For Webb, when things were as bad as they could be, there was only one way to escape. Music.
He found a street corner in downtown Nashville. He set his guitar case on the ground, pulled out his acoustic, left the case open for donations, sat down and leaned against the wall behind him. The brick was warm from the afternoon sun, and Webb tried to focus on the pleasantness of that feeling.
It was difficult, however, to think beyond what he was facing. He had written a song good enough for a producer to steal for another artist, yet it looked like he had no chance of proving the song was his. He needed thousands of dollars to fight Gerald’s legal action against him, and he’d need thousands more if he lost. As Jordan Marvin outlined the situation, no judge would side with Webb. He’d have to sign over the rights to the song—his song—just to be able to leave Nashville with the last of his money in his checking account. And the same producer who was stealing that song from him refused to deliver all the other songs that Webb had not only paid for already but also put in endless hours recording in the studio.
Webb closed his eyes. Yup. That about covered it.
Only one song would help him disappear into the music. “To Get Here.” About a journey to get to someone you loved. It was one of his originals for the album, and one of the studio songs he’d spent so much money and time on, only to have Gerald Dean take it from him in the end.
But Gerald Dean couldn’t steal the song from Webb’s heart.
Webb kept his eyes closed. He didn’t need to look at his guitar to find the frets and strings and chords. He hit the strings hard.
Spinning wheels over dotted lines
You’re a moving picture in my mind
And I keep on looking round the bend
For that sweet, sweet moment I see you again.
Hold on, baby, let me catch my breath
From seeing you smile, it’s as good as it gets
And every step felt like a year
But it would have been worth a thousand miles,
Oh, to get here.
He was so lost in the song that when a strange noise broke through, it took him a few moments to realize that it was applause from half a dozen people who had stopped in front of him and his guitar case.
Webb gave them a half smile. He wasn’t doing this for them. He was doing it for himself.
There was another song he’d worked on with Gerald Dean. Not one he’d written himself but one he’d wanted to record for a friend who loved the song. The song about war and peace. About valley people attacking mountain people in an act of greed and hate. That seemed to fit the situation too.
So Webb played and sang his remake of the song, shifting some major chords of the original to minor.
More people stopped. Dollar bills floated into his guitar case. A couple of fives and tens too.
“You rock!” someone said.
It was a decent balm for his soul—except for the phrase “You rock,” which reminded him of “Rock the Boat.”
Then it occurred to Webb that when he wrote the song, he’d really believed what he was saying. Want to reach your dreams? Live life loud. Bring the roof down. Rock the boat. Make sure that when you look back, you have no regrets.
And now he was feeling sorry for himself. So sorry he was thinking about signing that piece of paper in the lawyer’s office and taking the safe and sure way out?
Forget that, Webb told himself. He wasn’t going down that easily. It was time to rock the boat.
So he hit the opening chords hard, shifted into the up-tempo portion and leaned into the vocals, grinning widely as he played the chorus.
You gonna have to know we’re gonna mess up
You gotta know we might wreck stuff
You’re gonna see us learn our lessons
But it’s gonna be our best of.
Yeah, we’re gonna rock the boat
That’s the only way to know
We’re gonna have to rock the boat
Yeah, that’s the only way to go.
The small crowd was clapping to the beat, and when he reached the chorus for the third time, some people sang it with him.
Great moment. No, awesome moment. Wasn’t this what it was all about?
Webb noticed someone had pulled out a phone and was shooting a video.
And that’s when he realized something he should have thought of a lot sooner.
The realization felt like a current of electricity running from his guitar and through his body. It was such a strong bolt of inspiration that he almost jumped to his feet without finishing the song. But there was the clapping and the singing, and no way was he going to break the amazing connection the music had created between strangers.
So he forced himself to play the song to the end, even though he felt embarrassed by the hollers of appreciation.
When he stood and the crowd moved on, he reached into his guitar case and pushed past the bills for the small compartment where he’d put the business card with Harley’s address on the back.
It was Thursday. He hadn’t planned on accepting Harley’s invitation to go hang with some of his friends for a jam session that evening, but Webb’s bolt of inspiration had changed all that.
Yup.
Tonight Webb was going to find Harley and definitely rock the boat.