Dad Issue

Sam Stone is starting to despise his guitar. Strange turn of the tides for an instrument he's long considered to be something like a life partner or an extra limb. He's played the same Taylor acoustic for more than four decades, ever since he was a kid kicking rocks across the Oklahoma panhandle, dreaming about becoming the next Woody Guthrie.

Though it's stained and dented and scratched up to all hell, the Taylor still plays just fine. The emergent problem is that Sam and the guitar are no longer on speaking terms. He has always started his songwriting process on the guitar. But all of the sudden their union had gone sour, and his oldest intimate started giving him the silent treatment.

Without a guitar to talk to, Sam can't conjure up a lick of new material. The images in his mind all go up in smoke as soon as he lays his hands on strings gone stiff and doggedly resistant.

Sitting in his breakfast nook, with his heels kicked up and a cup of cold coffee resting on his knee, he peaks around the kitchen doorframe to find the Taylor staring back at him from the living room. He's come to think of the instrument's sound chamber as a black hole sucking up all shreds of inspiration, pulling each and every sign of life into its own steadily collapsing void.

Dispensing of his coffee in the sink, Sam rushes through the living room, steers clear of the Taylor, and makes his way down the wood paneled hallway that leads to his home studio.

The studio is a cozy and warmly lit space, though lately Sam has been leaving the lights off when he enters. He is ashamed of his incompetence, ashamed of his existence, and prefers to do his worthless work in the dark.

Today he has decided to revisit every instrument that is not the guitar. The keys were the first thing he ever played, so he returns to them first, hoping to be greeted like an old friend. But after a few minutes of tinkering, he discovers that they too have become strangers to his searching hands. So he bangs on some drums for a while, more for catharsis than any hope of generating music. And then he spends a while picking banjo to little avail.

As morning turns to afternoon, Sam takes to emptying out bins of heretofore abandoned instruments. He fiddles with zithers in the shapes of frogs and lizards. He stretches a jaw harp solo jam for more than thirty minutes, then plucks on a thumb harp for another thirty. Last of all, at the height of his rage, he wails on the marimba with a pair of souvenir maracas he'd picked up in Puerto Vallarta, at this point contorting the whole creative block into a kind of sick joke he was playing himself.

For nearly a year now, nothing had been able to pull Sam out of his slump. Not the soft orange glow of the sun lamp his therapist had recommended. Not the breath work or the birds on the windowsill, nor the encouragement of his musician friends. His buddy Buck had lent him a notebook full of lyrical sketches and the seeds of glorious harmonies. After a week of poring the thing over left to right and right to left and upside down, he'd given it back. "This is all wasted on me, brother. I'm spent. I'm shit."

"Well, have you tried acid?" His agent, Eric, had asked a couple of weeks ago. And Sam had tried acid. In addition to ketamine, Ritalin, psilocybin, and good old fashioned grass. There was a long stretch of time when marijuana could be relied upon to stoke his creative fires. But that time had long since passed.

And now here he was, six weeks beyond the demo deadline for the penultimate release in his latest five album deal. He's about ready to tear the gold records down from his studio wall and start using them as dinner plates. He's got enough of the damn things to be able to serve a feast with for all of his closest friends, and call it a funeral for his career in the arts.

Chucking his maracas into a far corner of the room, Sam slouches down at his desk, defeated. As a matter of routine rather than desire, he fires up his desktop and opens his email.

First in line is the latest unread message from his his label head, who, for the past couple of months, has been offering Sam increasingly less subtle reminders regarding the passage of time without his meeting certain contractual obligations. Sam has resolved to wait another two weeks before formulating his latest apology.

Next up is a message from his agent, with whom he usually communicates over the phone. The emails Eric sends are all offhanded, well-intended attempts at offering him inspiration. Sam opens and replies to these messages devoutly, because he depends on Eric as the one, solid barrier between him and the label people.

Eric's latest contains a link to the Tiny Desk concert of an up and coming Calypso act, accompanied by the suggestion "maybe it's island time." Sam cranks out a short reply. "So you're saying I need a vacation? Or that I should start playing Calypso? Both??"

Punching send, he returns to his inbox and encounters one last thread bolded as unread. "Interview", reads the subject line. Only by force of habit does he deign to give this message a click. Even in his brightest hours, Sam hates talking to journalists about his music. If he had things to say, he would have become an orator. In every interview he has ever given, he finds himself bleeding the life out of the ideas and sentiments more artfully stated in his songs.

"Hey Sam, I'm a big fan of your music," the message predictably begins. "I've been doing a bunch of writing about what your songs mean to me, formatted as a series of letters between you and I. This practice has started to strike me as a bit pathetic, and I'm not really getting much out of it anymore. So I started wondering if you might be willing to have a conversation, and ask me some questions about how your work has impacted my life. Let me know what you think. Take Care, Alice Rogers.”

Huh. If Sam is not inspired, then he is at the very least intrigued. No one had ever reached out for an interview where he would be the one asking the questions. This past year he's been feeling like the ant underneath the magnifying glass. And here was his chance to become the little shit crouching over the ant hill, trying to catch the sun.

Instantly, he finds himself replying. "Hey Alice, Thanks for reaching out, and thanks for listening. Sure thing; this sounds like a nice idea. When is good? Sincerely, Sam.”

~

On Zoom, Alice appears cool, composed and enviably young. The bright wall behind her is hung with a smartly-composed collage of framed show posters. Sam immediately feels self-conscious about his own disheveled backdrop–the pock marked back wall of his studio, and an open coat closet overflowing with his scrapheap of discarded instruments

“Hey Sam, so nice to meet you.” She smiles and nods.

“Nice to meet you, too, Alice. Thanks for writing.” Sam tries his best to smile back, but can’t help but cringe at the weathered terrain of his ugly mug framed in a small box at the corner of his screen.

“Of course. I know it was a bit of a strange request. Thanks so much for taking me up on it.”

“Well, I don't like giving interviews. So I was glad you turned the tables on me.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Your songs are already so confessional. It feels excessive to ask you to talk about them. And I’m generally of the opinion that musicians aren’t very good at talking about their music anyways. That’s what critics are for.”

Sam is struck and charmed by the intimacy Alice has immediately assumed between them. He struggles to imagine himself in her shoes, so easily chewing the cud with one of his idols.

“Huh. Well I’d agree with you on the former, but I can’t say I think critics are good for much of anything.”

“Well, most of them love your albums, at least.”

“They do until they don’t.”

Sam doesn’t mean to come across so cantankerous. He’s just distracted by the weirdness of watching himself as he talks. Over the course of his artistic undoing, he has been avoiding his own reflection as much as possible.

“Hey Alice,” he continues, breaking an awkward silence. “Is there any way for me to see just you and not me? I’ve got a face for radio, you know.”

“Oh,” she chuckles. “Yeah, just minimize the window.”

“Ah.” Sam clicks around his screen a little, then finds his mark. “There, that did it. Much better.”

“Great. Well, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. This really is quite gracious of you. Want to hit me with your first question?”

“Oh. Um. Sure.” Sam nervously looks away from the screen, searching his mind for the questions he had failed to prepare.

“What? You didn’t write out any questions? Poor form, Sam. Poor form.”

“Shit. Yeah. Sorry, Alice. I haven’t had luck writing much of anything lately.”

“Stuck in a rut, huh? It has been quite a while since your last release.”

“Yep. As my label loves to remind me.” Sam realizes he shouldn’t be making that confession to some random twentysomething from the internet. But at this point, he feels as if he has very little left to lose. And he trusts the kid. “Anyways. I’ll improvise. How’d you first get into my music? It's not exactly of your generation.”

“Well, it started with my dad. He listens to your records all the time. Well, he plays your records all the time. I don’t think he’s ever actually listened to any of them.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I think for him it’s more of a “woe is me” thing. Like a lot of men y’all’s age, he’s excellent at stoic suffering, and not so good at self-reflection. He resonates with the loneliness and the resentment in your songs. But he doesn't realize that they're really vulnerable, and deeply self-critical. Almost pathologically so.”

“Ha. Suppose I’m trying to beat the critics to the punch.”

“Yeah, I do get the sense that you’re surfacing your flaws in order to circumvent the judgment of others. It’s a fragile thing to do, but it’s a lot better than pretending you’re flawless.”

Sam stares back mute, trying to hide his wounds. But Alice immediately reads the hurt in his eyes.

“Wow. Sorry. That was harsh and I’m definitely projecting. I had therapy right before this.”

“Hey, no sweat. I always appreciate a straight shooter. So your dad thinks he’s flawless?”

“No, he knows he’s flawless. Textbook narcissist.”

“You two don’t get along so good, then?”

“Oh no, I love him to death. He’s my dad. Hell of a guitar player, too. Much better than you, no offense.”

“None taken.”

“He couldn’t ever put all the pieces together as a musician, though. He’d be great if he just shut up for a while. But he always insists on singing, despite the protests of anyone who has ever heard him do it.”

“A lot of people probably said that about Bob Dylan and Neil Young way back.”

“Sure. But those guys are literary geniuses. My dad can’t write for shit.”

“I see. Well you didn’t email me to talk about your dad. You said you wanted to talk about you. And my music. So what do you make of all these old cowboy songs?”

“Well, most importantly, they’re beautiful. I like the way they sound, and they make me feel better when I’m feeling like shit.”

“Well good. That’s why I made them. Now what about the writing? You said you’re a writer, and you said critics are supposed to tell me what my songs mean. So tell me.”

“Well, when I was a kid, I didn’t really listen to the lyrics. But as I got older, I started listening, and I heard you unmaking the myth of the West. You clearly dig the tropes. Who doesn’t dig the tropes? Cowboys are cool as hell. But you know it’s all bullshit. You know the Winchester rifle didn’t win the west. Smallpox and racist statecraft did the heavy lifting, and guns just finished the job. Your albums are all deconstructing manifest destiny. You’re winding back the wagon wheels of time, crushing John Wayne undertow.”

“Well, thanks professor. That was all awful astute. I had no idea I was saying such intelligent things,” Sam takes off the camouflage ballcap hat he's wearing, and tips it toward his computer screen. “But how about you stop reading your notes to me and say something about what the songs mean to you. Because I’ve already heard all those four dollar words before.”

Alice blushes bright red, and Sam can’t help but feel a beaming pride for finding her out. Then he realizes how insecure he's made her feel, and realizes what an asshole he's being.

“Listen, Alice. It's clear that you're extremely bright. A hell of a lot brighter than me. And you’re right about the whole 'manifest destiny deconstructed' thing. But it doesn’t take a genius to see through this country’s bullshit. The men who frankensteined our so-called union were sick right down to their souls, and now the rest of us have been left to wring our hands and worry about absolving their sins. But I gave up on absolution a long time ago. And I'm no Howard Zinn. I didn't set out to write history books. I sing songs because I like singing. And I sing about what I see, because that's all I have to work from. You ever wrote a song before?”

Alice cracks a smile, and nods.

Sam breathes a little sigh of relief. "Hell yeah. Can I hear one?"

"Yikes," she bites her lip and averts her eyes. "Yeah that's not gonna happen."

“Oh no ma'am,” he wags his finger at her. “You put yourself on the hot seat, and I asked you a question. So let's hear a song."

“Says the man who hasn't written in a song in… how long? You're probably just trying to steal from me.”

“Jesus, girl. You sure are harsh. Some number one fan you are.”

“Jesus, Sam. No one said I was your number one fan. You just made some really good tunes is all. Get over yourself.”

~

Albert Thompson, top dog at Psychotropic Records, is shocked to pieces when he opens up his email on an unremarkable Wednesday morning, and finds a message from his biggest and least communicative artist. And not merely a message, but a message with several .mp3 files attached. New music from the legendary Sam Stone, after all these months of avoidance and diversion.

Sam's email has no subject line, and when Albert opens it, he sees there isn't a body either. Just a folder full of .mp3 files, labeled “No One's No. 1.” He opens the folder and clicks the first track, which is simply titled “Number One.”

It's a heartbreak tune from the perspective of the other woman. And it's good enough to remind why he'd ever gotten into the sorry business of selling songs. The only instrumentation is the resonant echo of a hollow-bodied electric guitar. The vocal is ethereal, darkly feminine, and decidedly not Sam's.

The song's simple, haunting chorus immediately worms its way into Albert's ear. And the its closing verse hums with a hurt as fierce as any he has ever heard put to tape:

Baby I’m you’re no one

Baby I’m you’re no one

They don’t ask and we don’t tell

Baby I’m you’re no one

Baby I’m you’re no one

Prayed in your name while I fell

Date night, I’m a no show

Just missed going solo

So I went for a ride

You’re worried sick on my cellphone

Six texts and some voicemails

Might call you back on the drive

Moon beams on a dark road

Spillin platinum in the potholes

Caught a tire, took a slide

Let my guard down, lost control

Took the car through the guardrail

I'll count every star in the sky

Never knew I could fly

Never know til you try

The woman singing seems young, but she sounds as wizened as Gillian Welch. And when she digs deep, her voice rings as rich as Nina Simone's.

Howard writes his mercurial artist back right away. “Long time no hear, Sam. This first track is excellent. Who's that singing?”

After sending the message, Albert leaves his desk to freshen up his coffee. When he returns, Sam has already gotten back to him. And he's cc'd an address that Albert doesn't recognize, “alice_in_the_palace@gmail.com”.

“It’s a new project,” the message reads. “And I already wrote the press release for you”:

The artist formerly known as Sam Stone has died because he ran out of things worth singing about. But don’t waste any tears on that old bastard. He’s been reborn as the mute guitar strummer in a brand new duo, Dad Issue. Alice Rogers handles the singing and the songwriting now. She’s lewd, rude and big-headed, just like her father.

“Eric, meet Alice. She really is a bit of brat. But she's also your next big star.”