lime-green dress. Her lips were red and her smile came readily when I walked toward them, and I found myself grinning back like a fool. Money was staring at me like his guitar case held a tommy gun, and I was about to be sprayed.
“Esther told us what you did,” he accused. “I don’t know what your game is, man.”
“We’re trying to get a label, Money. Atlantic is the best. That’s the goal. I’m not playing any games,” I said, but his suspicions brought me back to earth and wiped the smile from my face.
Ahmet was in and out, and the session was handled by the engineer, Tom Dowd, and Pop’s friend Jerry Wexler, who greeted me warmly. He didn’t mention talking to Pop, but I knew he had. We listened back to “Any Man” and ended up adding instrumentation to it instead of starting fresh with the whole band. Money complained incessantly about how we’d recorded it without them, but Lee Otis shook his head, awed.
“That’s perfect, just the way it is,” he whispered.
Alvin agreed with Lee Otis, and we ended up adding a simple snare-and-cymbal jazz rhythm, a bass accent, and Money’s guitar echoing the hook on the chorus. Then we moved on to “Beware.”
“Beware” was heavy on vocals, and Tom had recorded the live session we’d done for Ray Charles. It was powerful, stripped and soulful, and when we tried to make it better, we lost the magic. We cleaned up some sections, added some bass, and then left it alone too, much to Money’s dismay.
“This isn’t Minefield! That’s Benny and Esther,” he grumbled. We recorded “Itty Bitty” with full instrumentation and minimal piano, but it was missing some of the sparkle of the other two.
“It’s missing Benny,” Alvin said. “He doesn’t shine on this one.”
“This one is Minefield’s song,” Money grumbled. “This one is us.”
“You’ve got thirty minutes. Where do you want to spend them?” Ahmet asked, rejoining us at the end of the session. “I know Benny always has something cooking.”
I had other songs. But they were all earmarked for other projects and other artists. The only other song that might work was the variation of “The Bomb Johnson” I’d toyed with a few times, and as much as I wanted to hear Esther sing it, I wasn’t sure how it would be received. I had no idea how she felt about her father . . . or if she even knew he was her father.
“You need a signature song. Something that tells a story,” Ahmet suggested, his face screwed up in concentration. “Like Billie Holiday . . .”
“Like Billie Holiday and ‘Strange Fruit,’” I finished for him.
Ahmet just nodded, his hands steepled. “Devastating.”
“You ever heard her sing it?” Money asked me, his voice cold.
“Yeah. I have. People would go to the Café Society just to hear her sing that song. It’s not the kind of song that makes you a star. It’s definitely not radio friendly. Nobody will play it. But . . .” I looked for the words to explain.
“It might not be the kind of song that makes you a star. It’s the kind of song that makes you a legend,” Ahmet supplied. “It’s the kind of song people won’t ever forget.”
I nodded. That was it, exactly.
“I don’t know, man. We need radio friendly. That song . . . that song just hurts,” Alvin whispered. “That ain’t us.”
“I agree. You gotta earn a song like that,” Money said.
“Maybe you need something a little less artistic and a little more rock and roll,” Ahmet said.
“You ever heard the song about Bo Johnson?” I asked, going for it. I played the basic melody, holding my breath, avoiding Esther’s eyes. I had a feeling about this song, and it was now or never. If it didn’t go over well, no matter. But if anyone should sing it, Esther should. Minefield should.
“Is it yours?” Ahmet asked.
“Nah. It’s never been recorded. It’s a folk song, I guess. The kind of song that is sung and gets repeated, and nobody really knows where it came from or who started it.”
“Bo Johnson? Bo Johnson . . . the boxer?” Esther asked, her brow furrowing.
“Yes. That Bo Johnson.”
“What? He’s Esther’s daddy!” Alvin said, smiling. “Bo Johnson, best heavyweight champion in the whole world. There’s a song about him?”
They were all looking at me, waiting, but no one seemed alarmed. If anything, they looked pleased.
“Yeah. Well . . . I knew that. About Esther.”
“You did?” she asked, astonished.
“Yeah. My pop knew