Ramblings

I only got to bed at midnight – there are some pretty girls in this city – but I’m suddenly wide awake at 4am. Jet lag. I’m not due at the studio until two, so I lie in bed listening twice more to the songs on the portable tape machine Jerry sent over. All good songs, but…I don’t know, not really me. They brought me all the way over here, I suppose I’ll have to do something.

At last it’s 7 o’clock and I take a shower and go down for breakfast. So much on offer, but I’m not hungry. Too keyed up. I spend the morning killing time in my room. This is my big chance to escape from that “pop singer” box. I couldn’t stand to blow it.

The driver arrives bang on time, and I step outside, immediately hit by heat of Memphis in September. The taxi is stuffy and the driver is smoking. By the time I reach the studio I’m feeling flustered. It looks just ordinary – a working space. I was expecting something magical. Jerry is there to welcome me – he’s giving me the kid glove “diva” treatment – and introduces me to the band. They’re relaxed and professional, dressed for the weather. Suddenly my protective layer of hair and make up feels like weakness.

We sit and chat for a while as they finish setting up. The guys from the label ask about the scene in England. Most of it they know – Americans keep a close eye on England these days. But I say they should check out a new band my friend John Paul Jones is in. I think they have something. The guys seem quite interested, and write some names down.

I start doing some warm ups. It doesn’t sound great to me, but the band are very kind about it. I get the feeling they’ve been told to be nice. It’s time to start. I take up position at the mike. The band, the producer, the engineer are right there. Nowhere to hide. Jerry says let’s start with the one I like. I guess he’s hoping I’ll gain some confidence once I get going.

The band start playing. Effortlessly soulful, so different from anything I’ve had back home. As soon as I hear that perfect horn sound I feel intimidated. But I start off ok, and get through the first verse and chorus fine. But by the time I get to “Being good isn’t always easy” the nerves have caught up with me and my voice has tightened, as if I have to pull it out from a small space. I see irritation flicker across Jerry’s face, and I call time out.

We go again but it’s no better. I’m trying too hard, adding flourishes when I should trust the song. We get a little further, but it’s no good. “Let’s try it again” says Jerry. The band quietly resets. No complaints but I see patience take the place of expectation.

Take 3, take 4. I start looking for scapegoats…the lights are bothering me…could we adjust the tempo? Could we lower the mike?

Jerry contemplates me for a moment. “Would it help”, he says slowly, “to know that Aretha used that microphone for I Never Loved a Man”?

Oh god no, it doesn’t help, at all. I crumble. What am I doing here? Why did I ever think I was good enough? The boys in the band rally round with encouraging words, but I think we all know that it’s gone. I try another song: perhaps this one will be different? I close my eyes and count to ten and go. The music is impeccable, but I’m not feeling it and I can’t get it back. I just want to be out of there. The white English girl has blown it.

Eventually Jerry puts me out of my misery. He ends the session and sends the musicians home. They pack up quietly. One of them says “See you tomorrow”. He means it kindly, but the sympathy makes me feel worse. Jerry plays through some of the new demos he’s brought, but I’m not in the mood to listen properly. I start to apologise but end up blubbing. Jerry’s not a touchy-feely guy, but he gives me a hug and calls a taxi for me. “Don’t worry” he says, “if it doesn’t work tomorrow we can sort it out in New York.”

I go back to the Peabody and hit the bar. A day to forget.