Sour Notes, page 19
The beloved son would lie beside his dad. The two of them were probably already discussing the coming harvest. The thought made me smile.
I was late to the game, but Dean was a beloved brother. My brother. I was a McDougal, one of a long line of McDougals.
37
Tracking down my old friends in Asheville, the ones I used to busk with, wasn’t easy. But once I found the first one, things began to fall into place. He knew a few of the others and shared their phone numbers. When I contacted them, they helped me find more.
After emptying out my old apartment, I came back to Asheville. I enjoyed the hustle of working on the street again. Watching the crowds smile. Hearing coins clink as they landed in the guitar case. The camaraderie of the performers, supporting and protecting each other.
But I couldn’t play the streets every night. Most nights, I was working.
Turned out that Charlie had done far better than I’d ever imagined. He’d parlayed his street earnings into a food truck that funded a coffee shop that had expanded into a small art gallery and a licensed bar. Typical eclectic Asheville, where a tourist could wander in off the street, admire paintings and sculptures, sip a coffee, and eat a pastry or enjoy a locally brewed beer with a hot sandwich—all from the same entrepreneur.
Finding reliable help was always Charlie’s biggest problem, but I’d long ago learned a strong work ethic by practicing so many hours on my guitar. And now that I had quit quitting, he could rely on me.
It could be busy some nights, bouncing between ringing up an art sale, slicing a piece of pie, or pouring a cold beer, but I loved interacting with the crowds. By the time I finally traipsed up the steps to the small apartment above the store, I would collapse from exhaustion.
One of the bonuses was that Millerton was only a half hour away, close enough to visit as often as I wanted—which was surprisingly often—though still far enough away to let me enjoy a little more urban life. Dad had been right. I wasn’t cut out for the farming life. But that was okay.
My favorite part of my job was booking musical entertainment. Live music every evening drew people through the doors. Just like he had done for me, Charlie believed firmly in finding talented musicians starting in their careers or who hadn’t yet had their lucky breaks and giving them a chance. The music business was hard—I knew that better than anyone. For most of them, playing would never be much more than a side gig, but at least they would get to play in front of an audience.
Tonight was a special one for me. I’d been planning it for a long time, working out details and making sure the performance would go well. My nerves were on high alert as showtime approached.
I’d had to wait until my mother was ready to venture out for the first time since Dad passed. She sat at the reserved front table, enjoying a sandwich I made special for her and a glass of iced tea sweetened to her liking. When I had invited her, she struggled to remember the last time she had been out to a restaurant, much less to Asheville. She had agonized over what to wear, though I kept assuring her it didn’t matter.
Beside her, Blake sipped a cup of coffee. He was trying, again, to break old habits. If he succeeded, we would cheer him. If he failed, we would be there for him. That was what friends did.
Rounding out the foursome were Russ and Sarah, fidgeting as they picked at the deserts I’d placed in front of them. Russ looked as uncomfortable as my father would have been sitting in some coffeehouse in Asheville. But he was there. I respected that.
When they finished their meals and were settled, it was time for the music to begin. A healthy crowd had gathered in the restaurant. When I stepped out onto the small stage and approached the microphone, the conversations dropped to a low murmur.
My spiel most nights was a brief welcome to the crowd and introduction of the performer, but tonight’s was a little longer. I explained how special the evening was for me. Pointing to the front table, I welcomed my guests and thanked them for coming, ignoring my mother’s blush and dab of her eyes as I acknowledged my brother and father and how their impact had led to me being on that stage.
Then I stepped back as the house lights dropped, and a spot illuminated the performer. He wiped the perspiration off his face then positioned his fingers on the guitar strings. With the first chords rising above the crowd, I could see his nerves settle. His voice joined, soft and melodic. The familiar ballad had everyone in the crowd swaying. A fast song had the crowd’s toes tapping. A slow, melancholy one brought on a few tears.
Then came the moment. Playing covers of familiar songs went well in bars and restaurants. Original songs, though, were always riskier. The audience wouldn’t know what to expect. The unfamiliar could throw them.
But the song worked as beautifully as I anticipated. The vocals were strong. The rhythm was fast and challenging but perfectly executed. When the last note faded, the crowd cheered. They wanted an encore.
From the shadows, I couldn’t help but swell with pride as Harrison gave them one more song.
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Acknowledgments
Trapped in my house in the early days of the pandemic, I found an escape from the stress and uncertainty in my usual places—books and music. Craving normalcy, I watched entirely too many hours of rock concerts, from classics to modern day. Thank you, YouTube, for keeping me distracted.
One quiet night, The Vamps danced and sang on my computer screen. The four friends had spent their teenaged years performing on stages around the world. Many of those shows had been recorded and posted online. Their energy was electrifying. The positive spirit was just what I needed to get through those quiet nights wondering when the world might return to normal.
With arenas and stadiums closed, their entire lives were on hold, just like the rest of us. They were sitting at home rather than traveling the globe and playing their music. When things came back to life, would their careers resume? Or would their fans have moved on?
As I pondered those questions, Freddie McDougal was born. He wasn’t a star. Most of the musicians I’ve known toiled away in relative obscurity, playing bars and weddings scheduled around their day jobs.
A few, though, were just a break away from hitting stardom. One different decision and they would have been stars.
I pulled out a notebook and began scratching out notes. Piece by piece, Freddie came to life. I learned about his family, his brother, his chances, and his mistakes.
Now don’t worry about The Vamps. They released their fifth album in the fall of 2020 and returned to the stage in 2021, but not everyone fared as well.
An acquaintance landed a huge role in a revival of a play on Broadway just before the pandemic, an opportunity that would have catapulted her career. When the theaters closed, she hoped that things would resume in a few weeks or months, just like we all did. But as time dragged on, returning the show to the stage became impossible. The production was canceled and her role evaporated.
Of course, the same thing happened to untold numbers of people outside the arts. College students lost internships and starting jobs. Companies failed and careers were derailed.
I didn’t want to write about a pandemic. (Or I should say, not again. A very few of you may have read the serial story I wrote about a pandemic long before this came along. Maybe, I’ll revisit that, but not yet.)
I did, however, want to write about Freddie. He intrigued me. I hope you enjoyed meeting him.
A huge thank you to everyone who helped me bring Sour Notes to life. Please indulge me for a moment while I name a few.
As always, a debt of gratitude goes to the amazing editing team at Red Adept—Lynn McNamee, Angie Lovell, Stefanie Spangler Buswell, and Libybet Rueda Gynn. As I wrestled the story out of my imagination, their questions and challenges made the finished product so much better. I can’t imagine trying to do what I do without them.
Glendon Haddix of Streetlight Graphics listened to my description of the story and said he had an idea for a cover. Wow, did he ever. He captured both the loneliness and the serenity if the story.
My biggest thanks, as always, goes to my first reader, Todd Fulbright. Long before the first words are written, he listens to my ideas and asks the perfect questions. Don’t worry, he’s already asking questions about the next story coming down the pipe.
Finally, Dear Reader, thank you—for reading my books, for commenting on social media, for writing letters and emails, and for being so supportive.
Happy reading!
* * *
D.K. Wall
About the Author
D.K. has lived his entire life in the Carolinas and Tennessee—from the highest elevations of the Great Smoky Mountains near Maggie Valley to the industrial towns of Gastonia and Hickory, the cities of Charlotte and Nashville, and the coastal salt marsh of Murrells Inlet.
Over the years, he’s watched the textile and furniture industries wither and the banking and service industries explode, changing the face of the region. He uses his love of storytelling to share tales about the people and places affected.
Married and living in Asheville, surrounded by his family of rescued Siberian Huskies known as The Thundering Herd, D.K. takes the characters and tales of his lifetime of experience and remembers them better for your entertainment.
For more information and to enjoy his short stories and photographs, please visit the author’s website:
dkwall.com
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