Page 13 of A Country Kind Of Love
“Good luck,” Jesse calls out.
?
Nashville is nicknamed Music City for a reason. It’s a city crammed with musical talent. Every bartender knows how to play the guitar. Every barista knows how to sing, and every waitress knows how to play a piano, maybe not in that order, but it’s already clear to Peyton she has some stiff competition. On page five of her spreadsheet the data supported her search. Nashville is the sixth best city for job seekers in the whole of the US. The job market is healthy; that’s promising, but she knows that to be the case for the job industryas a whole.
When she narrows it down to the music industry, it paints a different picture. As much as she would like to see countless concerts at the historic Grand Ole Opry and brush up on her music trivia at the Johnny Cash Museum, her savings will only last so long.
After extensive research on music publishers, the unavoidable disappointment is this; they only want established songwriters. Unfortunately for Peyton, she isn’t Luke Laird. She hasn’t previously penned countless number one hits; so that left huge red crosses next to WMG, UMPG, Sony and BMG.
She starts with a list of independent publishers. She goes for a stroll through downtown, alongside the Cumberland River. She stops by Goo Goo Shop for a piece of their famous candy; the roasted peanut aroma draws her in. She spends several minutes watching the candy being made inside the glass enclosed kitchen.
Stop gettingdistracted.
The area of interest is Music Row; that’s where she needs to focus her energy. The name highlights the significance of the neighbourhood. Numerous record labels, radio stations, and recording studios reside in the area. She passes the iconic RCA Studio B where Elvis Presley and Dolly Parton once recorded hits.
Stop gettingdistracted.
The next two hours are spent metaphorically getting the door slammed in her face by several music publishers. The first doesn’t even let her past the intercom system. Another isn’t open between the hours of noon and 2 p.m. When she calls the number provided, she’s reminded of how out of her depth she is. The third place takes her email address and says, “we’re extremely busy, but we will be in touch”. That’s a blow off if she’s ever heard one. She spills her iced coffee down the front of her jeans on the way to the last place before finally giving up.
Then she notices a building on her right with a music symbol on the sign; she’s never heard of the name, but it can’t hurt to try. She notes it down as her last attempt of the day which spurs her to walk through the glass doors. The reception area is clinically white with garish musical portraits of some of country’s greats. There’s a seating area with royal blue chairs and a grand piano. Peyton thinks they couldn’t decide if it should be a dentist office or a grand hotel lobby, so they went with a mixture. The receptionist hardly notices her as she saunters in. Way to make a girl feel welcome, she wants to say, but won’t because she’s too intimidated byeverything.
“CanI help you?”
The dark-haired receptionist barely looks up from her desk. She’s in her mid-thirties, but she wears a pair of red glasses on the end of her nose. They’re probably considered fashionable, but all Peyton can picture is Professor Frink fromThe Simpsons.
“Hi... yes... sorry.” Peyton mumbles. “I write songs.”
The woman, whose name is Mandy according to the plaque on her desk, looksup unamused.
“Okay...”
Elaborate, you idiot. Peyton wants the ground to swallow her whole; she’s spent the best part of two years planning her move, but learning how to speak to intimidating receptionists was not at the top ofher agenda.
“Sorry... this is a record label, right?”
Mandy points abruptly at the sign behind her. The last word reads,Records.
“Great. I’m a songwriter. I have a portfolio full of new relevant music I feel would really work in today’s charts.”
“Is your music copyrighted?”Mandy asks.
“Yes.” Peyton nods enthusiastically, well most of it; the songs she’s finished anyway, but Mandy doesn’t need to know that.
“Do you have representation?”
“Erm... no... not yet.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t listen to unsolicited material.” Her voice is whiney.
“Do you have an email address or the name of someone I could contact?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t give out that information.” She sips her coffee through a straw, careful not to smudge her lipstick.
“Oh.” Peyton sighs. “Do you have any suggestions as to what I should do? I have some great songs.”
“Says who?”
“Excuse me?”
