“It’ s springtime in France. The long grass rising from the fields. Van Gogh’s in the field painting. Splattering his canvas with color,” Nadia and her guitar sang.
She sang of the gypsies and she sang of the days when the world was no longer dead but alive with blossoms. France was her home but she left when she was seventeen to come to America and New York City and make it in the Big Time. Now she waitressed and sang her tunes three nights a week. It was a living as she worked the system to get a recording contract.
“Do you rap?” a producer asked.
“I don’t rap,” she answered. “And I am not about to start.”
“Better find another line of work,” he told her.
She didn’t. She wasn’t a quitter. So she kept at it.
“He looked like Charles Aznavour but he had a temper like tornado. It rose in the west and came early on a Saturday night. It was a tornado called jealousy,” she and her guitar sang.
At the end of her performance one Friday night, a man appeared out of the crowd of ten. “I’m Felix. I think I can take you far.”
She had heard that before. All they wanted to do is to get in her pants, then slink away into the night like the snakes they were. “Perhaps I should do a song about snakes,” she thought.
He handed her his card. It read A & R, Ruckus Records.
“When do we record?” she asked, suspicious-like.
“How ‘bout coming to the studio tomorrow at eight.”
“Maybe this one was the one,” hope spoke to her.
After he left, a woman in her early fifties approached her. “Watch out for him. He’s a bastard.”
The next morning, with her suitcase packed, she caught a bus south. For Nashville. She yodeled like the best of them and she was sure Nashville was the place she could sing her songs of France and yodel like the hills.