Becker, bellamy & james

the band that wasn't there

The music of Becker, Bellamy & James Hawkins lives in the space where honest storytelling meets infectious melody.By blending the organic textures of Americana with the polished sensibilities of classic pop, the band creates a sound that feels both timeless and refreshing. Their aesthetic is defined by a balance of grit and grace. A foundation of acoustic instruments and rich vocal harmonies paired with bright, driving hooks.

BUT THERE'S A CATCH

The Hawkins brothers don't exist in the real world. They sprang from the imagination of novelist, playwright, and songwriter Robert Gregory Browne. Originally conceived as characters in a play he left unfinished years ago, the brothers refused to remain silent, and eventually found their way into songs whenever he sat down with his guitar.But the story continues to grow. Browne has begun writing short stories about the brothers which will be posted here as each one progresses.And those songs are now fully realized with the acoustic stylings and tight harmonies of Becker, Bellamy & James in their new album, Ghost Latitudes.

STREAM THE MUSIC

Ghost Latitudes is an exploration of modern folk and Americana. We invite you to listen to the full tracks here for free.Because we believe in fair compensation for creators, we host our music independently, so if these songs find a place in your world, please consider supporting our work by buying the album, or simply buy us a coffee to keep the signal alive.

• ALBUM
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All songs written by Rob Browne
© 2015-2025 Robert Gregory Browne. All Rights Reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

GHOST LATITUDES

    Bellamy Hawkins didn’t think of himself as a talented man.
    No, any notion of musical brilliance belonged to his father, who could weave an enduring, award-winning melody in his sleep. Rufus “Rowdy” Hawkins had spent six decades as the critical darling of the American folk scene, and the fact that he had died broke was an utter shame.
    Bellamy, on the other hand, always struggled to write songs, though he did admit that a few of them were worth listening to. Which, he supposed, was a good thing considering he made a fairly decent living writing them.
    He was, at that very moment in fact, noodling around on his guitar as he sat waiting in a somewhat sterile creator's room at Song Forge Studios. Riley McConnell’s management had booked him for a co-writing session, which was a bit of a joke—because if Bellamy lacked talent, Riley was the poster child for all hat and no cattle. Her only real gifts were a natural beauty and a passable singing voice.
    In cases like this, co-writing actually meant that Bellamy more or less did the heavy lifting, with Riley chiming in now and again, offering tasty morsels of wisdom like, Oh, yeah, I like that and Maybe we could mention something about my dog—all for a significant percentage of any future royalties.
    In a town that championed musical authenticity, Riley was anything but. Raised in Malibu by a fairly wealthy film producer and his trophy wife, the twang in her singing voice was about as real as autotune. But that, of course, hadn’t stopped her from becoming the next-big-thing on the Nashville honky-tonk circuit, thanks to an aggressive push from her management team and the record company that signed her after a backroom deal with dear old daddy.
    Not that Bellamy begrudged any of them. Success came in many different forms and through many different means. And who was he to argue with it?
    In the meantime, every cut on an artist’s album meant a few more pennies in his bank account, and Lord knew he needed them. And if the song turned out to be a hit, he could live off that trough for a couple of years—assuming he didn’t go crazy with the spending.
    Chasing hits was something of a preoccupation for many of Bellamy’s brethren. In the age of streaming, it was nearly impossible to make a living on anything less. But Bellamy just wanted to make music. Had been doing it for as far back as he could remember, along with his brothers Becker and James.
    He wished he could say they learned much of what they knew about it from their father, but while he supposed a certain amount of osmosis was to blame, Pop was never the nurturing type and more or less left them alone in that regard. America’s folk icon was much too busy on the road, drinking to the point of rage (hence the nickname), and bedding down any woman who gave him the A-okay.
    And reportedly a few who hadn’t.
    Rufus Hawkins was the embodiment of the notion that talent does not discriminate.
    Bellamy was thinking about all this when there was a sharp knock on the door. A split-second later it swung open to reveal not Riley, but an old buddy of his, Skeeter Wilkins, a longtime session bassist and producer who co-owned Song Forge Studios.
    “Hey, B, you got a sec?”
    “I’m waiting on Riley.”
    “You actually think she’ll show up on time?”
    “I can dream, can’t I?”
    Skeeter crooked his finger, beckoning Bellamy. “Got someone I want you to see.”
    Bellamy set his guitar aside and got to his feet. “Lead the way.”


     Studio Three was one of the smaller recording rooms at Song Forge. It had the requisite API tracking console, world class monitors, a rack of analog compressors, equalizers and reverbs, and an integrated Pro Tools computer system with a full compliment of plug-ins that, depending on your point of view, made that rack obsolete.
   Beyond the console was a rectangular window that looked into the live room, which often accommodated a full band—including an isolated drum booth—but at the moment featured only a single stool and two microphones on a stand.
    One of those microphones was currently pointed at the fretboard of a well-worn rosewood Taylor guitar, while the other mic faced what Bellamy could only describe as one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
     He wasn’t sure she would be considered conventionally beautiful, thanks to a slender but slightly too long nose, but something in her manner transformed her. At least in Bellamy’s eyes. A tentativeness as she stood in front of that microphone. The kind of vulnerability you rarely saw in a Nashville studio, where most of the people who stepped onto the premises were certain they were about to be the next top ten draw.
     This woman appeared certain of nothing, looking like a blonde waif who had been snatched off the street and planted there for reasons that were beyond her understanding. Even her grip on the guitar seemed tentative.
     Did she even know how to play the thing?
    “Meet Melissa Cathcart,” Skeeter said. “By this time next year she’ll have a Best New Artist Grammy under her belt.”
    Bellamy couldn’t count the number of times he’d heard that line before, but Skeeter was usually fairly conservative with his praise, and seeing the excitement in his eyes told Bellamy that he actually meant what he said.
    Still, as alluring as this woman was, Bellamy had his doubts, fueled largely by the very thing that made her so beautiful. That undeniable vulnerability.
     Skeeter saw the skepticism on his face. “No, really, man. She’s the real deal. She’s just nervous, is all. She’s used to busking. Never been in a studio before.”
     “If you say so. But why am I here?”
     “We’ll get to that in a minute. First, I need you to listen.”
     He turned to the bearded mixing engineer—a weary old pro named Mitch—who sat in front of the mixing console waiting for Skeeter’s nod. Skeeter gave it to him and Mitch tapped a button in front of him as Skeeter leaned toward a gooseneck microphone and flipped a switch.
     “Okay, Melissa, we’re rolling. Whenever you’re ready.”
     Melissa twitched at the abrupt sound of his voice, then laughed softly, embarrassed, only to stiffen a moment later as she prepared herself to play.
     It did not look promising.
     Sensing her hesitation, Skeeter flipped the switch again. “Just pretend you’re on Lower Broadway.”
     “Easy for you to say. Nobody pays any attention to me there.”
    “Bullshit. You wouldn’t be here if that were true. Just close your eyes and show us what you were born to do.”
     She laughed again, more nervous than embarrassed this time, than did as she was told. But Bellamy sensed that closing her eyes hadn’t really calmed her nerves.
   Then something surprising happened. A subtle transformation overtook her. She stood a little straighter, the grip on her guitar a little stronger, and began to strum, an open-tuned chord that rang crisp and clear from those studio monitors.
    This in itself was nothing spectacular, but the moment she opened her mouth and began to sing, Bellamy understood what Skeeter was so excited about. The silky quality of her voice embraced him in a way that was so foreign to his jaded sensibilities that he instantly felt goosebumps rise at the back of his neck, then skitter down the length of both arms.
     Holy shit.
     Melissa Cathcart was the real deal.
     And the more she sang, the more real she became.
    While there was a confidence in both the playing and singing, her vulnerability broke through just enough to sell the emotion of the song—if sell was the right word here. Melissa Cathcart wasn’t selling anything.
     She was living it.
    Three expertly-crafted songs later, Skeeter hadn’t said a word. Nobody had. And it was clear that Mitch—who wasn’t looking so weary now—had been as clueless about this woman as Bellamy was. Bellamy had never actually seen anyone’s jaw drop before, but Mitch’s scruffily bearded chin looked as if it was about to hit the mixing deck.
    During this long silence, Melissa placed a hand above her eyes to lessen the reflection of the glass as she peered in at them, looking hopeful. She seemed relieved that she’d made it through all three songs without a hitch, but the confidence she sang them with as foreign and distant as Mediterranean sunset.
    Skeeter finally managed to find his voice, muttered something unintelligible, then again flipped a switch and leaned toward the gooseneck microphone.
    “I only have one word for that, Melissa.”
    “Which is?”
    “Otherworldly.”
     She clearly didn’t quite believe him. “Really?”
    “Absolutely,” he said. “Now get your butt in here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”


    James Hawkins was in his home studio when he got the call.
    He had been trying to concentrate on the mix of a new song, one his brother Bellamy wrote called Time for a Change, but his mind was on Angie, who hadn’t been herself since yesterday evening.
    After their walk, she had refused her usual treat, and had no interest in dinner, a bad sign for a girl who usually ate like a ravenous hyena. And after a night’s sleep, she was still moping about, only half interested in the dental bone he offered her this morning.
    So James was worried, thinking it would probably pass in a few hours, but wondering how many of those hours he should wait before he broke down and called the vet.
    Concentration was difficult, if not impossible. And a mix that was already giving him problems had become a giant pain in his ass, which was saying something considering he usually took great joy in this part of the production process.
    He had decided that in order to fix this mess he needed to track another guitar part, but had neither the will nor desire to sit himself down in front of a microphone. Not with Angie feeling the way she did.
    The buzz of his phone pulled him away from his misery, and he dug it out of his pocket and checked the screen.
    It was Bellamy. Probably wondering how the mix was coming.
    James accepted the call. “I’m working on it, man, so don’t interrupt me.”
    “That’s not why I’m calling,” Bellamy said.
    “What, then?”
“You need to get your ass down to Song Forge. Pronto. Studio Three.”
    “I’m in the middle of something here.”
    “Trust me, it can wait.”
    There was a palpable excitement in Bellamy’s voice.
    “What’s going on?”
    “Just get down here. Now.”
    And then the line went silent. Bellamy had hung up.
    James sighed, looked at the row of audio tracks staring back at him from his computer screen, then turned to Angie, who was curled up in her bed near the effects rack.
    “What do you say, girl? You up for a ride?”

More to Come