Outside the Jukebox

by Scott Bradlee

  We worked out the kinks, eventually, and once we did, our Wednesdays at Hyde became the incubator for new talent that I’d wanted it to be—my latest laboratory. Broadway legend Shoshana Bean sang with us as a special guest one night early on in our residency, and she wasted no time introducing us to her address book of LA talent. In addition to being one of the most amazing vocalists in the world, Shoshana was also a supremely warm, generous, and enthusiastic soul—a rarity in any industry but especially in ours. Many future PMJ stars made their debuts with the group in Hyde’s intimate setting, where the prevailing mood was that of a jam session at a party; nothing was really rehearsed, and sometimes we had performances that veered off the rails. But then there were those moments of inspiration—like catching lightning in a bottle—that made it all worthwhile.

  I began working with two other vocalists who would become repeat collaborators in the future: Von Smith and Ariana Savalas. I learned about Von Smith in the most twenty-first-century way possible: through a cover of our cover of “Thrift Shop” that he tweeted to me. On first watch, I was amazed at how this singer, who looked to be in his early twenties, had completely harnessed his voice in a way that allowed him to sing complicated phrases and extremely high notes with laser sharp precision and breath control.

  Von grew up as a small-town kid in Kansas, idolizing the great Broadway, jazz, and soul singers of the past. When a live video of him performing “And I Am Telling You” went viral and led to an appearance on Ellen, he’d experienced his own tale of YouTube success. Later, he competed on American Idol and scored a slot opening for Lady Gaga in Brisbane by winning the reality show Opening Act. After a lot of time spent in the spotlight, Von was newly trying to take some space from mainstream media and embark on a journey of finding his own voice as an artist. Despite all his gifts, he was humble to a fault and concerned that his performance wasn’t PMJ-worthy. That he was stricken with the same perfectionism I had battled for years was obvious, and I felt for him.

  Ariana Savalas. It was a name I’d been hearing quite a bit that year, 2014. The youngest daughter of legendary actor and Kojak star Telly Savalas, Ariana was making waves as a jazz singer in Los Angeles and had mentioned her love for Postmodern Jukebox onstage at a few of her club dates. She was a friend of both Kai and Jaron, and when we eventually connected, I was pleasantly surprised to find that she had a larger-than-life personality to go with her rich alto voice. Despite having grown up in a show business family, she’d elected to go to Catholic school, with the intention of becoming a nun. That was before the allure of performing propelled her into a colorful career that included a brief stint as a pop star in Greece. Self-described as “Miss Piggy meets Peggy Lee,” she favored an eccentric wardrobe of leopard- and cheetah-print pants, large sunglasses, and fur coats. The first time she sang with us, it was at a party hosted by Full House producer Jeff Franklin, at his Beverly Hills home. Somewhere in the middle of “No Diggity”—the song we had selected as her PMJ debut—Ariana ventured out into the audience, ad-libbing innuendos and sitting on the laps of the older gentlemen in attendance. Her comedic timing was flawless; she was a machine gun of one-liners and quick gags, like holding the microphone out to her victim and asking, “What’s your name?” and then abruptly yanking it back, before they even had a chance to answer, and intensely intoning, “I don’t care.” We had a new character in our universe, completely unlike ingenues Robyn, Cristina, and Ashley: the vixen.

  In some ways, being forced to move across the country was exactly the shake-up we needed to build out our talent base. A word to the wise: If ever you should feel like you have too much choice in life, remember that life still makes a good deal of choices for you. You can only play with the hand you’ve been dealt, and options that you have in one moment often disappear the next if you don’t make moves to capitalize on them. The beauty in this is that drastic change is the catalyst for personal growth, and personal growth is a vital component of the artist’s life, with each phase of it bringing new challenges, new opportunities, and a new perspective.

  Those initial months in Los Angeles had set my career on an upward trajectory. The influx of new performers sated my creative hunger, and in between recording and performing, I was taking meetings from labels, television producers, and other potential partners. Not only was awareness of the band on the rise but being fresh to Los Angeles made me something of a novelty, which helped create some healthy competition between potential partners. We even performed at an awards show, our first: the Internet-based Streamy Awards. Jaron smuggled a trophy belonging to rapper Pitbull out of the Beverly Hilton for us, at the behest of no one, and so while we didn’t technically win an award, we walked away from the night feeling like stars.

  Then everything fell apart.

  THINGS FALL APART

  I stood surveying the scene, then turned to Rook.

  “Hmm… maybe it’ll look better if we turn the fire on?”

  “You don’t want to do that; it’s full of rat poison,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Rat poison?”

  “Yeah, I got covered in it climbing out in my Santa costume for the video shoot. Now everything tastes like metal.”

  We stared at the fireplace for some time, silent. “Let’s just hang some stockings off of the piano and film this stupid thing,” I said finally.

  It was November 2014, and we were under the gun trying to deliver the Christmas album, A Very Postmodern Christmas, that we’d promised our fans. It hadn’t been going well. In fact, we’d just learned earlier in the day that the song we recorded the previous night had to be scrapped because we’d placed the microphones facing the wrong direction. To be precise, Rook had placed the microphones facing the wrong direction, but he was working so hard to keep everything from falling apart that I couldn’t bring myself to tell him it was his fault.

  We tried our hardest to transform our porn-set household into a quaint Christmas village, but the holiday spirit remained largely absent. We had just wrapped what turned out to be the semi-disastrous “Eviction Tour,” whose nadir was reached during a pre-show dinner argument that left half the cast in tears and our tour manager going to sleep on the bus instead of mixing the sound for our show. Now, back in LA, people weren’t speaking to one another, and the house arrest situation was feeling more and more like incarceration in an actual prison. Robyn, Ashley, and Cristina had been the featured vocalists on our tour and at Hyde, but the recent influx of new talent signaled that this was to be even more of a rotating cast in the future. That didn’t feel particularly good for three singers who had uprooted their lives in New York to come work with us in LA, and they weren’t the only ones who were unhappy; others in the house were growing resentful of the house arrest situation, too. While I was off taking meetings with industry people, they were stuck in Van Nuys, wondering why they were even there. The promises of career advancement and networking opportunities were coming true—but mostly just for me.

  My relationship with Robyn had deteriorated as well. The changing group dynamic was creating upsetting personal upheaval for her, as more established singers came into the picture and her role as the group’s star vocalist diminished onstage. Postmodern Jukebox had pretty much cemented itself as my bona fide obsession offstage as well as on by now, and I was spending less and less time with Robyn, often leaving her behind at the house while I attended meetings and events. Watching me grow ever more distant pained her, and we found ourselves getting into fights after shows. In an effort to assuage the guilt, I would try to rationalize to myself that I’d given Robyn her dream career, that without me she would never have reached her true potential. Deep down, though, I knew none of it was true; I knew that she’d never asked for this life I’d foisted on her. She had simply wanted to sing because it made her happy to do so, but having to “compete” with professional singers made it all significantly less fun.

  To make matters worse, ever since our relationship was exposed during Postmodern Jukebox’s Go
od Morning America appearance, fans had been weighing in relentlessly on what should have been our private lives, often in an attempt to stir up drama between us. It wasn’t unusual for Robyn to receive a fan message warning her that I looked particularly cozy in a photo with some new female singer or another. It wasn’t a healthy environment for a relationship, and I think we both knew that eventually, something would have to give.

  After one particularly tear-filled night, Robyn turned to me with a terrified look in her eyes.

  “When will our life go back to normal?” she asked. “This isn’t real life. When will we do karaoke and get breakfast at Astor Bake Shop in the morning, like regular people?”

  I was silent, but I didn’t need to speak; the somber look on my face said it all. There was no normal anymore, and I didn’t know what to do about it.

  I’ve yet to figure out whether it’s possible to throw yourself wholeheartedly into a career as an artist or an entrepreneur without it causing your personal relationships to suffer—at least somewhat. Even before Postmodern Jukebox, I had a tendency to put my creative projects ahead of all else, which resulted in my hurting some people who truly cared for me. I would venture to guess that the work lives and relationships of many successful creative people aren’t as perfectly harmonious as the media profiles suggest. Being in the public eye makes maintaining these relationships incredibly difficult, and I think to suggest otherwise is a bit disingenuous. The life of an artist (or an artist’s romantic partner) isn’t for everyone; it can be an isolating and lonely experience for those who have a greater need for stability.

  By Christmas, our lease had ended, and with it we closed a particularly tumultuous chapter of PMJ history. There were still a lot of hurt feelings among our performers and crew members, and it wasn’t clear to me if any of them wanted to be involved with the project anymore. This was especially saddening because they were more than just colleagues; they were my good friends, too. Robyn and I separated, she returning to New York and I planning to remain in LA. Postmodern Jukebox was bigger than ever, yet I ended 2014 with no attachments, no permanent place to call home, and now possibly no band. My childhood dream had come true—but at what cost?

  UNCOVERING THE AWESOME POWER OF COLLABORATION

  You know, you can live here, if you want. We can clean up the living room, and you can record there, and I’ll cook for everyone and show them all your old pictures! Doesn’t that sound fun?”

  My mom flitted about giddily as she served Christmas dinner at the New Jersey house where I grew up.

  “I’m a thirty-three-year-old man, Mom,” I said, defensively. “I’m not moving back home.”

  “I’m just so excited to have you back, even if it’s just for a little while. You know, my friends at Zumba class told me that people in LA are all a bit wacky. Who’s that guy—the one who jumped on Oprah’s couch? That’s the kind of person that I imagine lives there.”

  I just shook my head, bit my tongue, and enjoyed the home-cooked meal. I wasn’t there to argue, and frankly I didn’t really know how I felt about LA after the chaos of the past few months. My mind was on the major tour of Europe that was only a month away, and of my Van Nuys housemates, only three had elected to remain with the project. I was tasked with essentially rebuilding Postmodern Jukebox from scratch.

  I wasn’t sure how I was going to recover from losing so many key people at once. One thing was certain, though: I wasn’t going to repeat the mistakes I had made in the past. This time, I wasn’t going to uproot anyone’s life, and I wasn’t going to make anyone feel undervalued. I vowed to let go of my control-freak tendencies and embrace the possibilities of more egalitarian collaboration.

  Every successful project is, at its core, a collaborative one, and Postmodern Jukebox was no exception. It would have been a huge waste not to utilize all the talent at my disposal just so that I could feel like I had done it all on my own—and that’s if it ever got far enough to even warrant bragging rights. Part of leading well is being able to objectively evaluate the individual skills of your teammates and then guide them in a way that enables them to make the most significant contribution. You’ll never be able to do this unless you’re willing to get out of the way and give others the space to be great.

  I met with Jaron in damage-control mode, looking to come up with a plan for Europe. News of Robyn’s and my breakup had gotten out, and her fans were sending me angry messages. We had agreed that both of us going on the European tour right now would be disastrous in the long term, but fans felt otherwise, and they certainly weren’t holding back expressing it.

  “Used to like you guys. Won’t be seeing you now that Robyn’s gone. Good luck, you’re gonna need it without her,” read one angry note I got on Facebook.

  “Robyn was the only reason I liked you guys. Nice job ruining PMJ you talentless looser [sic],” read another.

  Jaron wasn’t all that concerned.

  “We’re in showbiz; controversy is good! I wish you had more drama in your life!” he joked.

  But I wasn’t laughing. It was bad enough to have to go through a romantic breakup with someone I cared for; the feeling that PMJ might never recover from the musical breakup between its leader and its star performer was too much to bear.

  Jaron felt that we did a disservice to everyone—fans and cast alike—by not properly defining Postmodern Jukebox as a rotating cast from the very start. The concept of a “band” is easy for people to understand, but an “experiential musical collective” is something else entirely. We were creating a new sort of entertainment, one that had potential to be long-lasting and global and to reach millions of people. If we were simply a band, we’d have two, maybe three good years, and then we’d fade away as individual members tired of the routine and quit to explore other projects and start families. It was crucial that we rebuild the Postmodern Jukebox model with clarity.

  To do this, we decided to split up the personnel on our European tour, so that cast members came in and out of the tour instead of remaining on the bus for the entire two months. It was more expensive, and it was more work, but we wanted to demonstrate that the show is still Postmodern Jukebox, no matter who’s onstage. There was no single “star”; the secret to Postmodern Jukebox’s magic was that it came from an ensemble effort. Even the set list, we decided, would change to accommodate the ever-changing cast and each person’s individual strengths. I loved this because it captured the spirit of jazz improvisation. Each Postmodern Jukebox show would be its own unique, ephemeral experience, never to be duplicated exactly.

  The next step was to build the cast. Between the performers I’d met during our Hyde residency and the singers I recorded with at the Dream Factory, I had a lot of great choices, but I wasn’t sure if we could afford them. After all, many of these singers worked constantly on television and Broadway. There wasn’t much of a budget, so we would have to bank on being able to win them over by showing them how our platform could help their individual careers.

  “Don’t worry,” Jaron said, “this is a dream gig. Just leave it to me; this is where I excel. I know how to talk to managers.”

  I winced. That was the part I was afraid of.

  Calm is not a word that anyone would use to describe Jaron, but he saved the vast majority of his anger reserves for other managers. After a heated back-and-forth with one manager about who should pay for excess baggage fees, he attached an image of the dictionary definition of “look a gift horse in the mouth” to summarize his rival’s request. In another contentious email exchange, he told a manager that he “didn’t know shit about the music business.” Jaron’s temper may have been common knowledge, but his persistence was legendary, and he was able to somehow pull off acquiring every singer I had requested for the European tour while keeping it all below budget. I went from being worried about the collapse of PMJ to wildly optimistic about its future. When it came to our talent roster for this European tour, we had a veritable embarrassment of riches. In addition to previous PM
J singers like Cristina, Ariana, Kiah, and Morgan, we also had some new cast members that I was thrilled to get to work with: Mykal Kilgore, Casey Abrams, and Haley Reinhart.

  Mykal Kilgore had appeared in Morgan’s “Maps” video six months earlier as a backup singer, and he’d demonstrated some serious vocal chops even then. A Broadway vet, he had recently sent me an unbelievable, high-energy cover of Justin Timberlake’s “Pusher Love Girl” from one of his live performances. One listen, and I was already envisioning his potential as the show’s host.

  Hyde saxophonist Jacob Scesney was responsible for connecting me with former American Idol finalist Casey Abrams. While not too familiar with his body of work, I’d been blown away by a YouTube clip I’d seen of him demonstrating a soulful voice and great jazz bass skills. On the day of the Hyde show, Casey was set to come by our afternoon sound check so that we could work out a tune to play. For whatever reason, I expected to him to be an introverted, scholarly fellow.

  “Duuude, what’s up, man? I’m Casey. Sweet place, man.”

  He gave me a big hug, and the stale aroma of marijuana filled my nostrils. This is going to be interesting, I thought.

  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one thrown off by his appearance; one of the managers at Hyde had tried to get him to leave when he first entered the venue, probably mistaking him for a homeless person. (This was a recurring theme for us; on another occasion, a different manager had reacted similarly when he found Rook, having just returned from an exhausting day of travel, lying facedown in the parking lot, taking a nap.) But as much as Casey looked the part of the spaced-out hippie, he was absolutely on his game once he got on the upright bass and began to play. He suggested the song “I’m Not the Only One” by Sam Smith, and he caught every change I played almost instantly in the way that only a true natural musician can do. His voice was strong and gruff; he combined blues sensibilities with Jack Black–style theatrics, and he tore into the upright bass with such intensity that I half expected the strings to come off the fretboard.