wishing to know if dreams come true
would she ever find her way home
She was a blue jean baby
walking down a broken road
a shattered heart tumbling in the wind
She was a blue jean baby
holding onto her grandmother's rosary
the only thing left of home
She was a blue jean baby
She was a reflection of me
“Let’s go again from the top,” Steven says through the loudspeaker.
I know my voice sounds like shit right now. I’m just not feeling this music. It’s not me.
“Can we take five? I’m out of water.”
“Yeah sure. Time isn’t money.”
“Smartass,” I mutter under my breath forgetting he can still hear me.
“I heard that,” he quips.
I smile and remove my headphones. “Oops.” I exit the recording booth and grab a new bottle of water, twisting the top off.
“You doing okay? You’ve been off all day?”
Steven is my producer and a bit of a hard ass, but I like him. He’s older and has that fatherly vibe about him. Like I could go to him for advice about anything and he would genuinely want to help me. “I miss Jameson as usual, but this music…this whole identity the label has created, it’s not me, and it doesn’t work. You know it doesn’t. I’m not a country singer or a bubblegum pop singer.” I point at the photo they did for my album cover and it’s pretty, but it’s me blowing a big pink bubble and dressed like I am ready to announce the winner of the prettiest pig contest at the county fair.
“So, who is Peyton Mathews?”
I smile. “Let me show you.” I go back into the booth after handing him a sample of the music track, I made with the band when we were goofing off after our last session.
My voice comes out sultry and whispery.
Pictures of you sent earlier in the day
Light up my screen
Every night I wait for your call baby
I burn to hear your voice
Your country cool
Every day I ache for you baby
Your pictures light up my phone like a motion picture
But they don’t compare to the real thing