Breath to Bear: A Second Chance, Rockstar Romance

Jack

JACK

The neck of the guitar is balanced on my knee while I sit in front of the sound board. I couldn’t tell you what half of this s**t does, but I know enough to turn on the playback. Wade is the equipment nerd but he’s not here most of the time. I usually come alone. I prefer it that way.

The headphones fit snug against my ears, and they drown out whatever noise might be beyond the studio door. But it’s late and I’m guessing no one is here anyway. I listen to her songs over and over again. Her voice cascading over me like a clear pool of water I want to wash myself clean in. The sound of the piano with all of its imperfections feels as though it’s being played in the same room as me. Her voice is a powerful beacon, burning through me, threatening to tear me apart and like the masochist I am, I revel in it. Here I am, staring at this board, knowing that her voice, her music is still alive, but she is not. It’s grossly unfair. But nothing in life is fair, and certainly not for me.

I wearily run my hands through my hair, tearing the headphones off and lean forward, closing my eyes. It’s unclear if I have the nerve or the will power to finish this album, and God knows I have tried. It deserves to be heard, but writers block consumes me every time I get in the studio. All I know is that I lay awake at night thinking about it. This album is personal. Not only is it the last music Mia would ever make, but it is the last thing we made together. I want to hold onto this as long as I can because it is all I have left. Every year, memories fade, and the feel of her loses its sharpness in my mind. I should let those memories go, but I hold on fiercely to retain them.

I have every reason to go home right now, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

I am too deep inside my own head.

I am no good to anyone right now, least of all Erin. She would understand but that doesn’t mean she should have to.

This is my process.

This is my darkness.

The pen starts to slide off the notebook as I drag it towards me, but I grab it just before it tumbles off the edge. It’s a simple composition notebook you can get at any drugstore, but it contains notes, chords, lingering thoughts, ramblings, and drawings that I’ve transferred from my head onto those pages. If anyone were to look at it, I’m afraid of what they might think.

This album was left unfinished. Like so many other things, I intended to leave it that way, file it away like I’ve tried to file away that part of my life, but it’s begging me not to.

Maybe if I finish it, I can finally sleep.

Sometimes I can’t stand to be inside my own skin. I think too much. My mind never stops and I’m exhausted. I thought writing a book would help ease this pain I feel inside, but it hasn’t. There are over a hundred thousand words in those pages that people will read, but I lived them, and they are etched inside my soul forever.

Absently, I hit a few minor chords on my guitar, hoping it will provoke a spark of something that resembles creativity, but I come up empty. Calluses on my fingertips prevent me from feeling the strings but I don’t need to feel them to know I’m hitting the right chords. There was a time when I didn’t feel right in the world without a guitar in my hands. Now, it feels like a strange weight pressed to my thighs and against my torso. Writing songs was never easy, but it was never this hard. There were times when it felt like I was bleeding ink from my veins just to get lyrics onto paper.

Now, I can’t even bleed.

I’d smash this guitar to pieces right now if it wasn’t a ’56 Strat. Not the kind of guitar you obliterate unless you’re insane, and I’m not quite there yet. Although I couldn’t seem to cure my writers block tonight, I have this Strat in my hand, and it is begging to be played. Cash acquired this at an auction and because he knows what a guitar snob I am, he offered for me to check it out. He’s putting a lot more trust in me than I deserve. It has the signature dark brown-to-golden yellow sunburst pattern made from rosewood. It’s the perfect guitar to play because of its body design and balance. Even though so many guitars have emulated this style since its inception, there’s nothing like the original. I can tell this guitar has been well played, and each scuff mark and ding in the body tells a story.

I need to get the f**k out of here before I do go insane. I pull the master tapes from the analogue machine and secure them back in their case. Some people prefer digital, but to me, the analogue sounds better. I know I’m not the only one; a few artists recently have released an analogue album or a single. Maybe I’m just old school, but technology has removed a certain human element to the process so it’s nice to see some going back to their roots. The downfall of these reels is that if something happened to them, it is the only record of this album. That is why they are kept in fireproof cases and locked in a safe in the storage room.

There are rows and rows of reels just like this one. Some have been remastered and stored on digital, but a lot of them haven’t. It’s what makes them special. They are one of a kind. This room is a museum of sorts for the musicians who have come before me, and the ones that will come after. It’s like the dinosaur collection of music. All of my albums are stored here, and for safety reasons, once the album was completed, they were recorded on digital. But not this one. I won’t let them touch this one. I hold the metal case in my hands. This one has yet to be finished, and it the most precious one of all.

I lock up the studio and head outside to where my car is parked. I hate driving in LA, but Paul has finally had enough of me. He realized the need to put family first and moved back to Michigan. I have yet to replace him, simply because there is no replacement. So now I’m stuck driving myself around.

Even though it’s late, the city lights are like a million stars cast from the sky. I know they say New York is the city that never sleeps, but I feel like LA in general is a kindred spirit. There is always an open club, cars cruising the streets and tour buses chugging by because everyone wants to catch a glimpse at one of those stars. A few kids kick off their skateboards as they ride by with their converse and beanies. I realize LA isn’t all that different from when I first came here. It’s apparent in how many homeless kids roam the streets at night. The only difference is that the cops have cracked down on the squats, taking back the city and casting out those that need a home. But every time they clear one of the buildings out, people always find their way back in.

I set the guitar on the passenger side and head over to the Lamplight. It’s a small club in the Venice neighborhood where I like to play sometimes and blow off steam. The owner is a friend, and whenever I’ve needed to test a song or just play for fun, he makes room for me. I need to get my head straight before I go home and release some of this nervous energy, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s when to self-isolate.

When I pull up outside of the club, the valet comes around and takes my keys. The Lamplight is far from anything fancy, and the only reason there’s a valet is because there’s never any f*****g parking around here. The club sits on a corner lot. A large wooden door painted an imposing black, beckons in the front. A warm glow comes from the wide windows flanking the door. Dramatic red curtains hang, tied at each side. Inside is a long wooden bar stretching the length of the building. At the back is a riser big enough for a full band. Can lights are placed in the ceiling to illuminate the stage. Round tables are scattered in the middle of the club. The front of the stage is cleared for dancing or mosh pits, depending on the night. The club is known to host a variety of local bands and special appearances on certain weekends out of the month.

It’s a weeknight and the jukebox is playing an old rock tune. The club isn’t crowded which suits my purpose. I just need to play and not necessarily for an audience. I spot Benny, the owner, as I enter the club. He loves to hang out with the regulars, greeting everyone at their tables. That’s what makes this place special. It’s like coming home. He greets me with a wide smile.

“Jack, good to see you.” One of his large meaty hands clasps my arm in a gentle squeeze while the other slaps me on the back. Benny has an unruly mustache, and bushy eyebrows. He wears a button up shirt and his belly hangs over his slacks. He always smells like whiskey and sawdust.

He sees the guitar I’m holding and nods in appreciation. “That’s a beauty.” He comments admiringly. “You here to play then?” He walks me over to the bar and waves at the bartender to get me a coffee. I shake my head and chuckle inside because I think it’s well known that I have a substance a***e problem, and Benny is not an enabler. He’s a good person. For me, it was never the alcohol that was the problem, although it attributed to my style of self-medicating. It was more the drugs that I couldn’t handle. Even after all of these years, I know my addictive personality, and I wouldn’t be able to stop at just one drink. I don’t hang out in bars, but if I’m up on stage playing, I can block it out, and that’s exactly what I will do tonight.

“Thanks, Benny.” I grab the cup of coffee, which isn’t going to help me sleep, but it does help me stay straight, trading one d**g for another. “You got space for me to play?” I ask.

“Sure, sure,” he says. “You see anyone playing here tonight? It’s f*****g dead.” His head tips back and he lets out a boisterous laugh.

A couple at the bar look over at us curiously, and based on their whispers, they recognize me. I’ve lived in Venice for so long I feel like I’ve become a fixture, and the shininess of celebrity has dulled. The paparazzi are everywhere though, but these days, they seem to be focusing on my kid more than me. Before she turned 18 years old, there was more I could do about it. Now that she’s 21 and of legal drinking age, it’s out of my control. Although she’d have my head if she thought I was meddling in her life. She’s a tough kid, but she’s still a kid. She has lots of learning to do, yet, especially in this business.

I wrap my fingers around the warm cup of coffee and head up to the stage. There’s already a couple of stools, and I place the cup on the one opposite me. Benny has one of the guys hook up my equipment which consists of simply plugging the amp into my guitar, although, I can play acoustic with an electric guitar just fine. The sound is obviously different, and tonight I want the reverb and the squeal, even if there’s no bass or drums to back me up.

People start to take notice as I warm up with a few chords. I am in a wicked mood, fire running in my veins, sorrow in my heart, and these people don’t know what they’re in for because I am going to play the f**k out of this Strat.

“Thanks for having me tonight,” I say into the mic as I dip my neck to place the strap of the guitar over my head.

“We love you, Jack!” I hear a woman yell from the back who I recognize as a regular.

“Thanks, darlin’.” The cheap microphone causes my voice to sound more gravelly than usual.

“I hope you don’t mind if I play a few covers for you tonight,” I say, looking out into the small crowd. “I have this gorgeous guitar here that I got from a friend, and, well, I gotta take it for a test drive.”

The single coil sounds so sweet as I warm up with an old Tom Petty song, It’ll All Work Out. Maybe it’s foreshadowing or simply looking back, but this song, a less popular of Petty’s, seems appropriate tonight. The soft melodic tone and the beautiful lyrics of a legend taken from us way too soon speaks to all of us in the room of our youth and loves lost. They don’t write songs like this anymore, and it’s a shame we’ll never get another one. I close my eyes and let the muscle memory take over, remembering when I was a teenager and I first learned to play the guitar. It took time for my fingers to become flexible enough to get the placement on the strings just right, and it was a challenge to master the coordination of singing and hitting the right chords at the same time

Now it’s like breathing air.

If not for the air in your lungs, you would die.

That’s how I move effortlessly into Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird, without even having to think about it. I lean into the guitar and the melody envelopes me like the ocean, gently pulling me into its depths. This song is easily one of the greatest songs ever written, and I love performing it, especially the guitar solo at the end. When I open my eyes and look out into the crowd, I see Benny leaning against the bar, watching me with a faraway look in his eyes. It’s this kind of nostalgic song that resonates with people, bringing them to a place of solemn remembrance.

When the demons come calling, this is how I chase them away.

I get on stage, and I play.

It’s all I know, and if I didn’t have music as my guidepost, I would truly be lost.

TWO Layla