Page 15 of That Weekend in Paris
‘“But then we’ve just acknowledged that most of them probably never saw themselves like that at all.”
We walk on into another room and spend the next hour and a half absorbing all that we can. It’s almost three o’clock when Klein glances at his watch and says, “I hate to go, but I have rehearsal in thirty minutes.”
“Oh, of course,” I say. “I’ll walk out with you.”
We follow the signs to the exit and find ourselves in the pyramid courtyard. “I’ll get an Uber to rehearsals.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll head back to the hotel then.”
He hesitates for a moment, and then says, “Would you like to come with me? If you’re not doing anything else, I mean.”
I could deny the flood of happiness surging through me, but who would I be kidding? Klein Matthews just asked me to go to his rehearsal. I’m as giddy inside as the teenagers asking for his autograph. But I manage to sound like it’s no big deal. “Ah, no, actually, that would be great,” I say. “I would love to come.”
Dillon
“Music is a writer’s heartbeat.”
?A.D. Posey
THE MERCEDES UBER weaves us in and out of Paris traffic, getting us to the rehearsal hall in fifteen minutes. The driver drops us at a side entrance per Klein’s request. Klein texts someone, telling me, “They’ll be down in just a minute to let us in.”
A few seconds later, the door opens, and Klein’s manager, Curtis Bartholomew, greets us with a smile. “Hey, man. Oh, wait, Dillon. Where did you come from?”
“Staying at the same hotel,” I say. “Klein was kind enough to invite me to watch y’all do your thing.”
“It’s good to see you,” Curtis says, squeezing my shoulder. He’s tall, six-four or so, without the cowboy hat he’s known for wearing around Nashville.
“No hat,” I say, smiling.
“Yeeeaah, it just didn’t quite go with the whole Parisian thing.”
I laugh. “If anyone can pull it off, Curtis, you can.”
He smiles. “Everybody’s already set up and waiting, Klein. We’ll try to keep this to a minimum. Save your pipes for tonight.”
“Thanks,” Klein says. “I think there are just a couple of songs that could use a redo. The new stuff.”
“It sounded great to me last time I heard it,” Curtis says.
We take a flight of stairs to the third floor. Curtis leads the way, opening a set of double doors into a room with a very high ceiling. Klein’s bandmates fill the room, most of whom I recognize from various encounters in Nashville. Everyone waves, friendly, smiling.
“Hey, guys,” Klein says. “We were doing a little tour of the Louvre.”
Hank Morgan, the band’s lead guitar player, grins and says, “Oh, now, Klein’s gonna go getting all cultured.”
“The only culture you know about, Hank,” Peggy Simmons, one of the backup singers, says, “is the kind you find in buttermilk.”
The room erupts in laughter. Klein slaps Hank on the shoulder, and says, “I’m afraid your reputation precedes you, buddy.”
“What the heck’s wrong with buttermilk?” Hank tosses back. “Y’all land in France and start thinking you’re all hoity-toity.”
More laughter, and I stand back, taking in how comfortable everyone seems to be with one another.
I’ve witnessed it a few times before. When the band members have been harmoniously chosen, the feeling is like that of a family. Everyone knows their roles, where they fit in, and how to interact with one another. Klein, of course, is head of the family. And I can see that he is well-loved by the members of his band. With the polite manners that are one of his trademarks, Klein leads me over to a leather sofa and asks if I would like anything to drink.
“I’m fine. Thank you. Please, do whatever you need to do. Ignore me. I’ll just be taking it all in.”
Klein picks up his guitar, strums a few chords, and then steps up to the microphone. “All right. Two or three run-throughs of those songs I keep messing up, and that ought to do it before the show. Everybody in agreement?”
