I'm Glad I Did Read online

  “Why is that?”

  “ ’Cause here’s what I do. I sing the song down three times. After that it’s in my bones, and it just gets stale. Got it?”

  “I got it,” I said, and that’s what we did. I played, and Dulcie sang “I’m Glad I Did” three times. Each time better than the last.

  “You happy with the way I sang it?” she asked.

  “It’s kind of perfect,” I told her. “Now what?”

  “Bobby got a record player in his office?”

  “Sure he does.”

  Dulcie’s face lit up. “Then let’s go in there and play some music.” She tucked the record stack under one arm and threw the other around my shoulders. We made ourselves comfortable in Bobby’s office. He’d claimed he had the best speakers in the whole building, and maybe he did, because when I listened to Bessie Smith singing “St. Louis Blues,” Billie Holiday telling the story of “Strange Fruit” and Ruth Brown wringing every painful emotion out of “I’ll Get Along Somehow,” I felt as if my ears had a direct connection to each singer’s vocal chords.

  Dulcie watched me, enjoying my delight. But after a few minutes, she whispered, “Gotta go and work. Take ’em home with you.”

  “I’ll be very careful with them,” I promised. “Let me meet you at your first office tomorrow night so I can help you get done in time for the demo.”

  “I start up at Hill and Range at six thirty,” she said. “See you there.”

  I made sure not to leave a trace in Bobby’s office to hint that anyone had been there.

  FRIDAY AT 6:20 P.M., I walked the stairs up to the top floor of the Brill Building, the home of Hill and Range Publishing. I wanted to avoid Nick and any end-of-the-week elevators down to the first floor, and I also wanted to help Dulcie finish her job. We were due to record “I’m Glad I Did” at nine, and I wanted her to feel relaxed, not hurried. And on the feeling-relaxed front, I decided not to tell her that Bernie Rubin was my uncle, or that the lyricist was the son of her ex-manager. I didn’t want to distract her with memories of the past. If she asked who wrote the lyrics, I’d just tell her a boy I met in the building.

  Luckily she didn’t want to talk much at first. She wanted to hum. She said she did it to open her throat.

  “You sure you want to help me?” Dulcie asked when she was warmed up.

  I nodded eagerly, grabbing a mop from her.

  “All right, then.” Dulcie pulled out a cute little red Marvel transistor radio and tuned into “Murray the K’s Swingin’ Soiree” on WINS. The number-one song, “Sukiyaki,” was in Japanese. Dulcie made up crazy lyrics to it, and we laughed our heads off. We harmonized to “It’s My Party” by Leslie Gore and danced to “Da Doo Ron Ron” by The Crystals as we dusted and mopped. By 8:45 we had sung, danced and cleaned our way through all of the offices from Hill and Range to Good Music.

  Even though Dulcie had to be about Janny’s age, she somehow found a way to be forty-something and sixteen at the same time. She was the kind of person who made everything fun, even cleaning out a stranger’s office.

  “I wonder what my perfect brother would say if he could see me now,” I said, almost to myself as I dropped the mop in the bucket. “He’s known me all my life, but he doesn’t know me at all.”

  “I know what it’s like to have an older brother who’s good at everything,” Dulcie mused, her voice faraway. “Back home in Rocky Mount, my brother Lincoln was a football star. Now he’s a university professor. He was born with the brains …” She turned away.

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. It seemed to be another complicated relationship in her life. I was beginning to wonder why Dulcie didn’t do well in the family relationship department. Then I thought about my own track record. If I was being honest, it wasn’t so hot either. When I got up the nerve to ask her if she was married, she laughed that contagious laugh of hers.

  “I almost had a go at it. But you are far too young for the language I would have to use to describe that mess. Plus I don’t want to turn you off of marriage. Maybe it works for some people, but I figured out I’m not one of them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes twinkled. “I don’t like people telling me what to do, and husbands have a way of doing that. Besides, the one I should have married, the one I wanted to … well, that’s a whole other story for another time. Now you tell me about you. What are your folks like?”

  I shrugged. “They’re smart. Like your brother, I guess. But they don’t understand me at all.”

  Dulcie shook her head. “I don’t know about that. I do know that sometimes even though people don’t understand you, they love you. They just love you in their own way.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  By the time we walked into Dick Charles Studios, I was so high on my own happiness I couldn’t top smiling. Before now I’d only entered these hallowed halls to deliver food and forgotten lead sheets. Tonight I was here to actually produce a demo.

  The first time I’d brought lunch to the writers, everyone was in the control room, huddled over the recording console with the engineer. I was such a dunce that I thought if I talked in the control room, it would get recorded. It took a few trips before I realized you had to be in the recording studio—the big room that you could see through the glass window—in order for that to happen. Plus, a microphone had to be turned on.

  The studio was divided by sound baffles, cloth walls on wheels that separated the drums from the bassist from the guitarist. My smile widened when I saw that the musicians Rona had hired were already there. Al Gorgoni was tuning his guitar. He was an in-demand player even though he was only in his early twenties, a gentle guy, already slightly balding, known for coming up with hooky guitar figures that complemented hits in the making. Buddy Salzman was the drummer. He played on most of The Four Seasons records, but still liked doing demos, even though they didn’t pay as well. He just loved drumming and was as steady as a metronome. Then we had Russ Savakus on stand-up bass: a tall hipster with a porkpie hat who could lock in the groove and smoke a cigarette at the same time.

  We recorded the music first, before the vocal, so I could let the guys go when I was done. That way I wouldn’t go over my fifty-dollar demo budget. I introduced myself as I handed each one a chord sheet.

  I was scared, but I had no time for fear. I matched their all-business attitude and headed for the piano. Once I started playing and singing, I felt a whole lot better. When I was less than halfway through, they began joining in. Even on the first run, they stayed with me when I slowed down and sped up. I knew I should have expected it, but experiencing it was different: it was as if they could feel what I was feeling. That’s why they were “the guys.”

  Dulcie, meanwhile, settled in behind the board in the control room next to the engineer, Brooks Arthur. Like Bobby Goodman, Brooks was only twenty-four—and still, I knew, he was the engineer that everyone wanted. He was known for his great ears and mellow attitude. In less than half an hour, we had a take that both he and I were satisfied with.

  Then Dulcie went out and stood behind the vocal mic, a Neumann U47, everyone’s favorite. She casually put on her headphones, so she could hear the music track while she was singing.

  “Oh, my,” she murmured to herself, not realizing the mic was turned on. She fiddled with the gold note around her neck. “It’s been too long.”

  I pushed the TALK BACK button on the console. “Let me hear you a capella,” I told her. It seemed surreal that I was actually telling Dulcie Brown what to do in a recording studio. But then, everything about this night seemed surreal. She gave me a thumbs up and sang a few lines.

  Brooks adjusted the levels and added just enough echo so she’d sound warm and intimate—but with enough edge so she could be inside the music track and still cut through. As Dulcie sang, he looked at me approvingly. “Nice pipes,” he said.

  “That’s Sweet Dulcie Brown,” I told him proudly. “She doesn’t ordinarily do demos, but she’s a friend of mine.”


  “You’ve got good taste in friends,” Brooks said as he lowered the lights in the studio. “Let’s give her some atmosphere.”

  Then he turned a knob and brought in the music we had just recorded. Dulcie began to sing along. He recorded her on a separate track so we could mix her in with the band later. He’d use another machine and bounce the music and vocal together to a third track so it would all sound seamless.

  HER FIRST TAKE WAS good, but the next one was better. Take three blew us away completely. She owned the song by then. We didn’t have to patch in a single line. By now I even felt at home with Brooks in the control room. I pressed the TALK BACK button and called her into the booth to be part of the decision-making process.

  It was unanimous that the vocal couldn’t get any better than take three. Even Dulcie was smiling at how great she sounded—and she was her own harshest critic.

  It struck me then and there that there was no way any other singer was going to deliver what Dulcie gave us on that vocal. She was the one. Nobody else could give a performance as soulful, touching, and funky at the same time. The riffs and quirky turns were pure Dulcie; they were what made the song something more than the sum of its parts. She pulled every nuance out of the music and the lyrics. She made “I’m Glad I Did” sound better than I ever dreamed it could.

  Suddenly I had an idea. Why couldn’t this be Dulcie’s comeback record? We could add strings or horns or whatever a record company might want later after they agreed to sign her. They could use what Brooks had captured tonight or we could record it all again if they wanted us to. It was pure gold. Sure, it was a young market, but Nat King Cole just had a Top-Ten record, and he was about Dulcie’s age, maybe even older. It might be easier to sell someone young, but this song demanded someone who had lived and loved and suffered.

  When Brooks ducked out for a cigarette break, I grabbed Dulcie’s hands. “Let’s use this to get you a new record deal,” I whispered.

  “You are somethin’ else, baby girl,” she said softly, squeezing back. “I love this song. But I want you to know that if you just use this as the demo to get another singer, I would still be grateful that I had the chance to sing it. Like the song says, I’m glad I did. You just go ahead and do what’s best for you and your co-writer.”

  I threw my arms around her and hugged her. “Okay. But let’s try to sell it with you. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll talk about it.”

  “Whatever you say, honey.” Dulcie’s lips quivered. I could see that she was holding in her excitement. Being in a recording studio again had awakened something in her; she had come alive. When Brooks got back, he ran a quick mix for Dulcie to take home. She tucked the acetate into her purse and turned to go.

  Then she turned back. “Hey, JJ, girl, would you like to come to dinner at my place tomorrow night and listen to more of my record collection?”

  “Are you kidding? I’d love to. What can I bring?”

  “Just bring your sweet self. And your appetite.” Dulcie jotted down her address for me. “Seven o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  After she left, Brooks and I played with the mix until we ran out of time. Then he cut a record for me to take home.

  Tonight was the best night of my life, I said to myself as I left the studio. I was sure tomorrow night would be even better. I didn’t know then what a blessing it was not to know what the future has in store for us.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next morning I played the demo as soon as I woke up. I got dressed moving and humming to it. I’d barely slept, but I felt wide awake.

  Music can do that to you. There was a knock on the door. Janny opened without waiting for a response, as was her style. I raced over and turned down the volume. “I’ve hardly seen you all week and you just missed breakfast,” she pointed out.

  Uh-oh. For the first time since I’d started my job, I’d violated the Green Family Rule Number One. Not even Jeffrey did that unless he gave advance warning or was ill.

  “Did you work until all hours last night?” she pressed.

  “I sort of did,” I confessed.

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Tell me how it’s going.”

  “Really well. I recorded my first demo last night. Would you like to hear it?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. Today was Saturday. Of course—it was her shopping day. I could almost hear the siren of a Bergdorf Goodman sale calling out to her. “Of course I would,” she said, looking at her watch. “How long is it?”

  “Two minutes and forty seconds.”

  “Let’s do it, then.”

  I raced back to the record player and dropped the needle on the first groove. As “I’m Glad I Did” filled the room, I watched her face. To her credit, she really listened. Her brow was knit in concentration. On the other hand, I could tell that she didn’t get it at all. There wasn’t a flicker of emotion in her entire being.

  “That’s lovely, dear,” she said when it was over. I could almost hear the silent sigh of relief. “A very nice song.”

  “Nice?” I would have preferred she hated it. At least hatred involves passion.

  She looked me in the eye. “JJ, I know you have talent, and you can write very catchy melodies. I hope that by the end of the summer, you’ll see that you can use the brains you’ve been given for something more.”

  “Mom, we have our deal,” I responded, matching her glare. “Let’s not discuss it anymore. I just wanted you to hear what I was doing.”

  “And I did,” she said. “Now I’m off. Your dad and I are going to see Enter Laughing tonight. I’m meeting him for dinner before the show, and we’re joining Susan and Marshall for drinks afterward, so we’ll be home late. Since we didn’t see you at breakfast, can you tell me your plans?”

  I ignored her curt tone and brightened mine. “Someone in my office is having a listening party, and I was invited.” It wasn’t a total lie.

  “Have fun.” And with that Janny was gone.

  I LISTENED TO THE demo about ten more times once I had the apartment to myself. Then I fooled around on the piano, began another melody I kind of liked, and watched the afternoon melt into evening.

  At six o’clock, I put on some lipstick and headed for the subway. I boarded at 59th Street. By the time the train passed 96th Street, I realized that I was the only white person in the car. There were a few Negro girls my age seated across from me. One of them shot me a look of such hostility that I couldn’t help but swallow as I looked down at my feet. It hadn’t dawned on me that I might not be welcome in Dulcie’s world. There was no barrier between us. Music was our connection. But as I rode to 125th and Lexington, I realized that it wasn’t that simple. The world outside the Brill Building, outside of music, hadn’t caught up to Dulcie and me. I was an outsider on this train.

  Fortunately, Dulcie’s apartment building was just a few blocks from the station. I glanced at the piece of paper she’d given me—152 E. 126th Street, apartment 606—and picked up my pace. I kept my head down. I couldn’t wait to talk to her about some ideas I had for the arrangement of her actual record. I was sure we’d be back in a studio in no time once a record company heard what she could do. My plan was to play the demo for Bobby on Monday. I knew from experience that he was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to rock and roll when the week began. True, I still had to run my plans for Dulcie’s comeback by my co-writer. But once Luke heard the demo, he would have no choice but to agree.

  I smiled to myself as I turned the corner onto Dulcie’s block. Luke knew how pushy I could be … in a good way.

  I paused.

  The street was cordoned off and surrounded by police cars. Their flashing lights threw streaks of red and white across a sea of anxious faces. People were milling around, asking what was going on. I frowned, trying to peer around the crowd. Getting through this mess was going to make me late for dinner.

  I stood there for a minute, not knowing what to do. Something on the sidewalk
was covered by a yellow tarp.

  Then to my surprise, I caught sight of a familiar face: Frank McGrath. He was an NYPD detective Mom had known since she’d worked as a law clerk right after her graduation from law school. He’d been a beat cop back then, but they had stayed friends over the years, and his family had occasionally come to dinner at our place. He was a few pounds heavier, and his hair was a bit thinner than when I’d last seen him last, but he had the same craggy, weather-beaten face.

  “Frank!” I called to him. “It’s JJ Green.”

  His eyes narrowed as they peered toward me. McGrath was as shocked to see me as I was to see him. He made his way over to me. “What are you doing here, JJ?”

  “I have a friend who lives in the building. I came to have dinner with her.”

  “I’ll walk you in.” He lifted the yellow tape so I could slide under.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Some colored woman jumped from the sixth floor,” he said.

  I stopped. “My friend is colored, and she lives on the sixth floor.” I said. The words filled me with dread. The night was hot and humid, but still I shivered. I had a terrible feeling in my gut.

  “Hey, so do fifteen other women,” he replied, ushering me along. “This building is half colored, half Hispanic. Just go on up and enjoy your dinner.”

  I shook my head, my eyes flashing back to the yellow tarp. “Please, Frank, can I see?” My voice sounded hollow in my ears, as if someone else had asked the question. “Let me see the woman who jumped.”

  “JJ, you don’t want to do that,” he said firmly.

  I turned to him and grabbed his arm. “Please,” I said. “Please, just let me see her face. I have to see her face.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek, but he could see the desperation in my eyes. “This is against the rules. Don’t ever tell your mother I did this,” he muttered.