Walls Come Tumblin’ Down

Part Four:
Walls Come Tumblin’ Down

The airport security guard eyed my guitar case. “You with the Temptations?” he said. “They’re on this flight, you know.” Wink-wink. Yeah, right, buddy. How can you jerk my chain so early in the day? It's only 6 a.m.

I had raced from the remote parking at DFW Airport to catch my 6:30 a.m. flight to Indianapolis. I was on my first music pilgrimage, a trip to see my brother Jack, who would take me to the next level in my quest to learn how to write a song. Just as I raced up to the attendant at the American Eagle ticket counter, she walked away and said, “You’re too late. You’ll have to take the next flight.”

“What?" I protested, "the plane is still here!” She informed me my wait would be five hours. “But the plane is still here!” I insisted. No matter. I was to wait in the frickin’ terminal for the entire morning.

I headed to the gate, shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun exploding off the silver metal of the jet, which had yet to pull away. Twenty minutes later the same attendant walked by with an 8 x 10 glossy photo in her hand of the Temptations, all of whom had given her their autographs -- all of who had just boarded the very plane that she had denied me, and which was just now pulling away from the terminal.

What kismet got knocked off-kilter by missing that flight with the Temptations?!!? What if I had had a chance to sit next to one of them -- what better way could there have been to start my music pilgrimage? I was robbed. I settled into my dismal fortune and pulled out my guitar. Soon a lovely chord progression came to me, and for the next four hours I teased out a new song. I had the chords and the melody...but the elusive words, as usual, did not surface.

Once at Jack’s, the pilgrimage continued to limp along. He had been placed on call with his job as an IT specialist with the Veterans Administration system, which meant that he spent nearly the entire weekend fielding calls from dudes and damsels in techno-distress from VA hospitals all over the country. His music instruction was fleeting, but he did give me a “Songwriting for Dummies” book which I practically inhaled.

That Saturday I woke up with a brand-new tune in my head and the words “biddy barlor” running through my mind. Biddy barlor? What the heck is that? It made no sense, but the words and rhythm and melody wouldn’t let go. I ran the syllables over and over in my mouth like tasting peas and carrots in a soup. Soon more syllables came, and before I knew it, I was running my fingers across the fretboard to a new, bluesy-funky melody. “Biddy barlor” soon morphed in to “Busy body,” and in short order the words emerged: “I’ll be your busybody, won’t you come and dance with me? No need to talk about it, get up baby dance with me...”

I’d done it! I’d finally written words to a song! I raced downstairs to tell my brother the good news. He took me down to his basement home studio, where he recorded the results of the weekend-- the slow, sweeping Song-Without-Words that came to me while I waited at the airport, and an barely-baked version of “Busy Body.” I couldn’t wait to get back to Dallas and share these new fruits with the other members of the band.

Next: Now We’re Cookin’
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Copyright 2008 Mary Guthrie