113: Chapter 113: A Duet with Hall of Fame Members

The performance segment was in the second half.

The lights dimmed, and the neon sign on the barn-board wall lit up, casting a warm yellow glow onto the two bar stools and the acoustic guitar in the center of the stage.

Vince walked out from the wings, cradling his old Martin. His pace wasn't fast, but every step was steady.

Chen Mo followed behind him, his khaki suit taking on a color somewhere between amber and honey in the warm light.

Vince sat down on a bar stool, rested the guitar on his leg, and spoke into the microphone: "This song, the original singer is this young man here. In this song, he wrote about his father, about time, and about what he saw when he looked back. I'm over sixty this year, and when I look back, what I see is exactly the same as what this young man wrote."

He plucked a string, the Martin guitar resonating with a deep, low hum. ""7 Years", please help me welcome him—Chen Mo."

Applause surged forward.

Chen Mo sat down on the bar stool as the guitar intro flowed from Vince's fingertips.

The original was in B-flat minor, and they were playing it in the original key today, with the piano arrangement adapted for acoustic guitar.

The tone of the Martin was drier than a Steinway, closer to the natural sound of wood, with every note carrying the resonance of the spruce top and rosewood back and sides.

Chen Mo sang the first line, his voice bouncing between the barn boards and whiskey barrels. There was no electronic reverb, only the resonance of the wood and the breathing of the crowd.

After the first verse, Vince's guitar didn't stop. His voice entered on the second verse, providing a steady, thick bass line that supported Chen Mo's trailing notes from underneath.

His voice had been polished by decades of whiskey and church choirs; it was very grainy but had just the right temperature, like holding a cup of hot coffee in winter—the roughness of the cup allowed the fingers to feel the heat without it being too scorching.

Chen Mo and Vince's voices belonged to the same type, but in comparison, Chen Mo's wasn't as grainy.

Chen Mo's high note soared upward at the point of "Soon I'll be sixty years old," and Vince laid down a root note underneath, supporting it steadily.

As the final chorus ended, Vince let the resonance of the guitar's last chord linger for several extra beats.

His hand was still pressed on the strings when he turned his head to look at Chen Mo, then spoke into the microphone: "This kid reminds me of my son."

Chen Mo added: "Then shouldn't you be giving me an allowance?"

The round tables below erupted in laughter. Someone in the back whistled, and someone tossed their cowboy hat into the air and caught it.

Vince laughed too, plucking a string to produce a crisp, dissonant sound: "My son is always eyeing my wallet too. It seems all sons in the world are the same."

He leaned the guitar against his leg and placed a hand on Chen Mo's shoulder, lowering his voice to a level only the two of them could hear.

"That high note you just hit was steadier than when I heard you rehearse. You held back a bit during rehearsal, but you let it go just now."

Chen Mo lowered his voice and said thank you, because you caught me.

Vince stood up from the bar stool, patted his shoulder, and with his calloused hand, gave a big, emphatic thumbs-up to the entire audience.

The whole audience stood up and applauded.

Kerosene lamp-style electronic candles flickered gently on every round table, casting the red and white checkered tablecloths in a warm amber hue.

The backstage of the awards ceremony was no longer a Hollywood-style corridor of vanity, but more like a kitchen during a family gathering—

Some people leaned against the walls drinking beer, some sat on folding chairs eating barbecue, and others chatted with friends with their cowboy hats resting on their knees.

A bearded man squeezed through the crowd. Chen Mo could feel his cowboy boots thudding dully against the concrete floor.

He wore a plaid shirt, his beard as thick as a lumberjack's, and his face was flushed with two patches of red from the combined effects of whiskey and sun. When he walked up to Chen Mo, he looked like a walking wall.

He recognized the face: Luke Bryan, who had won CMA Entertainer of the Year several times.

"Chen Mo!" His voice matched his stature. He slapped Chen Mo on the back with enough force to drive a person into the ground.

"My daughter has been playing your song "Closer" at home for months. She plays it on the way to school every morning, on the way back, and even when her mom is making dinner—her mom started humming it, and then I started following along."

He hummed two lines of the chorus, but suddenly shut up at the third line, while the people around them laughed and covered their ears.

"Spare me some face," Chen Mo said, "that last note ran all the way outside of Nashville."

"Outside the city? It ran all the way to Memphis!" Luke wasn't angry at all; he slapped him hard again and turned to shout at the people nearby, "Did you hear that? He said it himself—ran to Memphis."

Miranda walked over from beside the beer keg behind Luke. She was wearing a denim blue shirt, her dark brown hair draped over her shoulders, and she held a glass of amber bourbon whiskey in her hand.

Her eyes were bright, and fine lines deepened slightly at the corners when she smiled.

"My mom is watching TV tonight too. She's a fan of yours. Ever since "See You Again", she's been going on about when that Chinese boy would come to Nashville. Do you mind taking a selfie with me? She wants me to prove I talked to you, otherwise, I won't hear the end of it when I get home."

Chen Mo said it would be an honor.

Miranda handed her glass to someone nearby, stood next to Chen Mo, and held her phone at a forty-five-degree angle.

The moment the shutter clicked, Chen Mo tilted his head slightly to adjust the angle.

She glanced down at the photo and nearly dropped her phone, exclaiming: "You're so much taller than me! I'll have to stand on my tiptoes every time I take a selfie with you. Don't move, we have to take another one—"

She took another one, this time moving the phone back a bit, and said: "Better. I'm sending this one to my mom."

Less than half a minute after sending it, Miranda's phone vibrated.

She glanced down at the screen, then burst out laughing and handed the phone to Chen Mo.

On the screen, her mother's text messages popped up like a barrage, accompanied by an emoji of an old lady spinning in circles while holding a phone—

"Thank him for me!!! I am his fan, you are not!!!"

It was followed by a voice message. Clicking on it, one could hear a silver-haired Southern old lady trying to lower her voice as she spoke into the microphone: "Miranda, you tell him he's my favorite singer, and you're not allowed to be jealous."

Chen Mo took the phone, held down the voice button, and replied: "Mrs. Lambert, you are my favorite mom too."

Then he handed the phone back to Miranda.

Miranda looked down, forwarded the voice message to her mother, and then looked up, smiling: "My mom just sent me a voice message. Do you want to hear it? She's crying on the other end."

In a corner backstage, a silver-haired man in a dark suit was leaning against the bar.

The CEO of the CMA, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, held a glass of ice water in his hand.

He walked through the crowd to Chen Mo, didn't shake hands, but instead handed over a business card.

The card was made of thick cardstock with a gold-stamped CMA logo. On the back, a line was handwritten in ballpoint pen: "Come again next time. We won't invite you to perform; we'll invite you to be a judge."

Chen Mo took the card: "What do judges need to do?"

"Sit in the judges' seats, drink, listen to music, press the buzzer, no need to wear a tie," he pointed at Chen Mo's collar, "This suit of yours is very nice, but the chairs in the judges' seats are softer than the ones off-stage."

Chen Mo tucked the business card into his inner suit pocket and said: "Then I'll come in cowboy boots next time."

The CEO walked away with his glass of ice water. When he reached the corner of the corridor, he turned back and added: "No need. The lights at the judges' seats don't shine on your feet."

That night, Chen Mo returned to the hotel.

The night sky in Nashville was completely different from Los Angeles. No light pollution, no palm trees. Outside the window was the direction of the Cumberland River, the surface shimmering with fine light under the moonlight.

In the distance, the distillery towers glowed with a few red lights. Between their flickering, one could almost smell the faint, charred aroma of grain.

He took off his khaki suit jacket, draped it over the back of the chair, and picked up his phone to call his mother.

It rang four times before connecting.

"Mom, did you watch the live stream today?"