Page 26 of Heart Strings
He knows this weekend is blocked off my schedule for the wedding.
“Don’t worry, it’s in a couple weeks,” he assures me before I can remind him. “The Harvest in the Park.”
Indie legends and the hottest new acts flock to the annual festival in New York’s Central Park. In fact, Nigel Culpepper will be performing for the first time in years. He still hasn’t returned Martin’s calls, so we’re continuing to shop for a suitable producer, but simply hearing the man perform live would be a dream come true for me.
“Yeah! I’d love to play it.” Dry leaves crunch against the stone under my feet. “Did you listen to the demo I sent? A few more weeks in Galway and you might actually get a decent album out of me,” I joke, though it’s not funny this close to the deadline and with the label ready to force me to make an album I’d rather quit than create. Thankfully between flashes of lyrical inspiration in Lo’s company and getting back to basics practicing with Callum, Saoirse, and Fionn, I’m starting to think that I can do it.
“Don’t bother, the label’s heard enough,” Martin says dismissively. “The stuff you sent earlier this year will sound good once it’s properly produced.”
“But that’s all rubbish and this song is already better—”
“Look, maybe you impress Nigel Culpeper enough at this festival that we get him on board and then the label will reconsider. But for now, we’ve got to pivot genre a bit. Which leads meto my next bit of good news: Neon Joy agreed to produce. With any luck, we’ll get that sad bastard music listenable by the end of October.”
Did I hear him wrong? Neon Joy, as in the auto-tuned duo that just happens to be Martin’s other management client? Martin does know what he’s doing, but he’s making moves without me. I wasn’t even aware he’d asked Neon Joy to collaborate or that he’d been speaking to the label behind my back. The executives lost confidence in me as a singer-songwriter after the half-hearted crap I sent them this spring, but if they only gave the new demo a chance, they’d see that I was just in a temporary funk.
“Trust me, the new demo isn’t sad bastard music,” I tell Martin. “If I play something fresh for Nigel during the festival, maybe he’d take notice.”
“It isn’t the best time to debut new material. Better to wait until the first single is decided.” Decided for me, not by me.
“So the label would let me record the songs I want if they have his stamp of approval?”
Martin sighs. “With that kind of endorsement, you’d earn their trust back.”
“Sign me up for the festival, then.”
“Already done,” Martin admits. “Forwarding you the contract now. It’s a great slot. Both nights. Second stage. Not too early.”
While I appreciate his efficiency, it would’ve been nice to agree to the performance first. I push down a flare of frustration and reroute the conversation. “How did you get me a spot so late, anyway? This show has been booked for months.”
“Bayou Diamond broke up and canceled all their tour dates. I called the moment their very public meltdown popped up on TMZ.”
“The devil works hard, but you work harder.” What kind of unholy pact had Martin made to be able to secure these deals?
We schedule another call to discuss the festival’s logistics and prepare the band for travel. He still doesn’t approve of performing unreleased new material at the festival, but I know this new song is special. And what is he gonna do, unplug my mic?
Stuffing my phone back into my pocket, I finally enter the banquet hall for lunch. Vibrant sunflower arrangements blanket the traditionally elegant space, suspended from the chandeliers and covering nearly every surface. Saoirse has outdone herself.
I scan the area, looking for anyone I know. Lark is across the room, intently listening to a story told by her colleagues. Her female relatives surround Callum in the buffet line. He looks petrified despite towering over them.
“That’s adorable,” Lark’s mother drawls. “He can’t say the ‘th’ sound.”
“Say it again!” another pleads.
His eyes are wide when I approach and clap a hand onto his shoulder. If these Yanks want to hear anIrishman,I’ll give them one.
“Top o’ the mornin’, ladies!” I say, exaggerating my accent with a shite-eating grin. I hate myself for it, but I’ll do anything for Callum, who is obviously in distress.
Immediately, their faces turn toward me. These ladies aren’t malicious. Just clueless. They might not realize they’ve cornered a man with a speech impediment.
Lark’s mother, Sharon, claps in delight. The wide sleeves of her caftan flap with each movement. “Oh my lord, they really say that here!”
“We d-d-d-don’t,” Callum says.
I cast a look over my shoulder that says,Relax, I’m on your side. “We most certainly do in County Cork!” I gleefully lie.
Just like that, their attention is redirected. They crowd around, speaking over one another, asking me to pronounce a battery of words so they can hear my accent. I oblige as they fill their plates. After a couple minutes, they head toward the tables.
Callum ladles gravy over the mountain of mash on his plate. “One of them asked me what time it was, and when I said ‘twelve-thirty,’ she called another one over and had me repeat myself. Suddenly I was surrounded.”
