L.A.—
Yeah
, they are
amaaazing
!" we overhear just as the ballroom door closes behind him.

Randy strips off his shirt and begins running in circles. Jake, Cody and I fall in behind him, also using our shirts as celebratory flags, swinging them over our heads. I guess
it’s
official—my Led Zeppelin tee is good luck!

"I wonder if this is how most rock bands celebrate getting
signed?
" Mama questions, as she and the other parents stand together in shock. They all begin to laugh, hug and congratulate each other on the band's big break.

Randy suddenly stops in mid-celebration. His baby fat hangs over his Levi's like a doughy muffin.
"Hey, let's
paaarrrty
!
Can we order pizza? I'm
staarving
!"

I
t’s Sunday morning—church day. Even if I have a late show the night before, I almost always find the will to rise and shine for the a.m. service at my hometown Baptist church. My first attendance there was exactly nine days after my birth. I was three weeks old at my dedication and received a blue and white checked baby quilt that Mama still has, and was baptized there at the age of ten. My church is a part of my life that always comforts my soul and helps keep my feet planted firmly on the rich,
Choska
Bottom soil.

A small stream of cheerful sunlight creeps through my mini blinds, gently warming my puffy eyelids. It had been a very exciting and a very late night. It takes me a minute to realize, as my eyes squint open, that the meeting with Dan had really happened; it wasn’t just a dream. My band, Cellar Door Is Gone, is going to be a legitimate, signed band! A big, smile grows over my face and doesn't want to go away.

I roll over when my Superman clock begins to shriek. It’s ten
a.m
—time to rise and try to shine. I slap the alarm and throw a pillow at my bud, Zane, who’s snoring in a tiger-striped sleeping bag on my floor. Zane had come knocking at my window at two o’clock in the morning. He spends quite a few nights at my house to avoid the constant, simmering tension in his home.

His mom re-married three years ago and unfortunately, he and his step-dad don’t see eye-to-eye on too many issues. Zane's mom tries her best to keep the peace in the family, but Zane is a strong-willed teenager and his step-dad considers him just another mouth to feed. The bigger problem is that his step-dad isn’t a fan of working a steady job. Zane refers to him as “Lazy Larry.” Larry spends a lot of leisurely time on the couch, playing Zane’s X-Box and drinking Budweiser, thanks to Zane’s mom, who supports all of them by working full time at Wal-Mart.

Zane finds it impossible to hold his tongue when he’s being harassed. When the arguments ensue, he usually just storms out and comes knocking at my door or window. He knows he’s always welcome, but it’s still tough for him. I can tell that he battles depression and sadness as a result of his dysfunctional home life. Like me, playing music is therapy for Zane—it’s an escape from his harsh reality at home. Zane and I jam together every chance we get.

“Hey, lazy," I groan, as the pillow I chuck bounces off Zane's head. "My mom's
fixin
' a big breakfast and we're
goin
’ to church…why don't you come with us, dude?" I ask, raising my eyebrows persuasively. "I've even got a surprise for
ya
, man," I continue, hoping that the meal and mystery might entice him into joining us.

"Oh,
duuudde
…shoot,” Zane moans as he stretches. "You're lucky your mom's breakfast smells so good, because that's the only reason I'm
gettin
' up," he weakly responds. We both get a good laugh at each other’s wild, bed-head hair.

After a hearty country breakfast of eggs, biscuits, gravy, and savory sausage, thanks to Aunt Carmen’s pig, Elmer—may he rest in hog heaven—we head for church. It’s a beautiful Sunday morning. Our spirits are high. We’re greeted with smiles and g
ood morning
s as we step into the foyer of the quaint, red brick Baptist Church.

Following three songs from the hymnal,
Brother Aaron steps up to the podium and proclaims
, in a warm tone, that I’ll be performing special music today. I can sense an air of skepticism among the elders of the church as the announcement is made. I’ve never before played for the morning service. The congregation only knows me as a teen athlete—a player for the Tiger football team—the linebacker that needs a haircut. They don’t know much about my band or the music I love to
play,
and our small town church is steeped in the old Baptist hymns. Non-traditional music isn’t usually the norm for the services. My youth director, however, had encouraged me to come forward and play a song that I had written, along with Zane’s help.

I rise from my pew and nudge Zane. “Will
ya
come with me and help me out with the song?” I whisper. “You know this one," I assure him with confidence.

I’m sure Zane feels put on the spot, but he doesn’t want to disagree in front of the expectant congregation, so he makes his way down the aisle beside me with his head dropped.

I can feel the stares of the reserved church elders. Zane and I are dressed in jeans and t-shirts. Zane’s jeans are heavily frayed on the front left pocket. I see him self-consciously place his palm over the hole. Our heavy silver wallet chains swing loose by our thighs. The congregation eyes our long, stylishly disheveled hair. My curls are shoulder-length, and Zane's fine black hair hangs like curtains across his face. I’ve always thought it helped him hide some of the sadness that was so often present in his tired and often bloodshot eyes.

I pick up my Boulder Creek acoustic guitar that I had strategically brought there the day before and hand Zane an extra guitar from the stage. I position my microphone clumsily according to my height. The speakers squeal slightly.

Zane continues to eye me with a “What the heck am I doing up here?” look. The morning sun filters brilliantly through the bright, candy-colored stained glass windows behind us. The radiating rays soak into my shirt and feel like a caring hand on my back.

I clear my dry throat. "Zane and I wrote this song this past year. It's about faith, and knowing that you're never alone if you trust in God. We just
wanna
thank you for letting us play this morning. Hope you enjoy it," I speak humbly.

"The song is called 'Amen.'"

Zane’s eyes light up. He gives me a knowing grin. I begin the song with a slight uneasiness; a question of rejection in my tone. As we continue I can see that any doubts that the elders may have had are beginning to melt away. Even the members of the church who usually zone out, and the ones who just pick at their fingernails for the hour long service, sit up and pay attention to the song. I can tell they are all surprised by the soulful, acoustic melody and the from-the-heart lyrics.

Zane and I finish the last note with a peaceful strum of our guitars.
Amen
s
and applause break through the reverent silence. Even the strictest elders smile with approval as they nod to each other. I feel goose bumps rise on my arms.
The warmth of their acceptance envelopes us.
A peaceful, pleased expression spreads across Zane’s face.

After the service, my buddy and I are met with handshakes and pats on the back. Joe the barber even offers his services to us free of charge anytime, as a joke, of course.

My dad is beaming with pride. The congregation has oftentimes given Dad kudos for his son’s great tackles or a pass into the end zone at the weekly high school football game. Today, Dad smiles widely, as Jimmy the shade tree mechanic shakes Dad’s hand, telling him how much he enjoyed his son’s hidden talent.

“What a gem.
A
singin
’ linebacker!”
Jimmy declares boldly.

I thank Zane for helping me with the song, as Mama hugs him tightly.
Tears well up in Zane’s soulful eyes.
But they are happy tears—tears that don’t need to be hidden by his long, rebel locks. Dad gives us each
a firm squeeze
as well. He announces it’s time to head to Aunt Carmen's for fried chicken and Porter peach cobbler.

I
t’s been an unbelievable week for me and my band buds. Diamond Records made good on their promise to send someone to Oklahoma to manage our band. Frank Turner is a hip, smooth-
talkin
' dude. His style is “I’m fifty, but dress like I’m twenty.” He wears what the other boys and I call "Where’s Waldo" scarves, and is a true stereotypical music manager, spouting
all the
latest teen lingo. He gives us "
knuks
" all the time and says phrases like, “That’s how we roll,” “That’s money, baby,” and “Turn up the
tuneage
!”

The boys and I think his antics are on the verge of corny, but he’s a good fit for us. We’re still
i

n
disbelief half the time that someone from L.A. is actually in Cow-Town giving us professional guidance. Frank set up studio time for our band to make a professional CD with several of our original songs. The recording process is very exciting and educational. We learn how to mix and over-dub. We’re able to record three demo tracks in two weeks. In under a month, our first single, "Rocket," is distributed not only to radio stations around the U.S., but is also getting radio play in several foreign countries, as well.

We quickly learn what the term “royalties” means, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the Queen of England. It’s a term for the nickels and dimes that we earn each and every time one of our songs is played on a radio station, airplane, or even the juke box at our local Dew-Drop-In.

Frank says the label is hoping our song will become a bullet—not the kind of bullet shot out of a twenty-two by local deer hunters, but a single that shoots up quickly on the Billboard music charts.