If You Knew

I listened to the song for the seventeenth time, pressing the headphones harder against my ears, as if that might somehow make it better. 

It didn’t.

The song wasn’t good enough. Not for radio. Certainly not for the charts. I took off the headphones and tugged hard on the strings of my black hoodie, letting out a long exhale.

My co-worker Max took off his red L.A. Angels cap and scratched at the mullet curling past his neck. “Jasmine, you’ve done enough. You’ve been working on this song nonstop this whole week.”

“This isn’t going to get me anywhere.”

“The original melody was weak and he didn’t have the voice. There’s only so much we can do in post-production.” Max was our sound engineer.

I looked at the two dozen sliders and fifty-odd knobs lining the music console in front of us. “You sure you can’t add any more compression?”

He pointed to a knob. “If I turn it up any more, the guy’s gonna sound like a bot.”

I rolled the office chair back from the console and paced the wooden floor, toward the glass door stamped with McDaven Music Studio, then back to the far wall lined with plaques of gold, platinum, even diamond records.

Our boss had achieved it plenty of times. Was it so hard to get a hit song?

Max’s voice came from behind, “Maybe we get lucky the next client. You never know. The future Bruno Mars could walk in the door tomorrow.”

“Yeah right, the others would jump on him before we even met him.” Max and I were the most junior employees at this studio. “Besides, I don’t want to bank my career on luck.”

My attention turned back to the plaques for a second. They followed a certain format, each bearing the name of the record, the artist and the year it was released. My name would never be on any of them. Not as a singer. Definitely not as an Asian American. That door closed when they told me to try K-pop.

But maybe I could own a plaque like my boss. Something to show for dropping out of college without telling my parents, so they’d stop worrying about me financially.

“You know, if you sold some of your own songs to artists, you probably could get that hit faster,” Max said.

“Nope, not going to happen.”

I glanced at the plaque one last time and let out a breath, reminding myself I needed to know my own limits.

“You’re right.” I turned around. “There’s not much I can do here. It’s already Friday.” The final mix was due tomorrow at noon.

I checked my phone. Past four. “Wanna grab a drink?” I asked.

“Yeah. Can we go to Tin Can? The chick at the bar has been eyeing me. Think she likes me.” Tin Can was the name of the microbrewery a few blocks down. They ran a five-dollar-pint happy hour on Fridays. We went there a lot. When rent ate up most of your paycheck, you paid attention to deals.

I chuckled. “No. That’s just because you tip her well.”

We packed up, and Max turned off the lights. I pushed the door open harder than I meant to. It swung wide and clipped someone, sending them back half a step.

The first thing I noticed was his brown eyes, pristine and unguarded, like a stretch of redwood forest left untouched by time.

“I’m so sor—” My breath hitched as the rest of his face came into view.

Eric Tanner.

“You okay?” His voice was gentle.

Why is he checking on me? I rammed into him. “Yeah… I’m fine. Are—are you here for the studio?” I regretted the words immediately. He was a singer. Of course that was why he was here. We kept a shared spreadsheet to block time. I knew my boss had a session after me. I just hadn’t known with whom.

“Yeah, I’m early. Looks like you guys are locking up. I’ll just be outside.”

“No, please, come in.” I wasn’t going to let Eric Tanner wait outside.

I turned around and flipped back on all the lights. That was when I saw Max with his mouth hanging open beneath his mustache, probably how I’d looked a minute ago.

“You can wait there.” I pointed to the black leather couch at the end of the room with a coffee table in front of it.

He wore a half smile and walked past me. “Thanks.”

With the lights on, I got a better look at him. He wore a dark grey T-shirt and ripped jeans, a guitar bag slung across his back. If I didn’t know better, I’d have taken him for a struggling artist in his twenties, not a triple-platinum rock star in his late thirties.

He crossed to the couch and set the bag down, all of it done with an easy, unhurried grace. Without meaning to, I pictured him singing a soft rock song.

Rock, that’s it!

I rushed back to the console table and fired up my laptop again.

“Jasmine, what are you doing? I thought we were going to Tin Can.”

“Give me a second. I got an idea.” The problem was the first few verses. The client’s vocal was thin, and there wasn’t much to double. Seeing Eric and his instrument reminded me how ’90s rock often stripped the first verse down. Less is more. I pulled up the project file and deleted a few tracks from the opening section, then added a layer of white ambient noise to give it a live feel.

As I was doing this, Max quietly sat back down next to me. When I was done, I played it back for him.

“Whoa, Jasmine, that’s neat. Modern yet nostalgic. Kinda feels like one of those old ’90s tracks…”

“Like Something In The Way.” Eric said from the far end of the room.

I’d forgotten he was there. Shoot.

“Yeah that one,” Max said, lifting a hand to point at Eric.

We packed up again, finally ready for that drink, when our boss, James McDaven, stepped into the studio looking like he’d nearly run the whole way. His Hawaiian shirt clung to his broad middle, darkened with perspiration. Beads of sweat gathered on his bald scalp, above the ring of silver-gray hair circling his head.

“Is Eric here already?” James asked.

I tipped my chin toward the corner of the room where Eric sat, waiting.

“Hey, Eric. Sorry to keep you waiting.” James grabbed a tissue and wiped his face.

Eric got up. “No problem. I was just hangin’ out.”

James glanced at Max and me. “You guys done?”

“Yup. All yours,” I said, slipping my laptop into my backpack.

“Hey…Jasmine, is it?” Eric asked.

“Yeah?” I turned, surprised he knew my name. I didn’t think I’d introduced myself.

“I liked what you did there. Smart. Adding the live feel covered up the thin vocals. Wanna sit in on my session with James?”

I sucked in a sharp breath. Was I hearing it correctly? I looked to James and Max for confirmation. James gave me a what-did-you-do look. I shrugged at him, palms up. Max looked like he’d just gotten a girl’s number.

James tugged at the collar of his shirt, fanning himself. “Uh… Jasmine’s good, but she’s junior. A little unpolished, if you know what I mean.”

What he meant to say was that I may have told a few nepo babies that they should work on their singing before making an entire album. I stood by my comments. If that was the bar, then I could’ve been Beyoncé by now.

Eric lifted one corner of his mouth. “We’ve all been there. Might be time I tried somethin’ different. Switched it up.”

James thought about it for a while. “Fine. You can sit in, but I’m not guaranteeing any credits for what we work on today.”

“No problem!” Credit on a song was the currency of my field. Clients sought you out when they liked something you’d written or helped produce. But at that moment, I didn’t care. I was just glad to work with an established artist.

Both James and Eric started unpacking their things as if it were already decided. Max’s eyes moved between the three of us, uncertain. James looked at him. “Yeah, yeah... you can stay too.” Max immediately turned and pumped his fist.

The four of us gathered around the coffee table. Eric and James took the couch while Max and I pulled our chairs in. Eric brought in a demo clip for us to develop into a full rock ballad. As the music played, my eyes drifted to him. I hadn’t been this close to a famous person before. His skin was fair, short stubble roughening his jaw like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. He looked handsome for his age, and I didn’t think he was even trying.

As if he felt my gaze, he looked up. I snapped my attention back to the music, caught and embarrassed. The layers of the song were promising; the melody hooked me, the harmony rich, but the rhythm had a crusty old-school feel and needed tightening.

After the demo ended, James started the feedback session, offering a few ideas, most of which I agreed with. But he said nothing about the beat, even though I’d seen his other work.

Then Eric shifted his attention to me. “What do you think?”

James repositioned himself on the couch. Focus on the positives. I heard James’s voice from our last feedback session when he showed me a stack of client reviews.

I scratched the back of my hand as I answered Eric. “Um… I think the melody is good.”

“But…?” His broad forehead creased.

“But…” I glanced at James.

“Spill it. I’ve heard worse,” Eric said.

“You sure?”

He narrowed his eyes as if to say, try me.

Okay… he asked for it. I spoke as quickly as I could, hoping speed would blunt the damage. “The beat is flat, way too old school. No person below the age of thirty would listen to this, no—forty. I’d increase the tempo and add some hip-hop beats, maybe even a bit of electronic sound?”

All three men looked at me like I’d just shot John Lennon.

James cleared his throat. “What Jasmine meant was—”

Eric held his palm up to James, eyes locked on me, but the light brown eyes were now as dark as coffee.

Did I just piss him off?

“Show me.” His voice was flat, unreadable.

I froze, unsure what he meant. Show him how? I hadn’t made it.

He read my mind. “You must’ve heard other songs, inspirations maybe?”

The air in my lungs started flowing again. “Oh yes, of course. Like what they did for Take What You Want.” I pulled up the song on my laptop, pausing at certain sections to explain what I meant. “We can amp up the rock beats to your liking, but hip-hop modernizes it, you see.”

He leaned in. His shoulder-length hair fell forward in waves, sharpening his features as he focused. Then, he leaned back in the chair and asked, “What about the lyrics?”

“They’re…” I was about to say corny when James gave me a look. “...sentimental.”

He lifted a brow. “And that’s a bad thing?”

I dodged his eyes, focusing on his balanced jawline instead. “It’s unrealistic.” I had dated over the years, nothing serious, but none of them talked like this. Forever’s too short. I scoffed in my head. Maybe until the next dating profile came along.

Silence stretched. When I looked up, he had his brow raised like he was waiting to hear the rest.

Fine. “Look, people sing about sex these days. Your lips undress me, candles drippin’ on your body, fuck me til day light, WAP—”

Max spit a huge mouthful of Monster energy drink in the air.

“Max, what the hell!” I turned to him.

Max had this incredulous look on his face, and I glanced at James, whose jaw was equally unhinged. Just then I realized what I was saying, and to whom.

Shit. I knew then what would be the topic of my next feedback session.

The room went quiet. I reached back and ran my palm down the length of my ponytail. “Um… these—these aren’t my lyrics, just so you know. They’re from Billboard. Top songs.”

After a moment, Eric exhaled and leaned back on his chair. “I see what James meant. Anyway, appreciate your honesty, but um… it’s a bit too trendy for me.”

Eric then turned his attention to James while I stared at my feet, focusing on the dirt mark on the white tip of my Vans. What was I thinking? Who writes lyrics like that for a rock ballad? Gosh, I should just go back to Indiana. At this rate, I was going to piss off all my clients before I met the next Bruno. Still, I wasn’t wrong.

After some back-and-forth, Eric went with a blend of James’s and my suggestions but didn’t let us touch the lyrics. I stayed behind to make the changes while James took Eric out for dinner, and Max ducked next door to grab us burritos.

By the time they came back, I already had a rough version of what we’d agreed on. After listening to it, Eric didn’t say anything but gave me a lingering look. I could tell he was impressed.

Since he was leaving for Seattle the next day and wouldn’t be back for a week, he wanted to record that night. Max helped him set up in the booth, and within minutes, everything was ready.

When Max came back to the control room and dimmed the lights, James pressed the button and the recording light flicked on. The control room went still. Through the glass, we watched him.

Eric took a couple of deep breaths and started strumming. Music filled both rooms. He leaned into the mic as the first verse began. His voice was full and raspy, like he was telling a long-forgotten once-upon-a-time.

I stood up and moved behind Max. “How did you do that? That’s the fuller sound I wanted.”

“Huh?” Max lifted one side of his headphones. “I didn’t touch anything.”

I didn’t believe him. I leaned over the console. The compression knob was dialed all the way down. It was only Eric’s voice. No tricks. No polish. Damn...

His voice brightened at the pre-chorus and sounded almost hopeful. By the time he hit the chorus, I put on a pair of headphones so I could hear him better. His voice was like a gospel that you wanted to believe. If he was selling snake oil, I’d buy it.

Somehow, the lyrics didn’t feel corny anymore. They made me want to know the kind of love he was singing about, the kind that made forever feel too short.

James leaned toward me, one hand rolling his silver beard between his fingers. “He’s good, ain’t he?”

I nodded without taking my eyes off him. It wasn’t that he was hitting high notes or showing off technique. It was the way he pulled you into the story and made you care.

For the first time in two years, I wanted to sing again. He showed me what a voice could do without the widest range or the fullest sound. I took a deep breath, the kind that expanded the diaphragm and gave you enough air to carry riffs and vibrato. The kind that could breathe life back into a dying dream.

Then I caught my own reflection in the glass. Almond-shaped eyes, double eyelids. A prized feature for a girl in my culture, but unmistakably Asian. Stop. When was the last time an Asian artist won the Grammys Album of the Year? I asked myself.

As he strummed the last chord, his eyes flicked at me through the glass, head tilted, as if to challenge me—do you believe now?

My pulse raced, but I looked away, not ready for the lesson.