Book Review
of Twang
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Blurb
:
The
songs Jennifer Clodfelter writes and sings aren’t from her imagination. With
innocence and passion, Jenny pours the pain from her childhood into the lyrics
of one Billboard Country hit after another. Her manager assures her that
confronting formative years wrapped in violence and poverty is a necessary
evil, part of the unstoppable force of her destiny to become a Country Music
Diva. And for a while, little Jenny Cloud is in heaven. She basks in the
spotlight on stage and the wild applause of her fans. But as she pours herself
into writing more and more autobiographical songs, Jenny begins to find the
emotional fallout is staggering. When she revisits a dark memory she thought
was long-buried, she begins to seriously wonder if the high price she’s paying
to write her hits is worth it. Jenny’s hairdresser, Tonilynn, sees the wounded
little girl beneath the star’s on-stage smiles and she attempts to fix her
broken spirit along with her hair by counseling Jenny to pour yet another
long-repressed story of her father into a song. Is singing for her sanity a
possibility in this instance? Would another hit song be therapy enough to
reconcile Jenny and her dark past? Jenny Cloud faces the music with music.
About the
Author:
Julie L. Cannon is a
bestselling author, speaker and teacher. She believes that using your memories
to write autobiographical fiction is both cathartic and powerful, and when
Julie isn’t busy writing, she can be found leading memoir workshops,
encouraging others to encourage others on this journey called Life. Julie has
captured many awards in the ABA as well as the CBA. She loves growing flowers
and listening to country music at her home off Hog Mountain Road in
Watkinsville, Georgia.
Contacts:
You can learn more about Julie L. Cannon at www.julielcannon.com.
Friend Julie L. Cannon on Twitter at www.twitter.com/JulieLCannon.
Become a fan of Julie L. Cannon at Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/JulieLCannon
Purchase your copy of Julie L. Cannon’s Twang at Abingdon
Books: http://www.abingdonpress.com/forms/ProductDetail.aspx?pid=7213
Pick up your paperback copy of Julie L. Cannon’s Twang at
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Twang-Julie-L-Cannon/dp/142671470X
Pick up your copy of Julie L. Cannon’s Twang at B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/twang-julie-l-cannon/1108857096
Excerpt:
Those first days in
Nashville were happy. Happier than any I could recall. It was no accident I had
Mac’s cousin pull his sputtering Vega to the curb on the corner of Music Circle
East and Division Street. The Best Western was in walking distance of Music
Row.
All my belongings were
stuffed into two huggable paper sacks, and when I marched down that strip of
red carpeting into a marble-floored lobby with a chandelier, I knew it was a
palace compared to that drafty cabin in Blue Ridge with peeling wallpaper and
warped floorboards. Room 316 had pretty gold and maroon carpet; gold curtains
at a window with an air conditioning unit beneath it; two queen beds; two
glossy wood tables—one in the corner with a lamp, an ice bucket and a coffee
maker, and the other between the beds with a phone, a clock, and a remote for
the television. There was even a little bitty refrigerator, a microwave, an
ironing board and an iron. What else could a person need?
More curious about having
my own indoor bathroom than a television, I tiptoed in there first. Nothing had
prepared me for what met my eyes. Clean white tiles on the floor, a marbled
sink, a blow-dryer, a stack of sweet-smelling towels and fancy soap. The
washrags were folded like fans and there were free miniature bottles of shampoo
and conditioner.
To say this felt like
paradise would not be an exaggeration. Turning around and around until I got
drunk with my good fortune, I collapsed and fell flat onto the closest bed,
laughing like a maniac, some pathetic yokel finding out she’d won the lottery.
Though bone-tired on
account of being so journey-proud that I hadn’t been able to sleep a wink in
forty-eight hours, I couldn’t fathom closing my eyes. I hadn’t
eaten in as long either, except for some pork rinds and a Pepsi on the ride.
But I was like someone possessed; hungry only for the feel of Nashville,
thirsty only for the way she looked. I promised myself for the hundredth
time I would not think about my mother and the fact I’d left no note. I told
myself I’d eat some real food and get sleep later, after I’d explored my new
mother. I took the elevator downstairs to find some maps.
At the front desk, a
sign said the Best Western had free breakfast; sausage, biscuits and gravy,
waffles, eggs, oatmeal, muffins, toast, bagels, yogurt and fruit. The elation I
felt at this was not small and I couldn’t help a happy little laugh.
A short, overweight man in
a blue seersucker suit and bright orange tie bustled out of the room behind the
front desk and said, “What can I do for you this evenin’, missy?” He had a tall
pink forehead like you’d expect on a bald man, but his hair, and I could tell
it wasn’t a toupee, was this lavish white cloud that put me in mind of an
albino Elvis. I could see amusement in his startlingly blue eyes.
I didn’t bother to mention
I was twenty-two, hardly a missy, because he’d said it so kindly and I was used
to being mistaken for a much younger girl. “I wanted to see if y’all had any
maps and stuff about Nashville, please.” I smiled back at him, noting the name
engraved on his gold lapel bar: Roy Durden.
“We got maps coming out our
ears! What other information you looking for?”
“Everything.”
He nodded, turned and
stepped to a bookshelf along the back wall, squatting slowly, carefully, as I
watched in utter fascination to see if he’d manage to get his enormous
belly to fit down between his thighs. He unfastened the button on his suit coat
and the hem brushed the sides of gigantic white buck shoes. Eventually, he rose
with a loud grunt, carrying an armload of papers. “Alrighty,” he said,
spreading them on the counter like a card dealer in Vegas. “Let’s see what we
can do for you.”
“Thanks.” I reached
for a glossy brochure that said Tour the Ryman, Former Home of the Grand Ole
Opry. It was lavishly illustrated with pictures of artifacts
from early Opry years and old-time country music stars like Minnie Pearl
and Hank Williams. There was a headline that said you could cut your own CD at
the Ryman’s recording studio. Thanks to Mr. Anglin, I already had that task
accomplished.
“Snazzy, huh?” Roy was
nodding. “Now, that there is one hallowed institution. Tennessee’s
sweet-sounding gift to the world. Place the tourists flock to.” He was talking
with his eyes closed and this rapturous expression on his face. “Up until ’74,
fans packed the pews of the Ryman every Friday and Saturday night. Folks loved
that place so much that when the Opry moved to its current digs right near the
Opryland Hotel, they cut out a six-foot circle from the stage and put it
front and center at the new place. So the stars of the future can stand
where the legends stood.” Roy had this faraway, misty-eyed expression. He
grew quiet for a worshipful moment.
“There’s this one, too,” he
said at last, pushing a slick brochure that read The Country Music Hall of
Fame & Museum toward me.
My boss at McNair Orchards
used to say he could see my face in a display hanging in the Hall of Fame,
right between Barbara Mandrell and Tammy Wynette. Mac got my head
so full of stars, I could hardly think of much else except to get to Nashville
to show the world my stuff. I stared at the photograph of a building that
looked to be an architectural wonder in itself. One side was an RKO-style radio
tower, while the main part had windows resembling a piano keyboard, and an end
like a Cadillac tailfin. “That’s nice,” I offered.
“Yep, real nice,” Roy said,
his fingertips grazing more brochures reading Belle Meade Plantation,
Margaritaville, General Jackson Showboat, Wildhorse Saloon, and The Parthenon.
He lifted a map of Nashville. “Be helpful for you to know Second Avenue
runs North, and Fourth Avenue runs South.”
“I didn’t bring a car.”
“That a fact?” He looked hard
at me. “Well, downtown and the Hall of Fame are in walking distance, but it’s a
ways to the Grand Ole Opry.” Roy’s index finger touched a spot on
the map. “There’s also a place called Riverfront Park you could walk to,
but I got to warn you, missy, Nashville sits down in a bowl, between a couple
lakes and rivers, so it feels like you’re walking through hot soup in the
summertime. Can be right intolerable.” He swiped his florid face at the memory
of heat as I flipped through the pages of a brochure, pausing every now and
again to stare at a picture of a star singing on a stage, the crowd going wild.
There was an energy in those photographs; a palpable current of
voice and instrument and the sweet thunder of applause.
For a long time I looked at a picture of Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner, their
faces suffused with a bright, joyous light.
“You like this one?” Roy
asked, making me jump. “Uhm, yeah.”
“That was in ’75, night
Dolly and Porter sang their last duet together. I was close enough to see
Dolly’s makeup.” There were tears in Roy’s eyes.
“Wow,” I said. “Wow is
right.”
“Can I have it? Can I have
all these, please?” I tried not to look too eager, but every cell in my body
wanted to scoop up the brochures, rush to my room to study them, to dream of
climbing right into the beautiful photographs.
“Go ahead, little missy.
You must be a first-time tourist.”
I didn’t think of
myself as a tourist. I was there because of a promise I’d made, and the
voices I’d heard over 103.9
FM back in Blue Ridge.
Mountain Country Radio assured me that Nashville was the place for a person
bitten by the singer/ songwriter bug. “Uhm . . . I just like music.”
“Wellllll, you come to the
right place then. We got live music right here at the Best Western.” Roy swept
one arm out in a magnanimous gesture toward the other side of the lobby where I
saw a doorway to what I’d figured was the dining area. A sign in the shape of a
giant guitar pick said Pick’s, and next to that was another reading Great
Drinks!
“Y’all need anybody to sing
at Pick’s?”
“Naw. We got our bands
booked a good ways in advance.” “Wonder where musicians who’re
looking for work hang out,” I said in a casual voice, gathering the brochures.
“Nashville draws musicians like honey draws flies, and a body can’t go
ten yards without bumping into one of them looking for work. Tons of wannabes
in here constantly, trying to make their way. Dreaming the dream.”
From the tone of Roy’s
voice, I couldn’t tell if he were trying to give me a warning or just stating
facts. “Well, thank you,” I said, turning to go.
“Wait. How long you
plannin’ to stay?”
Barring any unforeseen
expenses, I knew about how far my much-fingered roll of $20 bills would go. The
Manager’s Special of $65 per night came out to two weeks for $910, leaving $90
for food and incidentals, and surely in that time I’d have some paid work
singing. A recording contract if Mr. Anglin’s prediction came true. Seeing his
dear face in my mind’s eye made a little guilty tremor race up my spine. I
needed to get back to my room. “I paid for three nights up front,” I
said, turning to go again.
“Hey!” he called, spinning
me on my heel to see those intense blue eyes looking at me. “You sing?”
I hesitated, then answered,
“Yessir. Play and sing. Write all my own material.”
“Well, well. What’s your
name, missy?” “Jennifer Anne Clodfelter.”
“Mighty big name for such a
slip of a girl. Anybody ever tell you you’re a dead ringer for Cher?”
I nodded. By twelve I was
constantly compared to the dark, exotic celebrity when she was young, starring
in the 1970’s Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour. Tall and willowy, my straight
blue-black hair fell to my waist. But, where Cher wasn’t exactly well-endowed,
I was ample in the bosom department. The other difference between me and
Cher was that my eyes were green.
“So . . . what style
of music do you do, Jennifer Anne Clodfelter?”
I borrowed some confidence
from Mac’s words when he handed me my last paycheck. “I’m the next Patsy
Cline.”
“Alrighty.” Roy chuckled.
“Then let me guess. You do traditional? Or maybe early country?”
“Huh?”
“You said you’re Patsy
Cline. But, there’s tons of styles. Got your Nashville sound and your
country rock. Then there’s rockabilly, bluegrass, honky-tonk, outlaw, and
Bakersfield sound. Cowboy western and western swing. Oh!” he clucked his
tongue. “About forgot Texas country style, and the new traditionalist,
and can’t leave out the contemporary sound, and of course, alternative. Though
I don’t cotton to alternative.”
My heart started racing for
fear my ignorance would show. “I’m the old kind of country.”
“I see. So, you want to be
a star?”
I saw mischief in those
blue eyes and I didn’t know how to answer this question either. At last, I
nodded.
That’s when he began
regarding me with amused pity. “If that’s the case, you’ll really
want to be here a little longer. Actually,” he paused and drew a long breath,
“you’ll want to be here nine years.”
“Huh?”
Roy cleared his throat, and
it seemed he stood on tiptoes because he rose up at least two inches.
“Nashville may be the creative center of the universe if you’re a
songwriter, all kinds of resources here for learning the industry, lots of
places you can sing, but folks don’t call her the nine-year town for nothing.
They say it takes nine years to break into the scene, to become an overnight
success. I’ve lived here all my life and I love her, but if you’re looking to
break into the music business, she can chew you up and spit you out like
nobody’s business.”
I must’ve looked
sad, or confused, because Roy’s face softened, his
voice grew smooth as silk, “You got people here?” “I’m on my
own.” Four simple words—the truth of it stunned
me.
“I got an extra room at my
house.”
“Uhm . . . thanks. No
offense, but I’m fine on my own.” “Ain’t trying to rain on your parade,
but I’ve seen plenty have to wait tables or worse. Randy Travis was a
cook and a dishwasher at the Nashville Palace before he could make it on his
music. Seen a good number turn around and head home, too, tail tucked between
their legs. You might need a place if—”
“I said, I’m fine.”
Roy rolled his lips inward,
considering. “Independent type, hm? Well, good luck. But don’t worry if you
change your mind.” He drew in a long breath. “If you change your mind, you just
come right on back and see Roy. I’m here most evenings after seven p.m. I just
figured if you’re new around town, trying to make your way in the country
music scene, it’d be good if you had somebody to fall back on.”
Book Review:
This
book is so much better than the title. I
would never have even picked this book up to read the blurb because the title
could have made me think “lame”. I am a
huge country music fan, and the information on the music industry showed
incredible accuracy.
I
enjoyed the book much more than I thought I would and would encourage people to
read it. This is really a case of “Don’t
judge a book by it’s cover,” or in this case it’s title.
I give
this book 3 out of 5 clouds.
This
product or book may have been distributed for review; this in no way affects my
opinions or reviews.
