Diva NashVegas (24 page)

Scott: It was incredible.

Dave: We're putting it on the album. I'm making an executive decision. AJ: Yeah, well, we'll see. [whispering to Scott] I like to let him think he's in charge.

Scott: I'm sure he appreciates it. Several times you've mentioned doing a different
kind of Aubrey James album. What do you mean? Aren't you the queen of
country soul? Isn't that uniquely Aubrey James?

AJ: This is my seventh album. I just turned thirty, became engaged, am growing up. I have something different to say than I did when I was twenty or twenty-two. My queen-of-country-soul sound won't really change, but the type of songs I sing—the message, the themes . . . I care less than ever about meeting market demand or the record company's quarterly budget. I suppose that sounds harsh.

Scott: So you've become a purist. You're about the art, the creative process, not making
money.

Dave: No, we still want to make money.

AJ: But we don't have to make as much. Right?

Dave: But a well-done, unique Aubrey James album will make money. Perhaps not as fast. We decided last year we didn't want to be afraid to try something new. Aubrey's in a good place with her career. If she's going to take a risk, now's the time.

AJ: And hopefully recover from it if the record flops. But I want to be clear about something. Just so folks know, this isn't about arguing with my label or trekking down some navel-gazing, introspective, why-is-there-air philosophical journey. It's about representing my true self in the songs. I don't want to crank out album after album with the same type of songs. I heard a tune on the radio the other day that made me cringe. The artist is a friend of mine, but I could take her melody and plug in the lyrics from another artist's song and sing it perfectly. This is the trap I want to avoid, and it's an easy one to fall into.

Scott: [smiling] Must be hard to stay cutting edge and original.

AJ: Yes, but that's the work part, the true artist part. I hear songwriters complaining about no one wanting their music, and it's because Tim McGraw sold a bazillion records with a tune just like the one they're trying to plug. Be fresh, be original, work at it.

Dave: We want to take a chance, but we want to create great music.

Scott: Aubrey, coming from a gospel background, do you pray over your ideas and
song choices?

AJ: What a great question. Um, no. I haven't. Which is a shame when I look back and see how incredibly blessed we've been. My parents spent a lot of time committed to the discipline of prayer, but so far, it hasn't been my tradition. [glancing at Dave] We should.

Dave: [shrugging] You're the boss.

Scott: Tell me how someone with your fame and accolades has never won a CMA
award?

AJ: Because someone else wins?

Dave: I tell her to buy votes, but she just won't listen.

AJ: [swatting at Dave] Seriously, I have no idea, Scott. You're the reporter, you tell me. I've been nominated ten times for Female Vocalist of the Year, three times for Entertainer of the Year. I've just never won.

Scott: Does it bother you? The CMA is the granddaddy country music award.

AJ: I'm honored to be nominated. Does that sound corny and cliché? Do I want to win? Yes. But I have my share of trophies— Grammys, American Music Awards, Academy of Country Music Awards. So it's not like I'm always invited to the party but never asked to dance. It just hasn't worked out for me and the CMAs.

Scott: Maybe this is your year?

AJ: Who knows? I'm not focused on winning awards. I'd go nuts if I cared too much.

Scott: [looking at his notes] Well, this is the moment of doom. You teaching me to
write a song.

AJ: [picking up her guitar] I'm ready if you are. Too bad I didn't think to have Robin here today. She's the real songwriter.

Dave: [rising.] This is my cue to cut out. Aubrey, be back in a few hours. AJ: See you, Dave. Thanks for sitting in.

Scott: Do you always write with your guitar?

AJ: [strumming and tuning] Since I haven't done a ton of writing, I can't say I
always
write with my guitar, but it's my preferred instrument at the moment. Here, sing this with me. “Jesus loves me, this I know . . .”

Scott: [Making a noise.]

Rafe: [laughing] No, he can't sing. He can't sing.

AJ: [flashing her palm] I didn't believe you, Scott, but you're right.

Did you know you're tone deaf?

Scott: I told you. Good grief.

AJ: [shaking her head] Never fear. There are some great songwriters who can't sing. We can do this.

Rafe: [Shaking camera as he chuckles.]

AJ: Can you rhyme?

Scott: Sure. Third graders can rhyme, I can rhyme.

AJ: Okay, good. [playing again] Usually when I'm writing a song, I think of a theme or a story. Maybe I have a melody to work with, and I add the lyrics. Most of the time I have the lyrics and work out the melody later. I try to avoid cliché scenarios or phrases. [Starting a simple chord progression.]

Scott, think of how this music makes you feel. Close your eyes. Do you see a young couple in love, maybe walking to the movies?

Scott: [closing eyes] If you say so, sure. He's skinny and she's dropdead gorgeous.

AJ: [laughing] No, no, no. She's skinny and he's the strong, silent, handsome type.

Scott: You see what you see, I see what I see.

AJ: They are a young couple, right after World War II, walking to the movies. [humming softly] The night is chilly as they walk an amber-lit sidewalk, their heels clicking against the cement. He's still in his uniform. Proud, but nervous. His square jaw is cleanly shaven, his dark hair clipped and neat. He thinks she's beautiful with her silky curls falling around her shoulders.

They're together for the first time in two years. Has he changed too much for her? Can he ever explain the terror of bombs exploding over his head on a dark, snowy night, or the horror of killing another man? Will he find the nerve to slip the cool gold-and-diamond ring onto her finger tonight? Does she still love him like she pledged she would when he shipped out?

Meanwhile, she's chatty and lighthearted, thrilled to be able to buy a decent pair of stockings. She leans against him with excitement. “We have chocolate. Would you like to come over after the movies for homemade hot chocolate?”

“Yes, that would be nice.” His hands perspire. The memory of her fixing him supper in a bright summer kitchen kept him warm during the snowy trek through the Ardennes. He carried a photograph of her in his pocket, and it steeled his hope when it waned.

Can you see them, Scott? Can you feel his longing for her, his hunger? The ache to take her in his arms and kiss her?

Scott: [swallowing] Y-yes.

AJ: Finally, he takes her hand into his. A tingle runs up his arm and across his chest. What are the words here? What is their song?

Scott: [gently singing, off key] Gee, she sure is pretty. I want to hold her hand, while
walking to the movies . . .

Rafe: [Collapsing to the floor in a fit of laughter.]

AJ: [buttoning her lips] Well . . . that's a start. It almost rhymes . . . [turning away, shoulders shaking, hand over her mouth, snorting]

Scott: [incredulously] What? It fits the story, and even fits the music.

Rafe: [Pounding the floor with his big hand, guffawing.]

AJ: Absolutely, it fits the melody and rhythm of the song . . . A-a good start. [surrendering completely to laughter]

Scott: [muttering] Sure is pretty . . . Walking to the movies.

25

“Writing with Aubrey James changed the way I approach songwriting. She has this unique view of life and the human heart, and her ideas challenged me to take my lyrics deeper, to the next level.”

—Robin Rivers, Music Row magazine

Aubrey

Dipping my fry into the ketchup at Noshville Deli, I laugh again at
Scott's song. “You are a brave soul, my friend.”

“I told you.” Scott winks at me, stabbing the air with his salad fork.

“Yes, you did.”

“But I saw them, the couple you described. The GI Joe and his girl walking to the movie.” He bangs the table. “She
was
pretty.”

Rafe slaps him on the back. “I for one am proud of you, man. And I know
Inside NashVegas
viewers are going to love hearing your song.”

Scott shoves a forkful of lettuce into his mouth. “You'll be green with envy when I win a Grammy.”

The banter around the table continues, and I'm grateful. My heart yearned for a lighthearted, fun day to get my mind off Car and our situation. We've been saying words to each other but not talking.

Dave pays the check, then excuses himself from the table. “Scott, can you give Aubrey a ride home? I need to pick up my kids.”

Scott looks at Dave, then me. “Um, sure. No problem.”

Rafe pats his belly. “I'm heading back to the studio.”

“See you later, Rafe.” He walks out, singing, “She sure is pretty, walking to the movies.”

“See.” Scott gestures to his departing cameraman. “It's a catchy tune.” “Downright hilarious. Maybe we should send a song plugger over to Larry the Cable Guy.”

Scott laughs and sips his water, then eyes me seriously. “Why am I driving you home?”

“Because I don't have a car.”

“But you do have a car. An antique Mercedes. I've seen it—” His fork clatters against his plate. “Oh my gosh. Of course.”

I dip, dip, dip my fry in the ketchup.

“Aubrey, you don't drive, do you?”

I munch on my ketchupped fry. “No.”

“Now it all makes sense. The night of the party. When I left—”

“I didn't have a way home. My bodyguard, Jeff—you remember him from the Sandlott game—drove me to meet you. He waited around, but when you and I hit it off, I sent him home.”

“Then I abandoned you.”

“Pretty much.” I shove aside my plate, not hungry anymore.

“I'm sorry.” He sits back, running his hand over his thick, coarse hair. “Really sorry. How'd you get home?”

“Cab. One long, angry cab ride.”

“Aubrey, why don't you drive?”

“Off the record?”

He nods. “If you want.”

Wiping my mouth with my napkin, I wonder how to say this. I sound like a stuck record on the subject of my parents. “When my parents died—”

“Excuse me, Miss James? May we have your autograph?”

Two teenagers smile tentatively at me. “Certainly.” Their smiles broaden as they hand me pieces of paper and one of my CDs. “Can you sign the CD too?”

“Absolutely. How are you girls doing today?” We chat while I sign, and when I'm done, they scoot away, giggling.

Scott frowns. “They didn't even recognize me.” He looks in their direction. “Hey,
Inside NashVegas
host sitting here.”

I roll my eyes. “Wait, my friend, until you're live on CMT.”

“You can give me pointers on handling fame.”

“First tip: your legendary status is only in your mind.”

“Good to know. So, you don't drive?”

“I do
not
.”

He whistles low. “I don't know anyone who doesn't drive. Seriously. I mean, what do you do when you crave Ben & Jerry's at midnight?”

“Well, I never crave Ben & Jerry's at midnight, but if I did, I'd ask Car to take me.”

He reclines with his arm over the back of the booth. “Before Car, then?”

I shrug. “Midnight runs to Harris Teeter or 7-Eleven are not a part of my routine. Gina keeps the house stocked with stuff she knows I like.” Wagging my finger, I remember, “Although, there was no popcorn the other night.”

“Why don't you drive?”

Reclining in the corner of the booth, I stretch my legs along the seat. “You've been as much my therapist as my interviewer this summer, Scott.”

“Reminiscing helps us understand our lives. Sometimes.”

“When my parents were killed in a
car
accident”—I spin my fork on the tabletop—”I was learning to drive. Their accident sort of freaked me out. Then I went to foster care and didn't have a chance to drive.”

He expression is soft. “Makes sense.”

“My parents were great musicians, and good with money, but had forgotten the little matter of the will and provision for Peter and me if something happened to them. They didn't think in terms of dying. I didn't have money for a car. Or to buy insurance if I did.”

“Then you became a recording star.”

“Right. Connie drove me to all my appointments and recording sessions since she needed to be there anyway. Next thing you know, I'm living half my life on a tour bus. Then I hired Piper and a bodyguard. They drove me around. Or Gina. Or Derek. Or Car.”

“How'd you come to buy the Mercedes?”

The memory of the Mercedes makes me smile. “Jack talked me into buying it. He thought it would motivate me. I do love the car. I'm just too terrified to drive it.”

“And no one is challenging you to drive? Not even Car?”

I shake my head. “No. I get where I need to go. He's not burdened by me.”

“Don't you want the independence of driving?”

“Again, I've never had it, so I don't miss it.”

“Incredible.” The corners of Scott's blue eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Since we're doing true confessions . . .”

“Are you finally going to tell me why you left me at the party?”

He laughs. “It's lame . . . but I left because I was having such a great time. Suddenly it hit me that a dog-faced sports anchor like me was on a date with someone like you. One of most beautiful women in the world—”

“According to that
rag
,
People
.” I roll my eyes in exaggeration and sigh. “Yeah, what do they know? They think Halle Berry is beautiful.”