Page 78 of The Ballad of Us
“Thank you for that vote of confidence,” Zep mutters, but he's already repositioning his hands on the guitar. “Okay, let me try to reconstruct whatever neurological accident just happened.”
The next ten minutes are pure chaos. Zep tries out different versions of the melody while I wave my arms and shout things like “More wistful!” and “Less existential dread!” The rest of the band chimes in with comments that are sometimes helpful and sometimes just silly.
“That sounded a bit off,” Cody observes after one particularly unsuccessful attempt.
“Could we try some helpful feedback here?” I ask, exasperated but hopeful.
“That was constructive. We're telling you what doesn't work,” Parker protests.
“I've got it!” Zep interrupts, his fingers finding the progression again, but this time with more confidence. “Is this what you heard?”
The melody that comes from his guitar is perfect. It’s gentle but not fragile, romantic but not saccharine, with just enough complexity to keep it interesting without overwhelming the emotional content. It's exactly what “The Ballad of Us” has been missing.
“That's it,” I breathe. “That's exactly it.”
“Really?” Zep looks genuinely surprised. “Because I'm pretty sure I just made that up on the spot.”
“The best music happens when you're not trying. Your subconscious knew what the song needed even when your conscious mind didn't,” Andrew says profoundly.
“My subconscious is apparently smarter than the rest of me,” Zep says, continuing to play the melody. “Who knew?”
“We did,” the rest of us say in unison, which makes Zep flip us all off while somehow not missing a single note.
I pull out my phone to record Zep's playing. “Let's build on this. Zep, keep that exact fingerpicking pattern. Parker, can you come in with something subtle underneath? Just a whisper of rhythm.”
“One whisper of rhythm, coming up.” Parker smirks.
“Wyatt, maybe a bass line that follows the guitar but doesn't compete with it?”
“On it.” Wyatt salutes me.
“And Cody?—”
“Let me guess. You want something that enhances the emotional resonance without overwhelming the delicate interplay of melody and rhythm?” Cody poses.
I’m not surprised by his poetic sermon, but I do have to curb a laugh at my own simplistic way of thinking. “I was going to say, 'play something pretty,' but sure, your version sounds more professional.”
We spend the next hour adding layers and making minor changes until “The Ballad of Us” finally matches what I’ve been hearing in my head. We decide to bring in the cello for the second verse to add warmth. As I listen, I picture Rhea hearing the song for the first time, closing her eyes, and letting the music wash over her. That thought makes the song feel even more honest and close. Even with all the musical details, the emotion always comes first.
“It's fucking genius,” I say, listening to the playback with religious reverence.
“It's pretty damn good.” Andrew asks what I’m sure they’re all wondering.
“Well,” Zep says finally, “if it helps, that accidentally brilliant melody I just played? I'm pretty sure my subconscious stole it from thinking about how Lana looks when she's reading to Jake.”
“That's either the most romantic thing you've ever said or the weirdest,” Parker observes.
Zep lifts a shoulder into a shrug. “Can it be both?”
“With you? Abos-fucking-lutely.” Wyatt answers, and we all burst into laughter.
As we pack up, I can't stop smiling. “The Ballad of Us” is finally done, and it's everything I wanted it to be. It’s a love letter, a thank you, and a promise, all wrapped in one song.
Now I just have to decide how to share it with her. Maybe I'll play it for her at home, where it feels personal. Or maybe I'll surprise her at one of our favorite places that has meaning to us. However I do it, I want her to feel how much this song and our story matter to me.
But that's a problem for tomorrow.
Today, we made something beautiful.
