Esslie's Riff
The Bells of St. Anthony's Ep. 21
Esslie’s Riff
As told by her sister
My sister showed me the selfie she got from Swift. "Guess you're getting that smoothie after all," I said.
The two of us were sitting the drive-thru at Zaxby's. I was letting Leslie drive. As the resident driver's-license-haver in this car, I had to admit, Dad was a good teacher. I'd hardly screamed at all.
Trouble was, we were both missing Homecoming. And for what? A jam session that barely got us any further on our song than when we started? Neither of us had been especially interested in the dance, but still. If it weren't for Leslie and the song, I'd probably go.
"What if we went now?" Leslie said. "Just to say hi and hang out?"
Sure, now she springs this on me. "I dunno, it's getting pretty late. Everything's gotta be winding down by now." Also, as I wasn't exactly willing to admit, I was tired. Failed songwriting takes a lot out of you.
Especially when you forget to eat dinner until after sundown.
"It's not that late. And it's not like we've been all that productive." She narrowed her eyes. "Come on, admit it, you were thinking the same thing."
We rolled up to the window, and she passed along my card, and we got our Kickin' Chicken Sandwiches and headed home.
We had the radio off. Leslie and I didn't listen to music when we were writing. It threw off our vibe.
As we rode, with the smell of buffalo sauce as our extra passenger, Leslie began to drum on the steering wheel. A steady 4/4 beat.
"Ba ba ba ba..."
Slowly she began to vary the notes, as if chipping away whatever didn't sound like the right phrase.
Slowly it began to form valleys and peaks, with a nice groove between them.
She began to drum harder. "Ba ba ba-da ba ba-da-da."
She started glaring at me with shock at what her mouth was strumming.
I fished a receipt off the floor and hunted around for a pen. Dangit, why couldn't you ever find one when you needed it? Not even the glove compartment had one.
Then, suddenly, Leslie stopped. "Don't worry about it! I know exactly how it goes!"
She seemed confident enough.
As soon as we got home, we hurried to the basement for our instruments. I hit "Record" on my phone, and Leslie recreated her riff on her bass to the minutest detail. I added in some chords on my guitar--chords from the song we'd been working on, with a few adjustments.
Make that major a minor here... Then a sus 6.
When Leslie finished, she hung her head for a moment to catch her breath. She brought it up with an odd look on her face. Our eyes met for a moment, and I could tell the same troubling thought was running through her head.
"That kinda sucked, didn't it?" she said.
"I'd don't know if I'd say sucked," I said. "Stank, maybe. Something just didn't feel right."
"It's exactly what I came up with in the car, I just know it. It's just… not there." She plucked her E string.
And just when I thought buffalo was going to become our official songwriting sauce. "Now what?"
Leslie lifted the guitar strap over her head. "Well, the dance is still on."
"Sure, why not?" We turned off all our equipment, set our guitars back on their racks, and hurried back to the garage. I let her take the driver's seat again.
It wasn't until we got it started and out of park that I smelled something familiar and realized a crucial problem with our plans. "Stop the car."
"What's wrong?" Leslie said. She sniffed, and looked in the back seat.
Our chicken sandwiches were still in their bag, still wafting the aroma of buffalo sauce, and not getting any warmer.
It's not often songwriting—good or bad—causes you to forget the same meal twice in one night.
We ate there in the driveway--those things are too sloppy to eat while driving. All told, I'd guess we must have lost a full ten minutes shoving those things down our throats.
Sigh. The cost of inspiration.