look for.” I could feel myself growing excited. “And it should have some catchy harmony, too,” -
“Sallie, when we enter this contest, who’s going to perform the song? I mean, that’s how you enter, right? There’s a live, onstage competition and not just tapes?”
“That’s right. Why? Do you get stage fright?” I joked.
“Not at all. In fact, I’m a real ham when -it comes to playing in front of an audience. Just give me one listener, voluntary or otherwise, and there’s no stopping me.”
“Well, then, maybe we should decide right now who’s going to perform the song at the competition.”
“I think we both should, don’t you? Especially if we’re going to build in all that catchy harmony you were just talking about.”
“Good,” I said, relieved. “I was afraid we might end up disagreeing on that.”
Saul grew very serious. “Hey, look, Sallie, we’re an equal partnership, right? We split everything- fifty-fifty, including both the work and the rewards. That’s the deal as I understood it, and that’s how I intend to do this whole thing.”
He returned to his fooling around on the guitar.
“Saul,” I began, pulling my guitar out from under the bed, its official residence, so that I, too, could plunk around, trying to fall upon a melody, “how did you get started writing songs?”
He shrugged, and without even stopping his distracted picking at the strings, said, “I don’t really know. I’ve been into music for as long as I can remember. A lot of the guys in my neighborhood are.” He paused as he concentrated on a particular chord progression, his head bobbing in time to the beat. “Maybe I always kind of considered it a way out, too.”
“A way out of what?”
“The whole thing of living in Brooklyn in a neighbor hood that is about as far away from this neighborhood”—he glanced around my room—”as you can get. This guy, Juan, who’s my best friend, has an older brother who just went on tour as a backup musician for Yes. And then this other guy I know, Luis, has a job as a studio musician. He’s a drummer.” He stopped talking for a minute, then ^started playing “Here Comes the Sun” again.
“At least he was a drummer. He got cut up pretty bad in a fight last weekend. His hand is all bandaged up now. I don’t know how long it’ll be before he can go back to work again.”
“What happened?” I tried not to look too shocked. Fortunately Saul’s eyes were on his fingers as they darted from fret to fret, from string to string, and not on old Sallie Spooner’s round, staring eyes.
“Nothing, really. He was just hanging out with some of his friends last Saturday night, drinking beer and smoking a couple of joints, around the corner from where I live. Some guys came by, and the next thing you know, Luis ends up with a sliver of glass from a broken bottle in the palm of his right hand.”
“But who were they?” I couldn’t get over how matter-of- fact Saul sounded about the whole thing.
“I don’t know. Just some guys.”
“Guys they knew, you mean, or strangers?”
At that point he turned his full attention toward me. “Sallie, surely you’ve been on the subways. Surely you’ve read the papers. I expect that you know there is more to the world than the Upper East Side of Manhattan, with its poodles and limousines and ladies in fur coats.” He didn’t sound nasty at all; he just sounded surprised that I was asking so many questions and acting so appalled.
“It must be a rough neighborhood,” was all I could think of to say.
“Yeah, but I don’t expect to stay there forever. Which brings us back to your original question of how I got started writing songs.”
“But surely there’s more to it than that! It’s not just a way to get you away from Brooklyn, is it?”
“No, of course not. I love music, and I happen to be lucky enough to be pretty good at it. I can hardly think of a time when there wasn’t a radio playing somewhere in
“Sallie, when we enter this contest, who’s going to perform the song? I mean, that’s how you enter, right? There’s a live, onstage competition and not just tapes?”
“That’s right. Why? Do you get stage fright?” I joked.
“Not at all. In fact, I’m a real ham when -it comes to playing in front of an audience. Just give me one listener, voluntary or otherwise, and there’s no stopping me.”
“Well, then, maybe we should decide right now who’s going to perform the song at the competition.”
“I think we both should, don’t you? Especially if we’re going to build in all that catchy harmony you were just talking about.”
“Good,” I said, relieved. “I was afraid we might end up disagreeing on that.”
Saul grew very serious. “Hey, look, Sallie, we’re an equal partnership, right? We split everything- fifty-fifty, including both the work and the rewards. That’s the deal as I understood it, and that’s how I intend to do this whole thing.”
He returned to his fooling around on the guitar.
“Saul,” I began, pulling my guitar out from under the bed, its official residence, so that I, too, could plunk around, trying to fall upon a melody, “how did you get started writing songs?”
He shrugged, and without even stopping his distracted picking at the strings, said, “I don’t really know. I’ve been into music for as long as I can remember. A lot of the guys in my neighborhood are.” He paused as he concentrated on a particular chord progression, his head bobbing in time to the beat. “Maybe I always kind of considered it a way out, too.”
“A way out of what?”
“The whole thing of living in Brooklyn in a neighbor hood that is about as far away from this neighborhood”—he glanced around my room—”as you can get. This guy, Juan, who’s my best friend, has an older brother who just went on tour as a backup musician for Yes. And then this other guy I know, Luis, has a job as a studio musician. He’s a drummer.” He stopped talking for a minute, then ^started playing “Here Comes the Sun” again.
“At least he was a drummer. He got cut up pretty bad in a fight last weekend. His hand is all bandaged up now. I don’t know how long it’ll be before he can go back to work again.”
“What happened?” I tried not to look too shocked. Fortunately Saul’s eyes were on his fingers as they darted from fret to fret, from string to string, and not on old Sallie Spooner’s round, staring eyes.
“Nothing, really. He was just hanging out with some of his friends last Saturday night, drinking beer and smoking a couple of joints, around the corner from where I live. Some guys came by, and the next thing you know, Luis ends up with a sliver of glass from a broken bottle in the palm of his right hand.”
“But who were they?” I couldn’t get over how matter-of- fact Saul sounded about the whole thing.
“I don’t know. Just some guys.”
“Guys they knew, you mean, or strangers?”
At that point he turned his full attention toward me. “Sallie, surely you’ve been on the subways. Surely you’ve read the papers. I expect that you know there is more to the world than the Upper East Side of Manhattan, with its poodles and limousines and ladies in fur coats.” He didn’t sound nasty at all; he just sounded surprised that I was asking so many questions and acting so appalled.
“It must be a rough neighborhood,” was all I could think of to say.
“Yeah, but I don’t expect to stay there forever. Which brings us back to your original question of how I got started writing songs.”
“But surely there’s more to it than that! It’s not just a way to get you away from Brooklyn, is it?”
“No, of course not. I love music, and I happen to be lucky enough to be pretty good at it. I can hardly think of a time when there wasn’t a radio playing somewhere in
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