All I Need Is You and a Microphone

By Riley Smith

Missy Blue has that coveted combination of skill, talent, beauty, and sex appeal to really make it big in the Los Angeles music scene. The only thing missing is stage presence — she’s suffering a bout of crippling stage fright, culminating in a full-blown panic attack during her first big show. At this point, she is ready to throw out her guitar and never look back; but with the encouragement of her therapist, along with her supportive friends, she decides to take some baby steps toward conquering her phobia.

Leann is a semi-successful stand-up comedian and, like many who came before her, she is also a true cynic — she does not trust anyone and basically has made a living out of tearing other people down, including her students at the comedy school she founded. But to be fair, she knows you have to grow a thick skin to be successful in this business, and she does want to see her students succeed… Most of them, anyway.

When Missy decides to take a comedy class as her first step toward facing her fear of the stage, she is horrified to find out it’s the abrasive Leann heading the lessons. The two women clash immediately and tensions build — but when Leann is caught in a vulnerable moment, Missy begins to see through her tough façade… maybe they each can learn from each other and overcome their fears together.

This story beautifully weaves together the journeys of two women who have lost their creative voice — and with it, their sense of self. Sometimes we need a muse to inspire and illuminate our art, to show us who we are and that nothing is ever lost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Feb 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781094421605

Riley Smith

N/A

Book preview

Prologue: Missy

Missy Blue had never played to a crowd this large. Not to mention rowdy. Most of the open mics she’d been to were quiet affairs — late nights in honky-tonks or other folksy kinds of places.

This was a Los Angeles bar. It didn’t even feel like a bar, not really. It felt more like a nightclub — the type of place where ravers went in the middle of their raging evening.

It wasn’t her kind of place. But ever since moving to Los Angeles, she wasn’t sure what her kind of place was anymore.

She was opening up for an electronic music act. She still couldn’t believe her agent had booked the gig. It’s the biggest venue you’ve ever played, he had said. Careers are made on risks. Exposure. Even if half the audience doesn’t like you, that’s still another hundred who could fall in love.

This was the same agent who had set Missy up with an Instagram and a Twitter and all that crap. She just wanted to make music, but now she had to learn digital marketing as well. Several times a week, she went places just to get good Insta photos so she could tag them #indiesongwriter.

But none of that social media armor was here for her now. These people didn’t know her music. They were here for RAT-BASS.

What a name: RAT-BASS. And of course it’s in all capital letters.

Missy knew she wasn’t what the people in this crowd were looking for. She was never what people wanted, it seemed. She was still reeling from the earlier phone call with her mother, when she had been berated, again, for not settling down in their town and marrying her high school sweetheart — who was apparently now a very successful real estate agent.

Years ago, when she’d left Oklahoma, Missy had known that small town life wasn’t what she wanted. Now she felt like she didn’t know anything.

She stared in the mirror of the bathroom backstage, the only place where she could get some quiet. She’d been mobbed by the obviously high members of RAT-BASS, one of whom had asked her to come onstage and freestyle rap with them.

She had said, I don’t know how to rap.

And he’d insisted, You look like you’ve got rhythm. I’m sure you can flow.

The retort was on the tip of her tongue: Just because I’m black doesn’t mean I know how to rap. I’m a guitarist, a songwriter, and a singer — not Megan Thee Stallion. But she just fake smiled at the guy and rushed off to the bathroom to get away from his cross-faded breath.

She looked in the mirror and barely recognized herself. Whose hair was this, curly and close-cropped? She’d always liked her long hair, but she couldn’t afford both rent and the salon appointments out here.

Whose lips were these? Whose dark eyes underneath false lashes? The dim light of the club bathroom wasn’t helping — it dulled her features until they almost disappeared.

She was thirty years old today. She’d left Oklahoma twelve years ago; first for Nashville, then several hops around Texas. Nothing ever hit, until an LA agent had reached out to her after spying her on some honky-tonk’s YouTube channel.

You’re eminently marketable, her agent, Mark Malone, had assured her.

Staring in the mirror, she didn’t see a person. She saw a collection of daily concessions and tiny defiances that nobody noticed. Like how she still wouldn’t wear makeup — except for the false lashes and lip liner her agent’s social media adviser had insisted she wear for performances, so she looks better in photos.

It’s all wrong. The words spilled from her lips without her realizing it. They were barely audible under the pumping, slamming music.

She said them louder. She needed to hear it, although she didn’t know what it meant. Soon, she was shouting it, screaming.

A knock at the door.

She went silent. A voice from outside said, You alright in there?

She felt ridiculous. Where was all this coming from? She was going to go out and sing her songs, something she’d done a million times before.

I’m fine. She said it as much for herself as for whoever was knocking on the door.

The voice outside added, Okay, good. Because you go on in ten. This crowd is insane tonight. Hope you’re ready to be loud!

She wasn’t, but she couldn’t stop now. She had to go out and perform for this crowd who was probably high on ecstasy. Hopefully party drugs would make her music sound better, not worse.

Her style was more Woodstock and flower child than this place, that was for sure. But she still left the bathroom, steeling her nerves.

It was just another stage. Just another crowd.

But was that any better? Trying to turn it into just a job? When music was everything to her soul, how could she possibly reduce it to something she just had to get through?

She hurried to the small backstage area, which was the best the club could offer as a green room. The members of RAT-BASS were amping up by screaming in each other’s faces and smacking one another. In a corner, next to her ratty backpack, her guitar waited patiently in its case.

Compared to her backpack, the guitar case was pristine. It was made of soft black leather with silver inlays. It was a work of art in itself, but it wasn’t anything special when compared with the supple instrument contained within.

She gripped her guitar — careful not to look at the body of it where a signature rested, haunting her. It was from her favorite musician: a folk singer not known to many, but before thirty, they had already recorded one hundred songs. In fact, they hadn’t lived past twenty-seven.

A legend. Would Missy Blue ever be a legend? Is that what she wanted?

Right now she just wanted this night to be over. The smell of the bar made her nauseous. People were smoking weed in the front row, she was sure of it — the smell was suffocating once she walked onstage.

The audience screamed when they saw her. She got set up, not looking at them, knowing she should be smiling and bantering and getting them warmed up. It was already too warm in here. She wished she hadn’t worn a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, but she also didn’t know what else she could have worn. She had nearly paralyzed herself with indecision earlier picking out an outfit.

She sat down with her guitar and leaned toward the microphone. The audience didn’t quiet down at all.

Hello. I’m Missy Blue.

She was totally inaudible. The roaring crowd was too much for her soft, deep tones. It was like she was the calm underneath the roaring top of an ocean during a storm. Maybe the waters underneath were still smooth and cool, but you would have no way of knowing. The waves would rip you apart before you could dive.

She took a deep breath. She tried again, but she could feel her voice scratching as she finally shouted just loud enough to be heard.

They weren’t going to get quieter. They were only going to get louder and angrier. If she didn’t entertain them, they’d turn on her.

The lights burned her. Two hundred pairs of eyes stared at her in an indistinguishable throng. The stage was too empty, made claustrophobic by the smell of drinks and drugs and sweat.

Was this her dream?

It’s all wrong.

That was the last thing she remembered saying before she passed out.

Chapter One: Leann

It wasn’t the worst class Leann had ever taught, but it was far from the best. Nobody had the spark. They were all doing fine, but there wasn’t anybody who she would sincerely recommend to stay in the stand-up comedy business.

They were all doing their best, though. Paying attention. Writing their jokes and avoiding being shitty racists or misogynists — for the most part. There’s always one guy who has to try and be edgy by repeating jokes that were already tired in the 16th century.

Today’s lesson was about openers. She closed out class by saying, "Remember, don’t make things hard on yourself. Use your location. Mention the city name and make a joke about it. Just something simple and observational that people will get and won’t offend them too much. If your style is aggressive, it’s okay to be aggressive, but remember: being an asshole isn’t a joke."

As she said that last part, the class repeated it along with her. It was her mantra for new stand-ups, who often fell into familiar pitfalls.

She gave everyone their homework for the week. I want you to write a list of ten cities and come up with ten opening jokes about each city. These don’t have to be complicated. People just like being referenced. For instance, I once did a show in Phoenix where I opened by saying, ‘Phoenix! It’s so fucking hot here. What is wrong with you people? Why do you live here?’ I got three minutes out of just roasting these people for living in a place that was already roasting them physically. They loved it. Keep it simple. Phoenix equals hot. That’s all you need. Any questions?

Nobody had any, which was common for the last minutes of class. It was one of the afternoon classes, and almost everybody in it had a night job or dinner to get to immediately after the class let out at 5 p.m.

Leann said, Alright, get the fuck out.

Everybody chuckled. They were used to her foul mouth by now, and it didn’t phase them much when she swore at them.

She hung back for a moment in case anybody did have a question. The stragglers shoved notebooks into their purses, while the more sociable kids chatted in the hall.

Kids. She chuckled at her own choice of mental word. Nobody here was a kid, but they all felt young to Leann.

The youngest was twenty-one: a college dropout who had escaped an accounting degree at the University of New Mexico to try and make it in Los Angeles. The oldest was actually older than Leann: a forty-three-year-old who Leann had actually seen in bit roles playing moms and teachers the last few years. She looked like a sweet lady but acted like a

Reviews for All I Need Is You and a Microphone

[Kelly Smith · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Pull the curtain back on this entertaining story that spotlights the love sometimes found in broken things. A vibrant mix of comedy and cool setting!