COMPLETED
Josephine Lightfoot is the daughter of Joseph Lightfoot, an award winning songwriter. The brunette spent her time as a kid learning to play the piano, violin, and guitar. When it comes to music she's hard to impress, and keeps her dearly b...
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Seattle, WA Summer of 1997 Three Years Earlier
"What if you switched up the flow, like this—" I hum a tune, my fingers gliding over the piano keys. "The chorus comes more natural that way."
When I look up from the Bechstein, I'm surprised to find his blue eyes trained on me instead of the lyrics on the page. I snap my gaze back down to my hands. "And then it would change in intensity." I motion towards the chorus written on the yellow lined paper, playing a few absentminded notes. "I think it could be pretty powerful." I look back up and he hasn't shifted his gaze. "What?"
"When you talk about music you get this look. It's hard to explain." There's a soft smirk playing on his lips.
"What do you mean?" I can feel a blush creeping up my neck. I try to look everywhere but his striking gaze.
"You love it." My head shakes in a nod. I go to stand from the wooden bench, but he takes my wrist. "It's not finished." He motions towards the papers.
Chris had been waiting at Spin City that next Wednesday after our initial meeting. He's a stubborn man, not likely to give up without a fight. I'd been questioned relentlessly about my opinions, about what I believed gave the music soul, like I said his voice possessed during that first encounter.
"Experience," I said, watching him rest his elbow on the glass counter top. "Life gives music meaning. You can sing about heartache, torment, loss all day long, but if you can't feel it yourself, if you can't live inside it, it's just nonsense. It's just words with a guitar behind them."
"So, the more trauma we endure, the better the sound." His head nods up and down in thought.
"It's art, after all."
"And you think I've got that kind of soul in my voice?" I hesitate, not wanting to inflate his rockstar ego anymore than it already is. "That I have it, but I'm not using it."
"Why does it matter what I think? Soundgarden found success and made its mark without my help."
"I want to do something different."
"I think," I started, looking out the window, the back of the shop, anywhere but at the intensity of his stare. "That if you stripped it all down to just you, just your voice and you channeled all of your experiences, I think you'd be unstoppable."
A month down the road, we're here sitting at this piano working on his first solo album. Eight hours a day, five days a week together I've learned quite a bit about Chris Cornell.
"We could use a break." I try to brush him off, but he's persistent.
"Play something for me." I roll my eyes, trying to turn back for the kitchen, but his grip on my arm tightens before he uses his strength to drag me back into a seated position.
