FIC: Radio Friendly 2 of 10 (Blake/Chris, PG-13)
Author: Clio
Title: Radio Friendly Part 2 of 10: Where Particular People Congregate
Pairing: Blake/Chris (American Idol)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In which Chris Richardson shows what he's made of.
Length: 2900 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Radio Friendly is an AU set in 1962, when New York was the center of pop music and the Brill Building was where it all happened, when a group of talented songwriters and producers crafted perfect pop hits for artists whose every move was controlled by their label. Pictures and songs will be used along the way to take you back to yesteryear-and for those who'd like more info, see the additional author's note at the bottom.
You're reading this story because lillijulianne was so enthusiastic and allysonsedai insisted that it see the light of day, because they were willing to keep reading even when I sent three chapters in one weekend, and were instrumental in the flow, in pointing out what it needed and what it didn't, and in holding my hand through the entire thing. Thank you, ladies!
Chapter 1: Come to Where the Flavor Is
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
February 23, 1962
Chris stood against the wall of the Brill Building, smoking a Marlboro. New York City. He still could hardly believe he was here. Every night after work he'd wandered the streets, getting the feel for the neighborhoods, listening in on conversations. He'd ducked into tiny places for dinner-manicotti and cannoli in Little Italy, brown bread and borcht at a vodka room in midtown, kielbasa and pierogi on the lower east side. In Chinatown he'd had dumplings and noodles in gravy in a little place that was nothing like the chow mein joint back home. It wasn't enough in New York to be merely American; you had to have foreign roots, too, though being Southern seemed to count for something at least. That night he'd stumbled upon a street called Little Brazil where he found the grilled meats and rice and beans that he remembered from his naval tour of South America.
He could see Blake walking toward him from a long way down Broadway. He leaned back and allowed himself a good stare. Blake was sauntering, his hair shining under the bright-as-day lights of Times Square. He looked completely in his element, but he also seemed to Chris to be the sort of fellow who was always in his element, and certainly always in motion. Even when he wasn't moving the air around him crackled with energy; Chris was excited that Blake wanted to take him along after they'd known each other for such a short time. He wondered what Blake looked like when he was still, but that would probably mean being asleep.
A vision: Blake sleeping in the sun, cool white sheets around bare shoulders, peaceful weekend morning, and Chris leaning over to kiss him awake. Blake smiles, opens those golden brown eyes, murmurs, "Hi, Chris."
"Chris? Helloooooo?"
Chris shook his head. "Sorry! Hi!"
"Eh, I'm always daydreaming, too," Blake said. "The club is down this way," he said, walking along 52nd street. "Have a good evening?"
"Great," he said, though he was still annoyed that he'd let himself have those sort of thoughts about his new partner, who had the air of the womanizer about him. "Just exploring the city." Next week, he swore to himself, he'd look up one of those places that his navy buddy Matt had told him about. Surely having a real date would keep him from the impure daydreams.
"Lifelong project," Blake said. "Every time you get to know a place, it changes. New York is new all the time."
"Back home nothing really changes. Old houses, old people, old ideas. I guess that's why I joined the Navy."
"See the world?"
"Something like that. And you, did you have a good evening?"
Whoever first described a grin as wolfish must have been talking about Blake, Chris thought, because it was as though he had fangs. "A gentleman never tells," he said.
"A gentleman like you doesn't have to," Chris replied. "It's written all over your face."
Blake shrugged. "Irresistibility is a curse as much as it is a blessing. You should know."
Chris cocked his head. "Me? I'm not irresistible."
Blake looked him up and down, intently, and Chris would have sworn he was checking him out, except for the part where he couldn't be. "If that's your story," he said, finally.
"I'm sticking to it," Chris replied, trying to smile, though he felt a bit like a bug pinned to cardboard.
"You do that."
Chris quickly changed the subject. "Was that Ryan Seacrest, the DJ, that I saw walking out of the office with Cowell a few minutes ago?"
Blake chuckled. "Yeah. They like going out on the town together. They're close friends."
"Going out on the town? But isn't Cowell married and Seacrest single?"
"Infamously so, actually. It's sort of complicated. Well, the club's right here. Gabi!" Blake shouted.
A youngish man in a slim suit and sunglasses sat on a high stool under a sign that said "Club Caravan" in old-fashioned cursive letters. He had thick straight black hair and brown skin, which reminded Chris of the locals he had met in South America. "Mr. Lewis," he said, smiling warmly. "Haven't seen you in a few weeks."
Blake shook Gabi's outstretched hand. "Trying to buckle down but it didn't work. Gabi, this is Chris Richardson. He is my new writing partner and therefore should be accorded any and all of the rights and privileges to which I have become accustomed. Chris, this is Gabriel Sanchez, and he is much stronger than he looks."
Chris shook his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Gabi."
"Likewise. Go in, go in. They will all be glad to see you." He leaned into Blake. "Melinda particularly."
Blake winced, and Chris wondered if he'd broken hearts all over town. That certainly would make going around with him more interesting, and give Chris more resolve to take his crush and bury it in the backyard. "When did they start?" Blake asked, checking his watch.
"Coming up on the last song of the set," Gabi said, "so you've got good timing." He laughed.
Blake sighed. "Well, let's go in. May as well get it over."
Gabi, still laughing, pushed open the door and waved them both in.
Inside Chris was relieved to find that it looked like any other club he'd been in, except that the crowd was mixed, black and white and even a couple of Chinese people. He followed Blake to a table near the front of the stage. The instant they sat down a waiter appeared, and moments later Blake's gin & tonic and Chris's bourbon & ginger were sitting in front of them. Up on the stage, a small woman was singing a jazzy melody that Chris didn't recognize but Blake seemed to as he nodded his head counter to the beat. But as Gabi had said at the door, it was the last song of the set, so before Chris had really settled in the woman was finished and asking everyone to drink up during the set break. Chris was unsurprised that she made a beeline for their table.
"Well where have you been, little one?" she asked as she sank into one of the empty chairs.
Blake grinned, the charming smile Chris remembered from the day they met, and said, "I was trying to get above seventeen, Melinda. Forgive me?"
"And who is this young man? You've never-"
"This is my new songwriting partner," Blake said quickly. "Chris Richardson, meet Melinda Doolittle. We've already written five songs together, Mindy."
"Whose idea was this, yours or Mr. Cowell's?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"His, but he was right this time. Really. I think we'll get on the chart together." He smiled at Chris, a bright yet conspiratorial smile, and Chris grinned back. Crush or no, they definitely had musical chemistry, which was more to the point.
Melinda looked back and forth between them, and then said, "I'm sorry, where are my manners? So pleased to meet you, Chris. Any friend of Blake's is welcome here."
"Thank you," Chris said, shaking her hand. "I appreciate that, being new to the city and all."
Melinda sat back. "A southern boy? Where are you from?"
"Virginia. And you?"
"Tennessee. Welcome to the city."
"Thanks."
"Blake usually sings a number with the band late in the set," Melinda said. "Would you like to come up on the stage?"
"Well," Chris said, looking at Blake, "I haven't played in public since I got here. If it's all right?"
"Okay with me," Blake replied, sticking his chin forward just slightly and tipping his head back. "New York audiences can be a little rough, though, even friendly ones."
"I can handle myself on a stage just fine," Chris replied.
"Great," Melinda said. "Well, I need to go fix my face, so if you'll excuse me, gentlemen," she said, standing.
"I don't see anything that needs fixing, Miss Doolittle," Chris said.
"Would you listen to him?" she asked, a hand on her hip. "Blake, you'd better watch out for this one. He might be able to outcharm even you."
"No might about that," Blake replied. "I think the accent gives him an unfair advantage."
Chris shrugged, though inside he was surprised that Blake had noticed him as a whole person, rather than just a musical mind, since they'd spoken about almost nothing but music the past week. "I'll use whatever advantages God gave me."
"He gave you more than that, son," Melinda said with a pat on his shoulder, then walked away.
"What do you think she meant?" Chris asked.
Blake looked at him, his eyes narrowed. "Friend, you know exactly how handsome you are," he said. He took a gulp of his drink, then stood. "I'll introduce you to the rest of the band," Blake said, turning toward the stage.
Chris rose to follow, glad that Blake was facing in the other direction, because he was pretty sure he was blushing.
The second set was a showcase for Melinda's versatility, and Chris was amazed at her command of both the songs and the crowd. She could sing anything she wanted to, clearly, and she was like a chameleon as she moved from Gershwin standards to gospel to even a pop song of Blake's that was turned inside out.
"I almost didn't recognize it," Chris said to him.
"Yeah, I rearranged it for her," Blake replied. "Never did like the recorded version."
There was no chance for Chris to reply, as Melinda was beckoning from the stage. "Now, the young man who wrote that song is with us tonight after far too long an absence. Help me get Blake Lewis up here so he can lay a little vocalese on us!"
Blake smiled, laughing a little, as the crowd applauded. He hopped up onto the stage, gave Melinda a peck on the cheek, and nodded to the band, who dutifully started a mid-tempo syncopated beat. Blake snapped his fingers, getting into the groove of the music, then turned to the mike and opened his mouth.I sing this song hoping you'll all find out
The man who wrote the Yardbird suite
Leave you no doubt, tell you about
Charles Yardbird Parker was his name …
Only, what came out of his mouth wasn't exactly singing. Chris had heard Blake sing, and he had a pretty good voice, but this wasn't his regular voice. He was singing words, so not exactly scatting, but making his voice sound almost like an instrument, a saxophone or something. The melody certainly rose up and down in a way that a horn solo might, with little passages of very fast notes, and the audience seemed to recognize what he was singing, though Chris, who was much less versed in jazz than Blake, didn't. But he could sit back and enjoy the way the sound hit his ear, the way that Blake seemed lit from within, singing out there without a net, free of every restriction, trading solos back and forth with the other musicians. When he finished the audience burst into applause and with a little bow, and a nod to Melinda, Blake hopped off the stage as quickly as he'd hopped onto it.
"That was fantastic," Chris enthused as Blake sat down.
"Thanks," Blake said, taking another swig of his drink. "I'm really, I'm glad you liked it." He smiled again, and Chris realized that he had seen that lit-up look on Blake before, in their little writing room when something was working particularly well.
"Isn't he something?" Melinda was saying up on the stage. "Yeah, that's right. Now tonight, Blake brought us a surprise-his new songwriting partner. And that young man has agreed to get up and sing us something, too. Put your hands together for Mr. Chris Richardson!"
Now, Chris already had a good enough idea of Blake's talent to know that he'd do something amazing and unexpected up on that stage. He just hadn't thought he'd have to immediately follow Blake, He'd been wracking his brain trying to think of what song he might sing, but the sort of light sweet melodies that he often favored wouldn't do after what Blake had done. Besides, Blake deserved to know what Chris was capable of; it was only fair. And then suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, he knew exactly what to sing.
"Nervous?" Blake asked him as he stood up.
"Not a bit," Chris answered, slapping Blake on the back as he walked up to the stage. He went right up to the mike stand. "I'm new in town," he said, exaggerating his accent just a little, "so you'll forgive me if I hide behind the piano while I sing, won't you?" As the audience applauded again, he turned to the band and assured them that they'd easily be able to follow him, and Bill graciously gave up the piano bench to him. He sat for a moment, looked over at Blake, and winked, then started laying down a bass line that even the audience knew, and they responded with applause. Blake walked over to where Melinda stood, near the bass player and smack in Chris's field of vision. Chris knew he needed that little kick of sex to make the performance work, and he was just drunk enough not to care about singing it to Blake. After all, anyone might reasonably think he was singing to Melinda.Hey mama don't you treat me wrong
Come and love your daddy all night long
All right now …
If he closed his eyes he could almost be back in one of those little clubs that he didn't tell his mother he went to. But then, if he closed his eyes he wouldn't be singing to Blake, and the song wouldn't be going over.See the girl with the diamond ring
She knows how to shake that thing
All right now …
Blake was looking right at him, with a little surprise but also a challenge, as if wondering if mild-mannered Chris could really pull it off. Chris wondered if the piano was as good as a phone booth, and could turn him into Superman right on this here stage.Tell your mama, tell your pa
I'm gonna send you back to Arkansas
Oh yes ma'am, if you don't do right…
Usually Chris sang the long version, especially in the service when there wasn't much else do to out at sea, but he was a guest of these nice folks. He sang another verse, and a couple of choruses with the horns, and then it was time to show Blake he wasn't bluffing and take it to the bridge. "All right now," he said to the crowd, "you know what to do!" He leaned into the mike, looking at Blake, and groaned, "Uhmmm."
Blake and Melinda led the crowd, groaning back: "Uhmmm." And back and forth they went, shorter and shorter, and then Chris went back into the chorus.One more time
Just one more time, now
Blake and Melinda had adopted the Raelettes' part, chiming in the response in the chorus. Chris didn't dare sing "make me feel so good" to Blake, though, and took that moment to turn out to the crowd. He brought it to a close after that; he wasn't sure he could keep his cool any longer under Blake's darkening gaze. The crowd burst into applause, and Chris clapped too, for the band who had followed him so easily, for Melinda and Blake, and sure, a little for himself, and bowed. After all, he wasn't a blind black man from Georgia, so he couldn't blame the crowd for being surprised by his performance. He wasn't sure there were that many white soul singers around Manhattan.
Back at the table Blake pulled out a Lucky and said, "At least I'll never be able to say you held out on me."
Chris laughed. "You deserved to know what you were dealing with."
Blake cocked his head, studying Chris. "Well, now I know," he said, and his voice had an odd note in it.
Chris looked up from lighting his own Marlboro, and he was struck by the look in Blake's eyes. He felt something enormous rush over him. Time slowed down. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, but all the other sound from the room dropped away-even the other sights. There was only Blake, staring at him, lit from behind.
And then it went away, as quickly as it had come. Later they went to an after party at another bar, and a very late night supper at Melinda's apartment uptown where he ate the first proper Southern food he'd had since he'd arrived in New York (Blake made fun of him for actually liking greens), and they sang and played a great deal more before finally dragging themselves home in the wee sma's. Years later, Chris wouldn't remember much that happened that night, would scarcely recall even what he or Blake had sung in that club. But he never forgot how Blake looked, sitting at that table and staring at him as though he were a particularly rare sort of butterfly, one that he hadn't figured out how to catch.
Well, not yet, anyway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blake sings "Yardbird Suite"
Chris sings "What'd I Say"
Chapter 3: This Is the One They'll Have to Beat. Includes photos AND a song AND studio time!
Notes: "What'd I Say" was a #6 Pop and #1 R&B hit in 1959, so the crowd would definitely recognize that opening bass line. "Yardbird Suite" was a jazz classic by Charlie Parker that Bob Dorough put lyrics to in 1956. If you recognize his voice, it's because he was the songwriter behind Schoolhouse Rock and sang several of the songs, including "Lolly Lolly Lolly" and "Three is a Magic Number."
Title: Radio Friendly Part 2 of 10: Where Particular People Congregate
Pairing: Blake/Chris (American Idol)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In which Chris Richardson shows what he's made of.
Length: 2900 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Radio Friendly is an AU set in 1962, when New York was the center of pop music and the Brill Building was where it all happened, when a group of talented songwriters and producers crafted perfect pop hits for artists whose every move was controlled by their label. Pictures and songs will be used along the way to take you back to yesteryear-and for those who'd like more info, see the additional author's note at the bottom.
You're reading this story because lillijulianne was so enthusiastic and allysonsedai insisted that it see the light of day, because they were willing to keep reading even when I sent three chapters in one weekend, and were instrumental in the flow, in pointing out what it needed and what it didn't, and in holding my hand through the entire thing. Thank you, ladies!
Chapter 1: Come to Where the Flavor Is
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
February 23, 1962
Chris stood against the wall of the Brill Building, smoking a Marlboro. New York City. He still could hardly believe he was here. Every night after work he'd wandered the streets, getting the feel for the neighborhoods, listening in on conversations. He'd ducked into tiny places for dinner-manicotti and cannoli in Little Italy, brown bread and borcht at a vodka room in midtown, kielbasa and pierogi on the lower east side. In Chinatown he'd had dumplings and noodles in gravy in a little place that was nothing like the chow mein joint back home. It wasn't enough in New York to be merely American; you had to have foreign roots, too, though being Southern seemed to count for something at least. That night he'd stumbled upon a street called Little Brazil where he found the grilled meats and rice and beans that he remembered from his naval tour of South America.
He could see Blake walking toward him from a long way down Broadway. He leaned back and allowed himself a good stare. Blake was sauntering, his hair shining under the bright-as-day lights of Times Square. He looked completely in his element, but he also seemed to Chris to be the sort of fellow who was always in his element, and certainly always in motion. Even when he wasn't moving the air around him crackled with energy; Chris was excited that Blake wanted to take him along after they'd known each other for such a short time. He wondered what Blake looked like when he was still, but that would probably mean being asleep.
A vision: Blake sleeping in the sun, cool white sheets around bare shoulders, peaceful weekend morning, and Chris leaning over to kiss him awake. Blake smiles, opens those golden brown eyes, murmurs, "Hi, Chris."
"Chris? Helloooooo?"
Chris shook his head. "Sorry! Hi!"
"Eh, I'm always daydreaming, too," Blake said. "The club is down this way," he said, walking along 52nd street. "Have a good evening?"
"Great," he said, though he was still annoyed that he'd let himself have those sort of thoughts about his new partner, who had the air of the womanizer about him. "Just exploring the city." Next week, he swore to himself, he'd look up one of those places that his navy buddy Matt had told him about. Surely having a real date would keep him from the impure daydreams.
"Lifelong project," Blake said. "Every time you get to know a place, it changes. New York is new all the time."
"Back home nothing really changes. Old houses, old people, old ideas. I guess that's why I joined the Navy."
"See the world?"
"Something like that. And you, did you have a good evening?"
Whoever first described a grin as wolfish must have been talking about Blake, Chris thought, because it was as though he had fangs. "A gentleman never tells," he said.
"A gentleman like you doesn't have to," Chris replied. "It's written all over your face."
Blake shrugged. "Irresistibility is a curse as much as it is a blessing. You should know."
Chris cocked his head. "Me? I'm not irresistible."
Blake looked him up and down, intently, and Chris would have sworn he was checking him out, except for the part where he couldn't be. "If that's your story," he said, finally.
"I'm sticking to it," Chris replied, trying to smile, though he felt a bit like a bug pinned to cardboard.
"You do that."
Chris quickly changed the subject. "Was that Ryan Seacrest, the DJ, that I saw walking out of the office with Cowell a few minutes ago?"
Blake chuckled. "Yeah. They like going out on the town together. They're close friends."
"Going out on the town? But isn't Cowell married and Seacrest single?"
"Infamously so, actually. It's sort of complicated. Well, the club's right here. Gabi!" Blake shouted.
A youngish man in a slim suit and sunglasses sat on a high stool under a sign that said "Club Caravan" in old-fashioned cursive letters. He had thick straight black hair and brown skin, which reminded Chris of the locals he had met in South America. "Mr. Lewis," he said, smiling warmly. "Haven't seen you in a few weeks."
Blake shook Gabi's outstretched hand. "Trying to buckle down but it didn't work. Gabi, this is Chris Richardson. He is my new writing partner and therefore should be accorded any and all of the rights and privileges to which I have become accustomed. Chris, this is Gabriel Sanchez, and he is much stronger than he looks."
Chris shook his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Gabi."
"Likewise. Go in, go in. They will all be glad to see you." He leaned into Blake. "Melinda particularly."
Blake winced, and Chris wondered if he'd broken hearts all over town. That certainly would make going around with him more interesting, and give Chris more resolve to take his crush and bury it in the backyard. "When did they start?" Blake asked, checking his watch.
"Coming up on the last song of the set," Gabi said, "so you've got good timing." He laughed.
Blake sighed. "Well, let's go in. May as well get it over."
Gabi, still laughing, pushed open the door and waved them both in.
Inside Chris was relieved to find that it looked like any other club he'd been in, except that the crowd was mixed, black and white and even a couple of Chinese people. He followed Blake to a table near the front of the stage. The instant they sat down a waiter appeared, and moments later Blake's gin & tonic and Chris's bourbon & ginger were sitting in front of them. Up on the stage, a small woman was singing a jazzy melody that Chris didn't recognize but Blake seemed to as he nodded his head counter to the beat. But as Gabi had said at the door, it was the last song of the set, so before Chris had really settled in the woman was finished and asking everyone to drink up during the set break. Chris was unsurprised that she made a beeline for their table.
"Well where have you been, little one?" she asked as she sank into one of the empty chairs.
Blake grinned, the charming smile Chris remembered from the day they met, and said, "I was trying to get above seventeen, Melinda. Forgive me?"
"And who is this young man? You've never-"
"This is my new songwriting partner," Blake said quickly. "Chris Richardson, meet Melinda Doolittle. We've already written five songs together, Mindy."
"Whose idea was this, yours or Mr. Cowell's?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"His, but he was right this time. Really. I think we'll get on the chart together." He smiled at Chris, a bright yet conspiratorial smile, and Chris grinned back. Crush or no, they definitely had musical chemistry, which was more to the point.
Melinda looked back and forth between them, and then said, "I'm sorry, where are my manners? So pleased to meet you, Chris. Any friend of Blake's is welcome here."
"Thank you," Chris said, shaking her hand. "I appreciate that, being new to the city and all."
Melinda sat back. "A southern boy? Where are you from?"
"Virginia. And you?"
"Tennessee. Welcome to the city."
"Thanks."
"Blake usually sings a number with the band late in the set," Melinda said. "Would you like to come up on the stage?"
"Well," Chris said, looking at Blake, "I haven't played in public since I got here. If it's all right?"
"Okay with me," Blake replied, sticking his chin forward just slightly and tipping his head back. "New York audiences can be a little rough, though, even friendly ones."
"I can handle myself on a stage just fine," Chris replied.
"Great," Melinda said. "Well, I need to go fix my face, so if you'll excuse me, gentlemen," she said, standing.
"I don't see anything that needs fixing, Miss Doolittle," Chris said.
"Would you listen to him?" she asked, a hand on her hip. "Blake, you'd better watch out for this one. He might be able to outcharm even you."
"No might about that," Blake replied. "I think the accent gives him an unfair advantage."
Chris shrugged, though inside he was surprised that Blake had noticed him as a whole person, rather than just a musical mind, since they'd spoken about almost nothing but music the past week. "I'll use whatever advantages God gave me."
"He gave you more than that, son," Melinda said with a pat on his shoulder, then walked away.
"What do you think she meant?" Chris asked.
Blake looked at him, his eyes narrowed. "Friend, you know exactly how handsome you are," he said. He took a gulp of his drink, then stood. "I'll introduce you to the rest of the band," Blake said, turning toward the stage.
Chris rose to follow, glad that Blake was facing in the other direction, because he was pretty sure he was blushing.
The second set was a showcase for Melinda's versatility, and Chris was amazed at her command of both the songs and the crowd. She could sing anything she wanted to, clearly, and she was like a chameleon as she moved from Gershwin standards to gospel to even a pop song of Blake's that was turned inside out.
"I almost didn't recognize it," Chris said to him.
"Yeah, I rearranged it for her," Blake replied. "Never did like the recorded version."
There was no chance for Chris to reply, as Melinda was beckoning from the stage. "Now, the young man who wrote that song is with us tonight after far too long an absence. Help me get Blake Lewis up here so he can lay a little vocalese on us!"
Blake smiled, laughing a little, as the crowd applauded. He hopped up onto the stage, gave Melinda a peck on the cheek, and nodded to the band, who dutifully started a mid-tempo syncopated beat. Blake snapped his fingers, getting into the groove of the music, then turned to the mike and opened his mouth.I sing this song hoping you'll all find out
The man who wrote the Yardbird suite
Leave you no doubt, tell you about
Charles Yardbird Parker was his name …
Only, what came out of his mouth wasn't exactly singing. Chris had heard Blake sing, and he had a pretty good voice, but this wasn't his regular voice. He was singing words, so not exactly scatting, but making his voice sound almost like an instrument, a saxophone or something. The melody certainly rose up and down in a way that a horn solo might, with little passages of very fast notes, and the audience seemed to recognize what he was singing, though Chris, who was much less versed in jazz than Blake, didn't. But he could sit back and enjoy the way the sound hit his ear, the way that Blake seemed lit from within, singing out there without a net, free of every restriction, trading solos back and forth with the other musicians. When he finished the audience burst into applause and with a little bow, and a nod to Melinda, Blake hopped off the stage as quickly as he'd hopped onto it.
"That was fantastic," Chris enthused as Blake sat down.
"Thanks," Blake said, taking another swig of his drink. "I'm really, I'm glad you liked it." He smiled again, and Chris realized that he had seen that lit-up look on Blake before, in their little writing room when something was working particularly well.
"Isn't he something?" Melinda was saying up on the stage. "Yeah, that's right. Now tonight, Blake brought us a surprise-his new songwriting partner. And that young man has agreed to get up and sing us something, too. Put your hands together for Mr. Chris Richardson!"
Now, Chris already had a good enough idea of Blake's talent to know that he'd do something amazing and unexpected up on that stage. He just hadn't thought he'd have to immediately follow Blake, He'd been wracking his brain trying to think of what song he might sing, but the sort of light sweet melodies that he often favored wouldn't do after what Blake had done. Besides, Blake deserved to know what Chris was capable of; it was only fair. And then suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, he knew exactly what to sing.
"Nervous?" Blake asked him as he stood up.
"Not a bit," Chris answered, slapping Blake on the back as he walked up to the stage. He went right up to the mike stand. "I'm new in town," he said, exaggerating his accent just a little, "so you'll forgive me if I hide behind the piano while I sing, won't you?" As the audience applauded again, he turned to the band and assured them that they'd easily be able to follow him, and Bill graciously gave up the piano bench to him. He sat for a moment, looked over at Blake, and winked, then started laying down a bass line that even the audience knew, and they responded with applause. Blake walked over to where Melinda stood, near the bass player and smack in Chris's field of vision. Chris knew he needed that little kick of sex to make the performance work, and he was just drunk enough not to care about singing it to Blake. After all, anyone might reasonably think he was singing to Melinda.Hey mama don't you treat me wrong
Come and love your daddy all night long
All right now …
If he closed his eyes he could almost be back in one of those little clubs that he didn't tell his mother he went to. But then, if he closed his eyes he wouldn't be singing to Blake, and the song wouldn't be going over.See the girl with the diamond ring
She knows how to shake that thing
All right now …
Blake was looking right at him, with a little surprise but also a challenge, as if wondering if mild-mannered Chris could really pull it off. Chris wondered if the piano was as good as a phone booth, and could turn him into Superman right on this here stage.Tell your mama, tell your pa
I'm gonna send you back to Arkansas
Oh yes ma'am, if you don't do right…
Usually Chris sang the long version, especially in the service when there wasn't much else do to out at sea, but he was a guest of these nice folks. He sang another verse, and a couple of choruses with the horns, and then it was time to show Blake he wasn't bluffing and take it to the bridge. "All right now," he said to the crowd, "you know what to do!" He leaned into the mike, looking at Blake, and groaned, "Uhmmm."
Blake and Melinda led the crowd, groaning back: "Uhmmm." And back and forth they went, shorter and shorter, and then Chris went back into the chorus.One more time
Just one more time, now
Blake and Melinda had adopted the Raelettes' part, chiming in the response in the chorus. Chris didn't dare sing "make me feel so good" to Blake, though, and took that moment to turn out to the crowd. He brought it to a close after that; he wasn't sure he could keep his cool any longer under Blake's darkening gaze. The crowd burst into applause, and Chris clapped too, for the band who had followed him so easily, for Melinda and Blake, and sure, a little for himself, and bowed. After all, he wasn't a blind black man from Georgia, so he couldn't blame the crowd for being surprised by his performance. He wasn't sure there were that many white soul singers around Manhattan.
Back at the table Blake pulled out a Lucky and said, "At least I'll never be able to say you held out on me."
Chris laughed. "You deserved to know what you were dealing with."
Blake cocked his head, studying Chris. "Well, now I know," he said, and his voice had an odd note in it.
Chris looked up from lighting his own Marlboro, and he was struck by the look in Blake's eyes. He felt something enormous rush over him. Time slowed down. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, but all the other sound from the room dropped away-even the other sights. There was only Blake, staring at him, lit from behind.
And then it went away, as quickly as it had come. Later they went to an after party at another bar, and a very late night supper at Melinda's apartment uptown where he ate the first proper Southern food he'd had since he'd arrived in New York (Blake made fun of him for actually liking greens), and they sang and played a great deal more before finally dragging themselves home in the wee sma's. Years later, Chris wouldn't remember much that happened that night, would scarcely recall even what he or Blake had sung in that club. But he never forgot how Blake looked, sitting at that table and staring at him as though he were a particularly rare sort of butterfly, one that he hadn't figured out how to catch.
Well, not yet, anyway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blake sings "Yardbird Suite"
Chris sings "What'd I Say"
Chapter 3: This Is the One They'll Have to Beat. Includes photos AND a song AND studio time!
Notes: "What'd I Say" was a #6 Pop and #1 R&B hit in 1959, so the crowd would definitely recognize that opening bass line. "Yardbird Suite" was a jazz classic by Charlie Parker that Bob Dorough put lyrics to in 1956. If you recognize his voice, it's because he was the songwriter behind Schoolhouse Rock and sang several of the songs, including "Lolly Lolly Lolly" and "Three is a Magic Number."