The smoke in the old-school studio is so thick Bo could almost cut it with a knife. Except that one knife is being used by Ronnie to heat some high-grade, dark-as-night hash.
It smells so sweet. Bo could suck in that succulent smoke and just drift off to Neverland.
But he can’t afford to dick around. Marty is using the advance to pay for the studio to record the ‘comeback reunion solo’ album, and Bo is running out of time.
Marty hired Ronnie, a drummer named Sticks who does not look like the Sticks he knew in The Touts, and an engineer/producer named Oscar, said to be ‘the best in the biz’ as Marty put it.
They are all nursing their own version of ‘I’ll show them,’ but no one can achieve their ‘show them’ until Bo shows them his first. They have three nights of studio time left. And the engineer appears to be smashed every night. Who knows what he’s doing in the control room? Bo is not optimistic.
“We should at least cut something,” Bo says earnestly.
The drummer cuts a fart.
“Hilarious. I’m paying for this session out of my pocket.”
Another fart.
It is true. They get paid no matter what. Getting paid to smoke hash and -if they are lucky- screw a couple of babes is not a bad way to go. Lord knows he’s done it often enough.
Bo picks up the guitar and starts strumming. Just a few chords random strung together.
Do do do, da da da
C Am G7
and back again
He tries finger-picking. It has a nice feel. Slow, but not a dirge. Traditional, yet contemporary. No words yet. No need. Just strumming. He can see the chords in the air, laid out like that O’Keeffe painting with pillows as clouds.
Do do do, da do da
Bo remembers a bootleg of Bob Dylan recording some demos at a Columbia studio in the 1960s. It was a new song, and he only had a few words and chords, and it wasn’t coming together. He played it slow, fast, light, and then back again.
“Everybody da da da...” he sang.
And then finally it clicked. He got it. “I’ll keep it with mine...”
“There,” the guy in the control room said. “Like that. You’ve got it.”
Then he zeroed in on it. He found the rhythm and stomped it out, banging the piano, pounding the beat with his heavy boots. He had it now. ‘I’ll keep it with mine...’
And that was it. Now, anytime, every time, anyone sings that song, they sing it just like that. Sandy, Denny, and Fairport? It is perfect. ‘I’ll keep it with mine...’
God, how he wants to write one more song like that. He has “Coal Miner’s Blues” and a few decent follow-ups, but he needs a ‘I’ll keep it with mine’ of his own. If he achieves that, he could die content. He could die a happy man. Die a happy man.