A Nashville Collection (46 page)

Scott: For the last eight years, you've done a Fourth of July benefit concert in Music
City Park, carrying on a tradition your father started.

AJ: This event is a family heritage for me. My father and brother loved Sandlott baseball. Daddy started this Fourth of July Concert in the Park to raise money for the city's youth athletic leagues, but after he died, no one took it up. When I cut my first CD, I offered to start up the concerts again. Actually begged to do the concert again. I really wanted to honor my father by carrying on a tradition he cared about.

Scott: We talked a little bit about your famous gospel-singing parents the other day,
but give me a picture of their life.

AJ: Their life? [gripping her hands in her lap and angling forward] My parents were caring, loving people. Not perfect, but freely loving. We were the house where all the neighborhood kids gathered.

Scott: Did they travel a lot with their careers?

AJ: Dad more than Mom. He had a solo gig going and would travel with guys like Russ Taff. Momma stayed home when we were in school. Then every summer we traveled together.

Scott: Do you remember your first performance?

AJ: Certainly. I was six and sang at a church during a Gospel Night or something. Lots of artists were there.

Scott: Were you scared?

AJ: [wrinkling her nose] A little. I was too young to realize, “Be scared.” Momma and Daddy were on stage singing, so why not me? Oh, you know what I remember about that night? Singing with the Gaither Vocal Band. [laughing] I told Momma, “Those men sing good, don't they?”

Scott: You have a brother, Peter, who also sang. Where's he now?

AJ: AWOL
Scott: AWOL. How long has it been since you've seen him?

AJ: [hesitating] Too long.

Scott: Any plans to . . .

AJ: No.

Scott: [flipping through his notes] Care to stay on a sports theme?

AJ: Lead the way. One of my favorite topics.

Scott: Word on the street is you had one mean three-point shot in high school. Led
David Lipscomb high school girls' basketball to a regional championship.

AJ: [laughing] I refused to lose.

Scott: You still hold the high school record for most points per game.

AJ: Well, got to be good at something.

Scott: Being a multimillion platinum-selling artist must pale in comparison.

AJ: [serious] Some days, yes. There's nothing like making a great play on the court.

Scott: Are you still any good?

AJ: It's been awhile, but I still got game. Why? You wanna take me on? Rafe: [laughing around side of camera] “She saw you coming, Vaughn.”

Scott: I had a mean three-point shot in my day. How about a little game of one-on-one?
Your home court? We have a free day on the schedule. We could make it
a basketball shoot-out.

AJ: Bring it, if you're man enough.

Scott: [laughing, pointing to himself] I'm bringing it. Better make sure you're
bringing it.

AJ: Like I said, I refuse to lose.

As the hour shifts and the sun slants to the west, concertgoers and reporters begin to cluster around the fence. Photographers aim their big-lens cameras at me. I hear the whirring and clicking of their shutters.

“We love you, Aubrey,” someone shouts.

“Miss James, tell us about your engagement.”

“Aubrey, why
Inside NashVegas
and Scott Vaughn?”

“Is it true you and Songtunes's new CEO, Nathan Brack, are in a dispute?”

“Aubrey James! I'm your biggest fan. Can I have a kiss?”

Jeff walks toward the fence when an enthusiastic fan tries to climb over, but a hand reaches from the crowd and jerks him back before he can drop over the other side and onto the field. Jeff waits and watches for another second, shoulders square, his feet planted.

Scott: You're known for your dedication to your fans, holding fan club concerts
once a year, but being really distant with the media. Why?

AJ: My first encounter with the media was when my parents died. We had constant requests for interviews, and it felt like the press cared more about getting a story than honoring my parents. Some of the questions fired at us right after the funeral . . . insane. Since then I've learned the media wants a story, any story. Partial truth is as good as complete truth. Lie now, apologize later. I wanted to avoid Daddy and Momma's story. Ever since then, it's been hide and seek with the media.

Scott: Some consider any press good press.

AJ: [nodding] Certainly press and media coverage is good for getting my name out there, but becoming a household name via the tabloids is not my idea of fame.

Scott: Hurtful?

AJ: Downright, sometimes. Look, I'm not saying my pain is worse than anyone else's. But when my private life is played out in celeb magazines, entertainment shows, the tabloids, or whatever, it's hard to move past the pain of a broken relationship or an ill-spoken word.

Scott: Being on the other side, reporters can get so focused on the story, or the inside
scoop, they lose sight of people.

AJ: You have a job to do, I understand.

Scott: Speaking of relationships in the news, is your fiancé, Car, with you today?
We'd like to meet him.

AJ: No, he couldn't make it. He had a prior commitment.

Jeff taps me on the shoulder. “The band is setting up.”

Swerving around, I see my bandmates strolling across the field dressed casually in shorts and tank tops. Seeing them makes me eager to play and sing. The concert is going to be fun.

Vickie notices me and waves. Signaling I'm on my way, I hop down from my chair. “Better go.”

He slides down from his chair. “Thanks for today . . . it-it's been fun.”” With a grin, I confess. “More fun than I thought it would be. Thank you.”

Scott

Olivia McConnell, my producer and the goddess of all research, discovered
footage of Ray and Myra James performing in concert while digging through the archives Sam inherited from the defunct
Nashville Morning Morning Show
. She sent three videotapes by a runner over to Music City Park in the middle of the Red, White, and Blue Forever fireworks finale.

I glance at the runner as he hands me three cassettes in the glow of exploding rockets. “She has nothing better to do on a holiday?”

He shakes his head. “It's sad.”

There is a note taped to the first cassette.

Check out ten-year-old Aubrey on this one. Olivia
Back in my apartment, sunburned, tired, and a little queasy from my sixth hot dog, I twist open a bottle of FRESH! citrus water and drop to the couch with my remote.

“Okay, Olivia, what'd you send me?”

When I press Play, the tape deck whirs and clicks. In the next second, Ray James walks across my TV screen holding onto a light-wood, polished guitar. He's wearing blue jeans with a tucked-in button-down shirt, a wide leather belt, and cowboy boots. Any other day or time I'd guess him to be George Strait without the hat. There's an ease about him, as if being on stage, singing about Jesus, is as right as rain.

Without a doubt, Aubrey inherited his charm. From the moment he smiles and greets the crowd, I can tell he's real and genuine. His character emanates from this twenty-year-old tape.

After he greets the audience—looks like a large church congregation— Ray James introduces his wife, Myra. I jolt forward as she enters. Aubrey is the image of her mother, right down to her delicate features, long chestnut hair, almond-shaped eyes, and lean body.

Whistling low, I up the volume. The tape is starting to connect the dots for me.

Ray and Myra sing a half dozen songs in a style that seems dated now but was cutting-edge in the day—a country rock sound with a dash of Motown. I swig my water, musing over how much Christian music has morphed since the '80s.

“Now, I'd like to introduce the real stars of the James family.” Ray motions stage right. “Our children, Peter and Aubrey.”

A tall, gangly boy with dark punked hair walks on stage holding the hand of . . . I put my fist to my lips, trying not to spew water all over my leather couch. Swallowing hard, I gag and cough, then laugh, slapping my knee.

Aubrey is almost as tall as her brother and twice as gangly. Her face sparkles from too much '80s makeup. And her hair . . . oh my. It's like a bomb went off. She looks like . . . No. The camera zooms in on her.

I burst out laughing. Aubrey looks like a mini Rosanne Rosannadanna from
Saturday Night Live
.
Inside NashVegas
fans won't believe this.
The lost tapes of Rosanne Rosannadanna, played by Aubrey James.

Grabbing my pen and paper, I make notes, rewinding the tape, laughing still.

After a couple of family songs, young Aubrey moves to center stage, alone. The lights go down except for a single spot that falls on the future queen of country soul. My humor over her wild hair dissipates.

The music behind her is subtle and ten-year-old Aubrey sways back and forth, her face to the light, eyes closed. Wearing an oversized pastel-green belted shirt, with black leggings and black flats, she could've been a cast member for
Blossom
. But when she starts to sing, the tall bony kid with too much hair becomes pure magic.

The song feels deep and personal, like a love song. Aubrey holds the last note of the verse, raising her free arm over her head. The drums escalate the dynamic of the song. The electric guitar wails and young Aubrey James leans into the music and belts out the chorus.

And then I saw the Man,

Who hung on that tree,

Wounded, bleeding, all because of me.

Nailed to a cross, dying so I can live,

He loves me eternal. That is why I'm His.

Tears surprise my eyes. I sniff and blink. Cough. Swig my water. Ten-year-old Aubrey is anointed, and capturing me.

As she sings the chorus a second time, the camera pans the audience. They're on their feet, arms raised, heads tipped back, many with tears streaming down their cheeks. Enraptured, they seem oblivious to the girl on stage pouring out her heart and soul. They don't see Aubrey. They see Jesus.

Salty tears pool in the corner of my mouth, and I don't wipe them away. Snatching up the remote, I rewind. Again. And again.

It's approaching midnight when I fast-forward through the last tape Olivia sent over. Pretty much the same footage as the first, but a different venue, mostly without Peter and Aubrey. Taking out the tape, I slip in the first one again and watch Aubrey one last time. When the song ends, and I cut off the TV, silence rings in my ears.

Collapsing against the back of the couch, I close my eyes, unable to shake the image of Aubrey singing, undone by the love it awakened in me. When did I start to grow cold?

Pressing my hand over my heart, I half expect to feel the chill.

12

“Aubrey James wasn't the greatest basketball player, but she had more heart than the whole team combined. But her three-point shot? Money in the bank every time. And she loved to win.”

—Coach Phoebe King, The Tennessean

I shut my office door the next morning and fish out Jeremiah Couch's number.
Since watching the James family tapes last night, I can't get Ray, Myra, Peter, and Aubrey out of my head.

What I saw of Peter James, I liked. Fast-forward twenty years, I guess he's about my age, or close to it. Great voice. Excellent guitarist. His interactions with Aubrey seemed sincere, loving, and affectionate.

So why is he AWOL?

I dial Jeremiah. Then press End before the first ring.
Would she want
this?
Certainly she has enough resources to take care of the matter herself. Reaching for my mini bat, I pace around my desk.
Think. What would
she want?
I dial again, choosing to be a lion rather than a chicken.

Jeremiah answers.

“Jer, Scott Vaughn here.”

“Scott, my man. How are you?”

“Good. You?” I flop down in my chair, knocking my knee against the desk's edge.

“Can't complain. What's up?”

“I wonder if the best private detective in the city could do me a favor?”

He laughs. “Favor? Or job?”

I rub my knee. It still stings from banging against the desk “Job, really. But I can't go too far with this. I've limited funds.”

“
You
have limited funds, or that tight wad Sam Watson has limited funds?”

“Me.” I'm not ready to take this to Sam yet.

“What's the favor?”

“See if you can find a Peter James, born in Nashville. Current whereabouts unknown.”

“Peter James? Holy smokes, Vaughn, which one of the thousands would you like me to track down? Only thing worse is John Smith or Tom Jones.”

“Yeah, well, that's why you're the best. Peter James is all I have namewise. He's the son of gospel legends Ray and Myra James, around thirty-two years old. Brother to country superstar Aubrey James.”

“No kidding. And she wants me to find him?”

“No . . .”

Jer's exhale is loud. “Scott, what are you doing?” His tone challenges me.

Rocking back in my chair, I stretch out my knee. “I'm doing an exclusive on Aubrey this summer. She mentioned her brother was AWOL, and . . .”

“The last time you tried to help two people connect,
Inside NashVegas
almost got sued.”

“Why do you think I'm leaving Sam out? Look, if I can find Peter James, talk to him, maybe we can arrange a reunion.” I still see Aubrey's expression and hear the sad tone in her voice when she said, “AWOL.”

“What's your time frame?”

“Yesterday.”

Jeremiah whistles. “I'll see what I can do. Listen, consider this a favor for now. We've been slow this summer, but if I start burning too many daylight hours on it, I'm going to have to charge you.”