Mick grabs a broom from beside the refrigerator and beckons her to the space in the middle of the loft, at the end of the boardroom table closest to her bedroom. Hendlin follows.
He hands her the broom. She looks at it and her face conveys the obvious question.
“This is your mic stand,” he says, taking a seat on the table, his feet resting on one of the chairs.
Hendlin takes the broom and faces him.
“I wanna see you communicate without singing,” he tells her.
“Without music?” she asks, puzzled.
“If you can’t show me what’s in your soul, you might as well be a backup singer. The lyrics should be in your body. Show me. Show me what you’ve got.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Sing without singing. Communicate words without sound.”
“No, it isn’t,” Mick says, leaning forward. “It’s the difference between good and great, between extraordinary and sublime.”
“But singing is about sound.”
“No, not completely. When you’re really on key, it’s about the feeling between the notes, that’s giving the voltage to the lyrics. Charlie Chaplin made the world laugh and cry without ever uttering a word.”
“And you want me to do that now?”
“You’ll figure it out. You’ll figure out how it’s to come from your body. We all do it differently. Just tune into how your body wants to communicate, how it wants to share, and let it flow from there.”
Hendlin looks at the broom and then back at him. “Huh?”
Mick hops off the table and walks over. He takes back the broom and with his free hand, touches her pinky finger with his.
“Feel that?” he asks.
“No, not my finger.”
Mick closes his eyes and exhales. “Feel.”
He doesn’t answer and keeps his eyes shut.
“This is,” Hendlin starts, but as she’s about to finish the complaint, she feels his voice in his finger. She can feel it vibrate up her hand, along her arm, and into her chest. She looks at him and sees he’s still motionless. She then looks down at his feet and sees…