Melody Way

“How much does the melody weigh?”  

Rachel Cinders asked herself the question again as she stepped off the 74 into a deep puddle at the corner of 43rd and Densmore. It had been one of those days.

“How much does the melody weigh?” she continued asking as she walked the final six blocks of her 45-minute commute in a steady rain, the guitar case in her hand growing heavier with each step.

“How much does the melody weigh?”

By the time she reached the apartment, Rachel still hadn’t arrived at an answer. But she was tired of trying and tired of asking. Rachel was just plain tired. All she wanted right now was a drink.

Before she could get her key in the lock, the door swung open and there was Dominic with that very drink held over his head. On his face was a euphoric grin that traditionally had meant trouble for Rachel.

“You did it, baby!” he exclaimed, handing her the wine and picking up the guitar. “Congratulations!”

Rachel had no idea what he was talking about, but she was so grateful for the glass in her hand and for not having to carry the guitar another step that she collapsed back against the wall of the corridor and closed her eyes.

“I did it,” she repeated. “Awesome…”

Dominic kissed her cold cheek and disappeared into the apartment. Rachel was surprised to find him home at all, let alone with dinner started. The apartment smelled like Bangaluru. From the kitchen counter Dominic picked up his own drink and spun to face her, again raising a glass of red wine over his head. 

“To American Idol,” he said triumphantly, pointing his chin in her direction.

Rachel stood in the entryway of the apartment and stared at her lover. He had got to be kidding.

“Oh, wow—great,” she said, summoning as much enthusiasm as possible, which wasn’t much. “Did they call or something?”

“I got the email this afternoon,” Dominic said, taking a sip of his wine. Rachel could see one empty bottle on the counter behind him, next to an open second. Dominic had been home for some time, preparing a celebration.

Bless his heart, she thought, hanging up her coat and scarf in the hall closet. Auditioning for reality TV shows had been Dominic’s idea. And though she knew exposure was a key element in the career of a singer-songwriter, she held a much different view of the genre’s integrity. Rachel’s tepid reaction to the news that she’d cleared the final round of auditions and would actually be cast as a contestant in the upcoming season of the popular television series was not lost on Dominic.

He set his wine down on the dining room table and took Rachel in his arms. “I know it’s not your favorite, Rae” he said softly, kissing her first on the lips and then down her long neck. She wrapped her free arm around his shoulders and closed her eyes. It was, in fact, among her least favorites.

Pulling suddenly away, Dominic went to the stove and stirred the curry. “But you gotta trust me on this, babe” he said, pointing a wooden spoon in her direction. “This is going to be really good for you.” His head tipped back. “American fucking idol!” 

What was agreed between them was that Rachel had the stuff to make it. Though she had only been writing music since grad school, she was a gifted songstress. Unlike the other musicians in the couple’s social circle, Rachel didn’t have a weak leg. She could sing, play, write and perform—a four-tool natural who stopped people in their steps with her songs, whether on a stage or when busking on the sidewalks of Seattle’s trendy neighborhoods. She was tall and beautiful which didn’t hurt. But she was also smart and funny, educated and poised. She was meant to be a star. But it’s a long way to the top if you want to folk and roll—something Rachel’d been finding out since forsaking her career in academic administration in order to pursue music full-time.

She sat wearily on the edge of the couch and pulled off her long leather boots. The couple’s black cat Cicely jumped into her lap as Rachel settled back into the cushions and reached for the iPad on the end table. Dominic watched her as he shook the broccoli from the colander. He’d learned that continuing to drill down into the details of the today’s email would only serve to cool his artist girlfriend on the idea further. He poured himself another glass of wine instead.

Initially it had been them. A handsome, harmonizing couple with acoustic guitars, they had worked hard for three years gigging and recording under the name Blue Wind. Unlike Rachel, Dominic had been playing music his entire life and had never known another passion. But also unlike her, he was an average player with a nasally singing voice. His songs betrayed his desperation to be relevant; his talent did not match his desire. Where Rachel’s music sounded effortless, Dominic’s strained. It was obvious to everyone-- including Dominic-- that he was holding her back. And though they still played an occasional open mic together, their emphasis was now on Rachel’s solo act—she as the star, he as the producer.

When the rice was done, the couple dined by candlelight, opening a third bottle of wine and carefully avoiding the topic of American Idol. They ended up in bed early, in a twist of sheets, discarded clothing scattered in a path from the dining room. Through the half-open bedroom window, the sound of tires swishing down the wet pavement of Wallingford’s backstreets provided a soundtrack to their curried lovemaking. Afterward, as Rachel lay purring across Dominic’s chest, her red hair spread out like fire, a tune formed in her mind and she climbed aboard it, humming along.

“How much does the melody weigh” she sang in a whisper as they slid to sleep in the quieting dark of the room.

Rachel could not have known that the Wednesday night vegetarian dinner in February would be the last one she’d enjoy unspoiled by American Idol for nearly a year.  Dominic weaned her onto the process as gradually as he could, but there wasn’t much time for romancing the details, with conference calls and emails, pre-press interviews and psychiatric screenings cueing up almost immediately. And contracts! So many contracts Rachel’s red head spun. Dominic dealt on as much of it as possible while she was away in an effort to keep the apartment an American Idol Free Zone. But each day seemed to bring some new corporate requirement-- another legal meeting, another set of documents to sign. Indifference gave way to regret and quickly to resentment, as Rachel found herself being asked to devote more and more focus to an idea she hadn’t loved in the first place. Her outlook on the business darkened. Her sleep was disrupted. And worst of all, the songs that used to flow from her so easily stopped coming altogether.

“If they want me on their stupid show so bad,” she asked again, in a meeting at the home office of their attorney Neil Stussman, “why can’t I do it the way I want?” Stussman and Dominic exchanged a here-we-go-again look as the lawyer set down his pen.

“Rae, we’ve been through this,” said Dominic patiently, reaching for her hand. “The rules for the first three rounds are clear: you have to do a cover song. Please let’s not work backwards on this...” Rachel withdrew her hand and shoved it in her coat pocket, glowering. Dominic glanced at Stussman. “Anyway, I thought we decided you’d sing ‘Because the Night.’”

They had. Rachel’s haunting version of the Patti Smith song was part of her regular repertoire and the network producers had already signed off on it. In Dominic’s mind it represented the minimal artistic concession. Rachel wanted to perform one of her own compositions. However, it was—as they say in the business— a non-negotiable.

The days passed slowly for Rachel as Dominic deftly prepared for their final descent into Los Angeles. He trained the temporary replacement for his position at the downtown marketing firm where he was a junior partner. He booked the flights and ground transportation and briefed the cat sitter. He stopped the newspaper and mail.

He didn’t know how long they’d be away. If things went “well” by Dominic’s standards, they could be in Los Angeles as long as ten weeks. If things worked out the way Rachel secretly hoped, they’d be home eating sushi in a bubble bath together by the weekend. Dominic packed for his version.

“You think the beige lace top or the black silk blazer with these fire tights?” he asked, holding all three garments up for Rachel’s consideration. “I figured you’d wear the suede boots with this outfit either way. Maybe the pashmina scarf...”

Rachel was lying on the bed dressed in cut-off sweats and a stretched-out FBI Academy t-shirt. At the moment, she didn’t care if she ever changed clothes again.

“That’s fine, dude,” she said vacantly, scrolling through texts with one hand while stroking Cicely’s smooth back with the other. “I told you whatever you think is fine...”

Dominic tossed all three pieces into the open suitcase. Though he was starting to get a little stressed out himself, the excitement of the trip was still driving him. He was living vicariously through Rachel, he knew that. They referred to this opportunity as “theirs” but Dominic knew the score and was fine with it. Still, it hadn’t stopped him from undertaking a makeover of his own, including a hip new pair of eyeglasses and a bold haircut, going short for the first time in decades. He agonized over his own wardrobe as much as Rachel’s as he packed for two. He wanted to do her proud. Dominic cast a tender glance at her from across the room as he matched her loose socks.  He wanted this so badly for her...

Rachel sat on a moulded plastic chair in the makeshift greenroom of the American Idol set on a Thursday in October, lightly strumming her tobacco Gibson Hummingbird. She was not watching the previous contestant sing Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” on the wall-mounted monitor. She didn’t need to. Rachel had a secret.

Dominic paced in the aisle behind the chair, filling and refilling a crumpled plastic cup from the water cooler in the corner. Occasionally he offered Rachel a cup, and she would only use her eyes to point to the one she had already accepted from him, sitting on the table next to her. He was a nervous wreck.

She was not. Since shortly after arriving in LA, a warm calm had descended over Rachel. Had Dominic not been so preoccupied with his own anxiety, he might have been comforted by her contentment. Rachel had a secret…

As “Respect” gave way to applause, Brenna the intern entered the room and told Dominic it would be three minutes. His eyes widened. Rachel continued lightly strumming her guitar.

“Baby, it’s time,” said Dominic as if she were about to be led to the gallows. He came around in front of the chair and squatted down before her. He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“Now-- don’t forget on the second chorus, the empha—“

Rachel stopped strumming and placed her right index finger against Dominic’s dry lips. She held it there long enough for him to realize she had something to say. He settled to his knees and listened.

“Baby,” she said leaning in toward him, “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

Dominic smiled and attempted to proceed with his coaching. “That second chorus…”

Again Rachel’s shush.

“Dominic I love you so much,” she continued. “All I want is to be with you. I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for me here and at home, and I plan to go out on that fake stage in 90 seconds and make you proud of me.”

She stared into his dark eyes and smiled—the first genuine smile he’d noticed since February.

“Be here when I get done, OK?” she said. And with that, she kissed him and stood up from the chair. Brenna led her through a series of doors, talking into her headset as they drew nearer to the sound stage. The cool shadows of the wings gave way to the blare of the set lights as Rachel stepped confidently through the curtain and toward the television cameras that were about to record the most obscene violation of “Because the Night” ever performed.

She took her place on the 3-legged stool in front of the microphone stand, smiling easily as she answered the scripted questions from the judge’s panel. Everything went as it had been rehearsed through the intro of the song. But when the singing began, it was clear that Rachel Cinders from Seattle had a secret and that she intended to tell it.

Some critics say lyrics aren’t an important part of contemporary music—that people don’t really listen to them. But even if most people don’t know what the words to a song are supposed to say, they usually do know what they’re not supposed to. And Rachel was singing a version of this song that you weren’t supposed to—especially on TV.

The lyrical reference to “need” in the first verse became greed. “Stand” became banned, “disguise” disgust, and-- of course-- “undercover” was reborn as motherfucker.

Uncomfortable looks were exchanged between the judges and floor director as she approached the chorus:

Because the night belongs to lovers

Because the night belongs to us

Don’t give a damn ‘bout American Idol

Please Dominic, just take me home

Discomfort behind the cameras gave way to horror.

 “They can’t touch us now,” Rachel sang passionately as the song rounded the last verse, headed for home. “Now we know what a melody weighs…”

When it was over, the audience applauded because that’s what it is programmed to do. But it was clear the judges were not amused, and as Rachel strode purposefully through the backstage peeling off clip mics and deflecting the disbelieving stares of the crew, she smiled a knowing smile-- no longer burdened with her secret. She’d told it. And though her confession would never be shown on television, she’d told it just the same. Her version.

Through the labyrinth and beyond the greenroom where the next contestant sat gawking, Rachel made her way, guitar in-hand, two uniformed security guards following at a safe & silent distance. And at the end of hall, under a green EXIT sign at the door to freedom waited Dominic, smiling widely, the tears still in his eyes. He pushed open the metal door that read emergency exit only and as the alarms began to ring, the lovers stepped out together into the brilliant sunlight of the Southern California afternoon.