Page 43 of All In
“It’s weird,” I said. “I’ve played shows a hundred times bigger than this, but this was the first time I felt nervous. It’s so…intimate in here. I can’t hide anything. I either play my guts out or stay home.”
“I’m glad you didn’t stay home,” Big E said. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, E,” I said. “And thanks for—”
He held up his hands. “Nope. No thanks required. Just doing my job.”
“Whatisit with guys and gratitude? Teddy’s the same way. Wouldn’t hear a thank you if I paid him.”
Big E shrugged. “Real men take care of the women in their lives as a matter of course. Not because they want something in return.”
His words warmed me better than a shot of whiskey. “Not even a thank you?”
“Not even that.”
I laughed and rolled my eyes. “Theo definitely takes care of the women in his life,” I said. “His mother, me… If he ever settled down with a woman, I’ll bet she’d be spoiled for the rest of her life.”
Big E frowned. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“I thought…” He looked about to say something else, then shrugged. “Never mind.”
I was about to press him when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a young couple, maybe in their late twenties. The guy had short dark hair and black-framed hipster glasses—a Buddy Holly throwback. The girl had long, free-flowing red hair and a bohemian-looking dress splashed with flowers.
“Miss Dawson?” the guy said. He had to pitch his voice high above the jazz trio now onstage. “My name is Grant Olsen. This is my sister, Phoebe.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, smiling politely. Grant said nothing else. I looked from one to the other, my smile starting to slip.
Phoebe elbowed her brother in the side. “Talk,” she hissed.
“Uh, right.” Grant adjusted his glasses. “We own a small recording studio.”
“Like, totally small,” Phoebe added, “but still legit.”
“Yes, uh…legit.” Grant fumbled in his pocket for a business card and handed it to me. “I’m a sound engineer, Phoebe produces. Can we talk with you a minute? Buy you a drink?”
I agreed to the first, declined the second. We sat at a small table, where the Olsens described their studio and their commitment to producing local indie artists.
“We really love your work,” Grant said, pushing his glasses higher up on his nose. “Your voice. The lyrics. Very unique. Poignant.”
“You’re like if Brandi Carlile and Adele had a love child,” Phoebe said.
“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s nice of you to say but…”
“But nothing,” Phoebe said, fishing a cherry out of her drink. “Great vocalsandemotional lyrics. Dream combo.” She bit the cherry and pointed the stem at me. “And you used to play for Rapid Confession.”
“A lifetime ago,” I said. “I’m not interested in playing off that. I’m doing my own thing now. The band is doing theirs.”
She exchanged looks with her brother, and then Grant said, “We love that. Honestly, we want to help you do your own thing now. We noticed you don’t sell CDs prior to your shows, and we can’t find any digital tracks anywhere either.”
“Because I don’t have any,” I said.
“We’d like to change that.”
We talked for an hour, Grant and Phoebe laying out a plan for me to record and produce an album—all the songs I’d been playing at these clubs. It could be sold both digitally and as a physical CD.
“Can we give you a tour of our recording studio tomorrow?” Grant asked at the end of his pitch. He held up his hands. “Or later in the week? No pressure. No obligations. Just come over and check it out.”
