of you!” Rett submitted to another rosewater hug. “Rett, I can’t believe you aren’t turning out number one hits right and left. How come you don’t have a record out?”
“I’d do them if anyone asked”
“I hear voices coming out of the radio I wouldn’t pay two cents to hear live, and here you can give me goosebumps singing a song I’ve heard a thousand times. Why do you think that is?”
“Goosebumps or ”
“It’s just amazing. You’re a delight.” Monica waved at someone who was leaving, then dashed in that direction, pausing briefly to thank and envelop Camille.
The bartender handed over the beers with a wink. “They’re on Monica. It’s the least she can do.”
Rett clinked her bottle to Camille’s and they settled onto the barstools. After several quick swallows, she felt revived enough to sit back a little and relax.
“Why don’t you have a CD?” Camille was blunt. “You ought to be recording.”
“My top octave is my weakest,” Rett said honestly. “I need someone who’s willing to arrange for a contralto. Karen Carpenter had her brother’s talent to overcome an unfashionably low voice.” It was her standard answer and the one closest to the truth. “I’ve recorded on backups with a couple of people, but I didn’t get very much exposure. Not like when Paula Cole toured with Peter Gabriel. Now she’s big-time herselfdeservedly so. She writes her own songs, too, and I just don’t have the talent for that. I tried.”
“It does help if you can write for yourself,” Camille agreed. “The charts have been taken over by women who have complete artistic control because they write and produce their own stuff.”
“I just did a week in New York with a band jazz standards with updated arrangements. I think it’s pigeonholed as ‘soft adult contemporary,’ whatever the hell that means. They might get a record deal. They said they’d call me for one or two vocal tracks if they did. It could still happen. But I have no complaints.” Rett dug down deep for something positive to say about her career at the moment. “I’m busy all the time.” She took another swig from her beer. “How about you?”
“Running a karaoke machine is just weekend work,” Camille said. “I started doing it to make extra money in college, and I never got rid of the machine. Now I do it mostly because it’s fun and for good causes. Nine to five I’m in P.R. Sort of. Paying my dues with scut work, big-time.” A thirty-something redhead was approaching and Camille hopped down from the barstool. “Gotta go. It was really great backing you up.”
“And thanks again my ex used to be my manager, too. That song was very satisfying.”
Camille kissed the redhead on the cheek by way of greeting and said, “You missed all the fun.” They began to walk toward the door when Camille paused to slap her pockets. “I thought I had I do.” She fished for a moment, then came up with a business card. “Just so you can remember my name. I might someday have enough power to actually do us both some good.”
Rett took the card with a confused smile and waved good-bye. It took a few moments to register that Camille was an assistant talent coordinator and her business card was emblazoned with the Disney logo.
A new voice startled her. “You look like you just won the lottery.”
It was the dark-haired woman who had seemed familiar. “I might have.” This was one phone call she would make, all proper and business-like, first thing Monday morning. Maybe Camille could pass her name on to someone who could tell someone who knew someone that Rett Jamison was not a pain in the ass to work with. Even if that didn’t fix the problem, it might help repair the damage her reputation had suffered. She realized the dark-haired woman had taken the barstool Camille had vacated. She indicated the card before she pocketed it. “A good contact a bonus for the evening’s work.”
“You were
“I’d do them if anyone asked”
“I hear voices coming out of the radio I wouldn’t pay two cents to hear live, and here you can give me goosebumps singing a song I’ve heard a thousand times. Why do you think that is?”
“Goosebumps or ”
“It’s just amazing. You’re a delight.” Monica waved at someone who was leaving, then dashed in that direction, pausing briefly to thank and envelop Camille.
The bartender handed over the beers with a wink. “They’re on Monica. It’s the least she can do.”
Rett clinked her bottle to Camille’s and they settled onto the barstools. After several quick swallows, she felt revived enough to sit back a little and relax.
“Why don’t you have a CD?” Camille was blunt. “You ought to be recording.”
“My top octave is my weakest,” Rett said honestly. “I need someone who’s willing to arrange for a contralto. Karen Carpenter had her brother’s talent to overcome an unfashionably low voice.” It was her standard answer and the one closest to the truth. “I’ve recorded on backups with a couple of people, but I didn’t get very much exposure. Not like when Paula Cole toured with Peter Gabriel. Now she’s big-time herselfdeservedly so. She writes her own songs, too, and I just don’t have the talent for that. I tried.”
“It does help if you can write for yourself,” Camille agreed. “The charts have been taken over by women who have complete artistic control because they write and produce their own stuff.”
“I just did a week in New York with a band jazz standards with updated arrangements. I think it’s pigeonholed as ‘soft adult contemporary,’ whatever the hell that means. They might get a record deal. They said they’d call me for one or two vocal tracks if they did. It could still happen. But I have no complaints.” Rett dug down deep for something positive to say about her career at the moment. “I’m busy all the time.” She took another swig from her beer. “How about you?”
“Running a karaoke machine is just weekend work,” Camille said. “I started doing it to make extra money in college, and I never got rid of the machine. Now I do it mostly because it’s fun and for good causes. Nine to five I’m in P.R. Sort of. Paying my dues with scut work, big-time.” A thirty-something redhead was approaching and Camille hopped down from the barstool. “Gotta go. It was really great backing you up.”
“And thanks again my ex used to be my manager, too. That song was very satisfying.”
Camille kissed the redhead on the cheek by way of greeting and said, “You missed all the fun.” They began to walk toward the door when Camille paused to slap her pockets. “I thought I had I do.” She fished for a moment, then came up with a business card. “Just so you can remember my name. I might someday have enough power to actually do us both some good.”
Rett took the card with a confused smile and waved good-bye. It took a few moments to register that Camille was an assistant talent coordinator and her business card was emblazoned with the Disney logo.
A new voice startled her. “You look like you just won the lottery.”
It was the dark-haired woman who had seemed familiar. “I might have.” This was one phone call she would make, all proper and business-like, first thing Monday morning. Maybe Camille could pass her name on to someone who could tell someone who knew someone that Rett Jamison was not a pain in the ass to work with. Even if that didn’t fix the problem, it might help repair the damage her reputation had suffered. She realized the dark-haired woman had taken the barstool Camille had vacated. She indicated the card before she pocketed it. “A good contact a bonus for the evening’s work.”
“You were
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