Nathan
I READ THE text from Matt just as we pull up in front of Holden Ashford’s mansion in one of, if not the, most exclusive neighborhoods in Nashville.
Carlie currently drilling Ann-Elizabeth re: you
Crap.
If Ann-Elizabeth hasn’t already changed her mind about going out with me, a face-to-face with Carlie ought to do it.
“What is it?” my dad asks, obviously hearing my sigh.
“Just Carlie being Carlie.”
“Ah. Well, we’re here,” he says, cutting the engine to the Jeep.
“Whoa,” I say, taking in the enormous house before us.
“Yeah,” Dad says. “Country music does pay.”
“Apparently.”
“It’s all good,” he says. “Their fans love them. And I don’t know anyone who gives back as a band more than Barefoot Outlook.”
We get out and walk up to the front door. We’re both carrying our guitar cases, and I have to admit I feel a little like an imposter. “You sure I shouldn’t leave this in the car?” I ask.
“I think you’re gonna need it,” he says, knocking on the door.
I know my dad is comfortable with this. I know he writes with big name artists all the time, but something inside me balks at the thought of being given an opportunity I haven’t earned.
I think about Ann-Elizabeth’s dreams and how she’s already said she knows they’ll involve a tall ladder. And here I am, standing at the front door of one of country music’s biggest stars, simply because my dad slid me a break.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” I say, looking over at him with the sudden realization that I am right.
But the door opens then, and there stands Holden Ashford, smiling at us both and waving us inside. “Hey, Aaron,” he says, slapping my dad on the back.
“Hey, Holden,” Dad says. “This is my son, Nathan.”
“Hey, Nathan,” Holden says, sticking out his hand to shake mine. “I hear you got your dad’s skill with words.”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” I say. “But that’s yet to be proved.”
“Holden’ll do,” he says. “I’ll consider myself lucky to have two Hanson writers today instead of one. Y’all come on in.”
A large Walker hound trots down the hallway and meets us in the foyer. He walks right up to me and nudges my leg with his nose.
“That’s his equivalent of a handshake,” Holden says, smiling. “Say hello to Hank Junior.”
“Hey,” I say, reaching down to rub the dog under the chin. He’s wearing a really cool brown leather collar embossed with gold guitars. His ID tag is a musical note.
Hank Junior follows us down the hall and out the back of the house. “My wife and daughter are out this morning, so it’s just us. We’ll be working in the studio out here.”
We walk around a marble tile pool also in the shape of a guitar to what looks like a small version of the main house. Holden opens the door. Hank Junior leads the way in, and we step into a musician’s paradise.
Soundproofed walls. Several enormous speakers. Oversize red chairs surrounding a round table in the middle of the room.
“I was hoping Thomas could join us today, but he and Lila are out of town for a few days.”
“Tell him I said hello,” Dad says. “Haven’t seen them in a while. They doing good?”
“I will and they are,” Holden says.
“Y’all put your stuff down. We can work at the table here.”
Dad sets his guitar case on the floor, leans over to open it up and pull out his prized Grammar guitar. He only uses it for writing and has designated it his good luck piece.
I set mine down next to his and wait for Dad to take a seat before sitting beside him.
“Can I get y’all some coffee?” Holden asks.
“I’d love some,” Dad says.
“I’m good,” I say.
Holden disappears through a door at one end of the room, Hank Junior following along behind him, tail wagging. A minute or so passes while Dad looks at me and smiles in a way that tells me he knows I’m nervous. Which I am.
Holden is back with the coffee, passing a mug to Dad. “Thanks,” Dad says.
“All right,” Holden says. “Let’s get started.”
Dad pulls his notebook from the guitar case. “Got anything you want to start with, Holden?”
“Afraid I’m running on empty,” he says. “You got anything?”
Dad picks out a few notes. “Just a lick I’ve been playing around with.”
“Let’s hear it,” Holden says, taking a chair across the table from us.
Dad plays the lick he’d played for me a couple nights ago. I see in Holden’s face that he instantly connects with it.
“Play it again,” he says.
Dad repeats the chords, and Holden falls in behind him. The tune is upbeat, the part of a song likely to become contagious, make people want to go out and have some fun.
“That’s good,” Holden says, really good. “You thinking that’s the beginning of the chorus?”
“That’s what it felt like to me.”
Holden nods, plays it again and then adds something new. Dad picks that out. They play through it again together, and then Dad fleshes it out a little more. They go on like this for a good while. I sit watching, listening, until my fingers itch so much that I have to pick up my guitar and follow along, playing what they’ve already created.
This continues for a couple hours until they’ve carved out a full chorus and verse. The tune is completely catchy, and all three of us are banging it out like it’s Saturday night at the Bluebird.
We’re starting the top of the chorus again when I hear myself singing, “Too late I love you.”
Holden looks up with a grin. “Hit that again.”
We do, and all three of us sing the lyric, and then Holden adds, “Don’t need to think this through.”
And then Dad chimes in, matching the words to the melody, “Even if I wanted to, pretend that it isn’t true.”
“Too late I love you.”
Dad and Holden both write the lyrics down, and we play the whole thing through again. Once it’s smoothed out, Dad throws out a line for the first verse.
“Found your note on the front seat of my truck.”
We strum through, singing it, and then Holden adds, “Said thanks it was fun, let’s not push our luck.”
Dad plays the melody through and I throw out, “You’re blamin’ last night on weakness and temptation.”
We play it through again, and Holden follows up with, “One too many wine spritzers and infatuation.”
And on it goes for another two hours until the song is not only hammered out but polished to what sounds to me radio ready. We play the whole thing through one more time before Holden sets his guitar down and says, “Does this ever get any less fun?”
Dad laughs and says, “Best job in the world.”
“Guess you’ll be listed as a co-writer, Nathan,” Holden says, looking at me with a smile.
“No,” I say. “That wouldn’t…”
“You wrote the hook. And a couple other lines. Of course you’ll get credit.”
Dad nods in agreement, and I see the pride in his eyes. I don’t know what to say. The only thing that seems right is, “Thank you. This was truly incredible.”
“No high like it,” Holden says. “To start with a line or a lick or hook and just take off from there and end up with something you know is dang good, well, it just never gets old.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Dad agrees. “Thanks, Holden. For the opportunity to write with you. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, Aaron,” Holden says, adding, “Nothing like writing with the best in the business, and it looks like Nathan here is going to be following in your footsteps.”
“I have a feeling he’ll be making some prints of his own.”
“I think you’re right,” he agrees.
Hank Junior gets up from his spot next to Holden’s chair and trots over to the door, barking once as if he’s ready for us to be done.
“Coming,” Holden says, getting up to open the door for him. Hank Junior takes off around the pool and lets himself into the house through the doggie door.
Holden walks us through the house and out to Dad’s vehicle, shaking our hands after we put our guitars in the back. “Let’s do it again soon,” he says and Dad tells him anytime.
It’s not until we’re a block or two away from the house that I look at Dad and say, “I can’t really think of any words significant enough to thank you for that.”
“No need.”
“How long would it take to get a break like that?”
Dad glances over at me, honest when he says, “A long time.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And you were great. Heck of a hook.”
“Probably never would have thought of it if I had just been writing on my own. I can see why you like co-writing. It’s a kick feeding off the other writer’s energy and ideas.”
“It is. But don’t sell yourself short, son. You’ve got talent.”
“You think he’ll use the song on their next record?”
“Yeah. I think he will.”
“Cool,” I say, glancing out the window and realizing that whatever desire I’d had before this morning to be a writer and make it in country music didn’t compare to the way I feel now. It was a high, creating something you know is good. And the second thing I realize is that I can’t wait to tell Ann-Elizabeth all about it.