The first time she drove him somewhere. She freaked.
"Listen, I'm really sorry. I have to sing. I'm a terrible driver otherwise. I lose focus. I was trying to be good, and I wouldn't have stopped except . . . "
"Except you didn't see that truck that nearly killed us,"
"Right. And I don't want to go down in the history books as the girl who killed the rock star,"
What a sweet kid, he thought. Any history book that included him was only good for toilet paper. He cringed at her choice when he saw the "Best of Barbara" cassette, gritted his teeth at the idea of having to listen to her. This unknown quantity that held his life in her hands. And he needed to pretend that he liked it, she was his only option for an assistant at the radio station. This one time he could be nice, or risk her spitting in his iced coffee for the rest of the summer. His ears could suffer for the safety of the rest of his body.
She began shyly, whisper-singing the words, but she gradually forgot herself as the city turned to highway and then country. He was pleasantly surprised.
Her voice was easy, able to high notes easily, even though he could tell she hadn't warmed up. There was a faint scratchiness in her voice, she probably hadn't sung in while. And her voice was better than his. It wasn't hard, his career was based on his versatility on instruments and clowning around to distract from his singing. He'd go off key rarely enough, but when he was at his best, he knew he sounded like a pubescent boy. Even in his 40's.
"I love him more each day/When years have passed away"
He recognized her kind, one of the talented few who weren't Crazy enough to do it professionally.
As they sped around the corners, he was brought back to a time and place where everything was round and gentle. The women, the dancing, the curls of smoke, Laurel Canyon. When everything good was just around the bend. He remembered an acid trip where he spent 5 hours traveling in the golden curls of a naked nymph passed out next to him.
Her voice sounded like wine. Easy, as you lean over and pour that first glass into your partner's glass, anticipating sex. Or a dinner party with friends, your crystal goblet getting refilled again and again, the smoothness and the color of stained glass toasted against candlelight.
When life was glorious. When all those friends accepted him easily, back when he drank and was still fun. In the time before everyone was uptight, back when it was okay to consume everything laid out before him.
He wondered vaguely if this moment was a portal, a new path for him in his career. To play Svengali. The moment seemed strong for him, like he was given access to a great gift, a nugget of knowledge. He could make or break her career. He relaxed in the car seat, smiling broader than he had realized, allowing himself to feel powerful again.
She seemed to take it as encouragement, and proceeded to act out some novelty songs that came up. Suddenly her eyes were ablaze with flirtation and her voice dipped into a scratchy register, and went slightly off-key, intentionally. Driving her Cadillac of a voice against the median, knowing it would escape unscathed. She was in full control of her voice, knew its edges, its valleys and mountains. Knew that you'd go on the journey, even when she drove through a river, because she'd emerge on the other side in full sun, holding you in a single long note, like the spot on top of the mountain.
Maybe he would get her vocal classes for her birthday, hook her up with one of his perennially underemployed musician friends. He wondered if she would be upset at that. Take it wrong.
He noticed where she cheated. The Broadway sound, maybe that's what she was going for? He reassessed the situation again. So many great kids have amazing voices, even if he tried he wasn't sure he still had any kind of power to get her noticed.
He knew one thing. He hadn't been smiling this long or this large for a long time. It was a strange, yet good feeling.
In that moment, he knew he didn't want to ever let her stop.
People by Barbra Streisand
"Listen, I'm really sorry. I have to sing. I'm a terrible driver otherwise. I lose focus. I was trying to be good, and I wouldn't have stopped except . . . "
"Except you didn't see that truck that nearly killed us,"
"Right. And I don't want to go down in the history books as the girl who killed the rock star,"
What a sweet kid, he thought. Any history book that included him was only good for toilet paper. He cringed at her choice when he saw the "Best of Barbara" cassette, gritted his teeth at the idea of having to listen to her. This unknown quantity that held his life in her hands. And he needed to pretend that he liked it, she was his only option for an assistant at the radio station. This one time he could be nice, or risk her spitting in his iced coffee for the rest of the summer. His ears could suffer for the safety of the rest of his body.
She began shyly, whisper-singing the words, but she gradually forgot herself as the city turned to highway and then country. He was pleasantly surprised.
Her voice was easy, able to high notes easily, even though he could tell she hadn't warmed up. There was a faint scratchiness in her voice, she probably hadn't sung in while. And her voice was better than his. It wasn't hard, his career was based on his versatility on instruments and clowning around to distract from his singing. He'd go off key rarely enough, but when he was at his best, he knew he sounded like a pubescent boy. Even in his 40's.
"I love him more each day/When years have passed away"
He recognized her kind, one of the talented few who weren't Crazy enough to do it professionally.
As they sped around the corners, he was brought back to a time and place where everything was round and gentle. The women, the dancing, the curls of smoke, Laurel Canyon. When everything good was just around the bend. He remembered an acid trip where he spent 5 hours traveling in the golden curls of a naked nymph passed out next to him.
Her voice sounded like wine. Easy, as you lean over and pour that first glass into your partner's glass, anticipating sex. Or a dinner party with friends, your crystal goblet getting refilled again and again, the smoothness and the color of stained glass toasted against candlelight.
When life was glorious. When all those friends accepted him easily, back when he drank and was still fun. In the time before everyone was uptight, back when it was okay to consume everything laid out before him.
He wondered vaguely if this moment was a portal, a new path for him in his career. To play Svengali. The moment seemed strong for him, like he was given access to a great gift, a nugget of knowledge. He could make or break her career. He relaxed in the car seat, smiling broader than he had realized, allowing himself to feel powerful again.
She seemed to take it as encouragement, and proceeded to act out some novelty songs that came up. Suddenly her eyes were ablaze with flirtation and her voice dipped into a scratchy register, and went slightly off-key, intentionally. Driving her Cadillac of a voice against the median, knowing it would escape unscathed. She was in full control of her voice, knew its edges, its valleys and mountains. Knew that you'd go on the journey, even when she drove through a river, because she'd emerge on the other side in full sun, holding you in a single long note, like the spot on top of the mountain.
Maybe he would get her vocal classes for her birthday, hook her up with one of his perennially underemployed musician friends. He wondered if she would be upset at that. Take it wrong.
He noticed where she cheated. The Broadway sound, maybe that's what she was going for? He reassessed the situation again. So many great kids have amazing voices, even if he tried he wasn't sure he still had any kind of power to get her noticed.
He knew one thing. He hadn't been smiling this long or this large for a long time. It was a strange, yet good feeling.
In that moment, he knew he didn't want to ever let her stop.
People by Barbra Streisand
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