Excerpt from Music City Madness

Leland watched the group of wannabe artists proceed one-by-one, lock-step toward the stage. And one-by-one, he saw defeated souls slouch away tuck-tailed and tarnished from the lukewarm response to their audition.
Undeterred, he rehearsed a new song in his head, where a few simple chords produced a melody to complement the lyrics he'd composed on a date with his daughter at a Taylor Swift concert.
When he landed his turn in the spotlight, he carried his guitar case on stage and acknowledged the impassive club owner who cracked peanut shells at the bar.
"Name?" the owner asked while he chewed.
Leland tipped his Stetson. "Leland Presley."
"Nestley?"
"Pres-ley," Leland articulated slowly. He opened the guitar case with his sleeves rolled up, exposing a treble clef tattoo on his left inside forearm and a rustic wooden cross on his right.
"What are you singing?"
Leland removed his acoustic Gibson from the blue velvet lining. The scent of pattern-grade mahogany and Adirondack spruce brought the hand-made instrument to life. "I'm going to try something different this time."
"How different?"
"A song I wrote for someone very special to me."
"I'm touched, Mr. Presley. The stage is yours."
Leland lifted the guitar strap over his head and caressed the vintage instrument against his body. He tweaked the steel E string with the nickel white tuner and strummed his pick above the single-ring rosette to produce a warm, balanced tone. Then he drew a steady breath and leaned toward the microphone to sing.


(slowly)

I can feel the music move you
On the country-western floor
A small town girl with big time dreams
Ain't gonna settle anymore

But when you find your heart (sustain)
All alone at night
Let me take your hand, and ask,
May I have this dance?

May I have this dance? (sustain)

'Cause you're the one that I've been waitin' for…
And I don't think, I can hold out anymore

(guitar plays on)

A daddy's girl with angel eyes
And a smile to open doors
You want a man who wants to love you
For richer or for poorer…

But when you find your heart (sustain)
All alone at night
Let me take your hand, and ask,
May I have this dance?

May I have this dance? (sustain)

I can see the sunshine in your smile
When it comes to life and love I don't keep score
And tonight I want you with me on the floor…

May I have this dance? (sustain)

You're the only one I'm waitin' for
And I don't think, I can wait here anymore…

(Guitar slowly fades)

(whisper) May I have this dance?


Leland stepped away from the microphone. "It's not my only song."
"It is for now," the owner replied.
"Are we good?"
"We'll be in touch."
Leland gently placed his guitar in the case and latched the lid. He stepped down from the stage and approached the club owner at the bar. "I hear that a lot. Tell me what you really think."
The owner cracked another peanut shell and chewed. "This ain't America's Got Talent. I have a business to run."
"And this ain't the Grand Ole Opry. I've heard one train wreck after another in here. I can outsing any audition you've entertained today."
"We'll be in touch."
"I really need this gig," Leland persisted.
"So does everyone who comes through these doors," the owner retorted. He wiped a pile of peanut shells onto the floor. "It takes a hell of a lot more than a pretty face to draw new business."
Leland gripped his guitar case handle and adjusted his hat. "Yes Sir. But I bailed from my day job and drove thirty miles to get here. A job I might not have when I get back."
"You from Nashville?"
"The buckle of the Bible belt."
The owner sipped his drink and chewed the ice. "You ever take voice lessons?"
"I'm self-taught."
The owner gave Leland a business card with a handwritten phone number on the back. "If you want my advice, get yourself a better teacher."