Music in My Heart: My Journey with Melody

On Monday night, Dwayne drives us to the recording studio in the basement of a record shop. As soon as I step out of the car, I hear music. Melody asks where it’s coming from, and Dwayne says it’s the studio: someone’s making a record, piped out through speakers onto the sidewalk. It’s his voice we’ll hear next.

We wait in the record shop for the recording to finish. Dwayne paces the aisles while Melody and I go through the albums. I’ve never seen so many records, rows of flat, square covers. Grammy’s collection fit into one little cupboard.

Melody races to a section of small records in paper sleeves and pulls out a shiny black disc with a bright blue Motown label, “Move On Up” by The Three Ravens. It’s Dwayne’s record. So Melody’s voice is on here too? She nods, grinning. I wish I could listen to the record right now, but a few guys with instrument cases come up from the basement, and Dwayne waves us toward the stairs.

Downstairs, a man wearing headphones named Mac nods at Dwayne and asks where the band is. Dwayne says it’s just him. Mac shakes his head, he means musicians. Dwayne asks if Mac has a house band. Mac snorts. This isn’t Motown, they can’t afford to keep musicians on payroll.

Dwayne sighs. He could play piano too, but he’s been so focused on vocals. Mac frowns and asks if Dwayne wants to reschedule, if he’s not ready. Dwayne’s shoulders sag. He glances at the clock like he can’t wait another second.

Melody pipes up, we can be his band, just like we practiced. My stomach drops. Practicing in someone’s living room is nothing like playing in a studio for a recording thousands of people could hear.

I feel frozen, just like I did in Hitsville, but playing keyboard for Dwayne’s recording feels even scarier. I can’t pretend to play like I pretended to sing, and I can’t mess this up!

Mac frowns at Melody and me like we’re little kids, but Dwayne says we’re good, we can do it. I stand taller. He believes in us, he needs us. He hands me the sheet music.

The notes blur for a moment, until Melody picks up a tambourine and the jingle clears my head. At Dwayne’s cue, I start to play, and I do pretty well. We only need two takes. It’s like Dwayne and the Banana Splits have played together forever. Then, before I know it, it’s over.

I follow Dwayne and Melody back upstairs into the record shop, where we stop short, a group of people is gathered outside the front window. Melody asks what they’re here for, and the clerk says they’re waiting for more, they love our sound.

Wow, the people outside liked our music, they want more. Melody bites her lip, trying not to smile too wide, and Dwayne steps into the crowd like a superstar, head held high. Following him, I make a plan: search online for his record once I’m home, and maybe hear my own keyboard playing. I may never be a superstar, but walking beside Dwayne, proud of what we just did, I think that’s okay. I guess you don’t always have to be the star to shine.