Music my passion. Write my own tunes. Rocky blues. Stage name, Steve Preston, scans better than Straussbourg. Built my recording studio in basement room from scratch. Top of line hard and software. I write, play, record, mix, stream. Good reviews. Nothing big.

Get a beer from the fridge. Check email. Odd one. “Open me first,” right out of Lewis Carroll. “Singing, my destiny. No songs. Desperate. Roommate Kira, gave me your email. Said you write songs, good friend. Using hidden cell. Send song before they find it.” End. No name.

Kira’s roommate? Kira Langford. Long, long time lost love. My band singer. Damaged beyond repair. Detox after detox. Rehab after rehab. Psych ward. Lost track. Now this? What the hell?

Trusting Kira, I email a song, blues/rock ballad, “Broken up.”

Weeks. Not a peep. Whoever “they” are musta found her cell.

Put it out of my mind, gotta pay the bills. Sound engineer for whoever. Made a bit of a name mixing and mastering. Pull all-nighter on way late tracks. Coffeed out, exhausted. Try to sleep on the studio couch. Head just hits the cushion. Fucking doorbell blasts Hendrix’s “Manic Depression.” Meant to change it, something less…manic. I bolt upstairs. Open the front door. What the fuck? Am I awake? Dreaming? A girl. About my age, tangled, knotted dirty blond hair, filthy hospital gown, bloody bare feet, staring deep into my eyes.

“It’s me. The singer. Kira’s friend.

“How’s Kira doing?

“Hung herself. Torn bed sheet.”

Kira? Dead? Jesus.

“I need a bathroom. Now”.

“It’s right down…” Before I can finish, she starts peeing on the floor, unmoving. I take her hand and rush her into the john as she leaves a trail. Lifts her gown squats and finishes. She floats out past me, like a sylph. “I broke out. I’ll stay here. They won’t find me. I need to sleep. Now.”

“Ah, use my…my bedroom. Down the hall.” Slow baby steps. Me behind. She walks into the room, turns, faces, “No sex…music.” Crashes. Out cold. I close the door, get a sponge, clean the floor.

Freaked. My mind races. Broke out? Stay here? Get a beer from the fridge. Sit on the couch. Still groggy from last night. I’ll deal with this in the morning. Chug beer. Turn out the light. Lay back…yeah, in the morning. Fuck.

Music wakes me. From my studio. My band’s backing track for “Broken up.” I go downstairs. She stands at the console. Me, flummoxed, “How the hell did you…?”

She, not listening. “Let’s do it. Now.”

Spellbound, I sit at the board. Restart the track. Four bar blues open…then…then. She sings. Fuck me. Am I hearing this? A natural. Savant. Owns it. My song. Now hers. Playback. Got it. One take.

“What’s your name?”.

“Pick one.” Silently walks upstairs, into the bedroom. Crashes, again.

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

Next morning. She’s back in the studio. Listening. I make coffee. Two mugs. Go down. Hand “her” one. “Coffee”?

“No. Makes you crazy.”

Crazy? Crazier?

She finds scrap of paper on the console. “What’s this, songbird?”

“Working title. Album I’m writing.”

“Then that’s my name, “Songbird.”

“Ok, Songbird. We should talk.”

Not listening, again. “I have to change my look, so they won’t know me. Go to the drugstore. Get hair dye…blue…light blue.” I don’t even question. “I’ll get clean. Go! Now.”

At the drugstore. I see a flyer in the window. A picture. It’s her. Songbird. Ashley Carter. Escapee from Belford Sanitarium. If you see her call Dr. William Menderson.

I write the phone number on the shopping receipt, put it in my wallet.

Back to my place. Songbird, Ashley, whoever, sitting on the closed toilet seat. Towel wrapped. “Got the dye?” Hand her the box. She kicks door closed with badly scratched foot.

I haven’t eaten in days. Starved. I make tuna sandwiches. Her voice from behind startles. “Look at me. Now.” I turn. Eyes pop. Her hair, cut ultra-short, color, blue fade. “I used your beard trimmer.” She wears my extra-large Kurt Cobain tee, above her knees. I have no words. Instant icon. “Songbird” is born. Never mention the flyer.

She needs clothes. “My sister’s in LA. Left a lot of stuff. Check out her closet.” She emerges in a somber grey smock. Feet bare. Still the girl standing in my doorway.

Back in the studio. I play her the songs from my album. She wanders around the room quietly, then, “Keep the music. Lose the lyrics. I’ll write my own.” Didn’t even ask. Ordered. She scribbles nonstop. Page after page. Her words flow, raw poetry, torn from her life. It beyond works. We lay them down. Mind blowing. I have to tell someone. I call Rick Salter, my drummer, best friend. He comes by with Sandy, lead guitarist and Brandon bass guitar. My back up band since forever. Songbird walks into the studio. Heads snap. Mouths drop. “Guys, meet Songbird, our new…singer.” She nods, slight smile, I think. Sits yoga style on the floor. I play the album. Not a word, not a sound, not a move, the guys frozen. It ends. Silence.

Songbird, from her perch, “We need to play…for them. I want them to hear me. I have to sleep. Now.” She blithely disappears upstairs.

Sandy, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where did…?”

“Songbird?”

“Yeah. Songbird.”

I tell them. They’re hooked.

We practice with her until she nods, “Yes.” Her moves, slow, vulnerable, hypnotic. Her spirit engulfs the studio. She nails every song. We call our new band, “Songbird.” What else?

I call in a favor. Frank Pierson, owner of Club Nuance. Pierson generously gives us a Saturday night spot, sight unseen, opening for Rivers End, an up and comer.

Club Nuance. Packed for Rivers End. Pierson introduces us as crowd chants, “Rivers End! Rivers End!” Pierson, “Cool it! River’s next.” Crowd boos, hisses. “First, we welcome a new band Songbird.” Audience claps lamely. Songbird still wearing my sister’s grey smock, still barefoot steps to the microphone. Caresses it. Sways through the opening, then the voice emerges. Total control. The audience quiets to a murmur. Moves closer to the stage. They know they are witnessing something unique, Entranced. One song after another, Songbird weaves her spell. My heart swells. Halfway through the set, I notice Songbird’s mood changing. She gets more and more aggressive. The band nervously eyes each other. Then, a manic explosion as Songbird screams, “Fuck you mother fuckers! Aimless fucking sheep! Stupid. Followers. You should bow to me. Now! You are mine. Now! I’ll will lead you. Now!” Audience frozen, as her rant intensifies, “Bunch of mindless asshole cocksuckers!” She spits at them, arms flailing. Throws the mike stand into the crowd. A girl is hit, goes down. I run up, try to pin hers arms. She faces me. A crazed beast. Scratches my cheek deeply. Pierson nods to the bouncers. They take the stage. She fights with inhuman strength. Then, drops to the floor, quivering convulsively. EMTs show up, strap Songbird onto the gurney, wheeled into ambulance. Squeals away, siren blaring. Tears and blood stream down my face. I slowly take out my wallet…slip out the phone number. Make the call.

I meet Dr. Menderson in the ER. Reads me the riot act.

Head bowed, I say nothing. All my fault. Nauseous. Guilt ridden. Kira? Songbird? Nightmares rake my dreams. I must see her.

I call. Go to the Sanitarium. Menderson kindly leads me to her room. She’s strapped down. Does not recognize me. Lives in the songbird world locked forever in her head.

A month. Two. Scratches healed, scarred forever. Play her album obsessively. I call to arrange another visit. Menderson’s deep baritone, “I’m sad to say Ashley is dead.” Complications from electro-therapy.”

Kira. Songbird. Dead.

I drop to the couch. Vomit bitter bile. Recluse for days, compulsively spreading her album over the internet. Dedicated to Kira. It’s quickly noticed. Notoriety didn’t hurt. Picked up by a major label. Streamed everywhere. National hit.

“Songbird” goes platinum.

Tribute. Two lost souls, dying to sing.