Outside the Jukebox

by Scott Bradlee

  I’ll be the first to admit that Postmodern Jukebox Productions wasn’t the most creative name I could have given the label, but I’ll also be the first to defend that what we were doing was anything but traditional. We had only one act—Postmodern Jukebox—fronted by an array of vocalists. We weren’t interested in chart position or trying to capture the youth market; indeed, a large percentage of our fans were over age forty, and we were just fine with that. We didn’t even have a mailing address because at this point in my life, I was technically without a home… again.

  After returning from our second European tour, I figured I’d just stay in a hotel for a week, while I looked for a new place to rent. Before I knew it, that week had turned into a very expensive month. The problem was, most of the places that fit my unusual living specifications—no neighbors and a room big enough to host an entire band and sound and lighting equipment—were either cost-prohibitive or extremely far from civilization. Fortunately, just when I had memorized the entire Courtyard Marriott menu, I received a tip about a four-bedroom house in Tarzana, California, conveniently located at the top of a hill. Despite some weird architectural choices, such as a hot tub situated smack in the middle of the master bedroom, it was perfect. A couple days later, I signed the lease and made it official: PMJ had itself some fancy new digs.

  Bro Mountain—as it was dubbed by Mykal during the filming of one of his videos there—lived up to its testosterone-drenched moniker. My longtime friends Rook, Adam, and Chip moved into the spare rooms, and the property soon became part music studio, part college dorm (even though we were all in our thirties). We bought an old Nintendo console and spent too much time trying to beat the game Jackal (while learning its theme music in the process, of course—music nerd habits die hard). We projected movies onto the side of the house in a recurring series we referred to as “Hot Tub Theatre.” Adam even decorated his room with the same posters he’d had on the wall of his bedroom during high school. I joked that we were living like the TV show Entourage, except on a much tighter budget. Between Rook’s crazy schemes, Adam’s quick-witted snark, and Chip’s goes-down-easy charisma, we regularly got ourselves way too deep into situations we never should have been in in the first place, but boy was it fun.

  As it usually goes when the rent isn’t cheap, however, there came a point when the fun didn’t need to stop, exactly, but it did need to subside just enough that it wasn’t all we were doing. I had found a creative home base for our operation; now it was time to get to work making arrangements for our next tour, which would take us on a more extensive journey through North America—our first truly major U.S. tour. Always at the ready with a pun, Rook named this one the “Great Impression Tour,” since it would be our chance to do what we had done already in Europe: establish ourselves as an important touring act. I added a publicist to the team to help us get press coverage at the shows, and I began rewriting the show based on what I had learned from working with the cast in Europe. In touring—as in all other aspects of life—first impressions are extremely important.

  Casting this tour was much easier than the previous one had been. In her time away from the group, Robyn had made great strides to establish herself as a solo artist and launch a vintage YouTube channel of her own, using the same concept that I had employed. To the delight of her fans, she was now back touring with us, with a newfound confidence. We also had two new, noteworthy additions to the PMJ family: tap dance sensation Sarah Reich and powerhouse vocalist Maiya Sykes.

  As I had many other PMJ stars, I met Sarah through Shoshana Bean, the Broadway legend who had become something of an older sister to PMJ. I was looking for a tap dancer to perform at our Hyde residency, and Shoshana had practically screamed Sarah’s name, so I figured she was a safe bet. Sarah arrived at rehearsal the day of the show and very calmly proceeded to demonstrate the most impressive tap dancing I had ever seen in my life. Her rhythm was impeccable, effortless, and swung hard.

  Sarah was barely in her mid-twenties but was already an extremely accomplished performer—not to mention that she’d also, by this point in time, built a worldwide community of talented up-and-coming tap dancers through her own group, the Tap Music Project. When she joined us at our Hyde residency, she effortlessly stole the show.

  Our 1920s-style remake of “Bad Romance” was the first PMJ video to feature Sarah’s amazing talent, in this case set alongside Ariana Savalas’ lead vocal. To really make a spectacle of her PMJ debut, we released the video on the same day as her first tour appearance with us. Both our online and in-person audiences were smitten, instantly won over by Sarah as she pulled off one seemingly impossible tap step after another, grinning mischievously all the while. She was PMJ’s very own tap-dancing Tinkerbell.

  Maiya came to us at Shoshana’s recommendation, too, during our Hyde residency. Her own performance of “Creep”—powerful, plaintive, and proud—had blown the roof off Hyde just before we left for Europe, and the upcoming U.S. tour felt like the perfect place to debut her. The daughter of two musicians, she started performing young, touring for years with big names like Neil Diamond and Macy Gray before making a much-lauded appearance on The Voice.

  And her voice was just one part of her multifaceted talent. Maiya was also a skilled writer, vocal arranger, and music educator who had triple-majored at Yale and later completed graduate studies at Oxford. When anything went wrong onstage, her quick thinking enabled her to steer the band in a new direction, skillfully and gracefully.

  Just as had been the case with the European tour, the cast for the upcoming Great Impression Tour was a diverse mix of old friends and new talents. After a few days of rehearsing in Brooklyn, we climbed aboard the big blue tour bus—our home base on wheels for the next couple months. We spent that first night sitting up late, swapping stories and project ideas. It reminded me of the first day of school; even for this former angsty teen, there had always been a certain optimism in the air at the start of a new year, in a new grade, with all its implied promise of adventures to be had and friendships to be fostered. As the bus rolled on through the night on its way to Boston, one by one we retired to the womb-like bunks and slept, dreaming of the possibilities that awaited us.

  MAKING A GREAT IMPRESSION

  The loose, largely improvised feel of the Postmodern Jukebox stage show served us well on our first several tours. During that time, we experimented with new material, set lists, and even show formats, all the while using our audiences’ reactions and feedback to gauge how we were doing. As we embarked on our most ambitious tour yet—a trip through the mainland United States at the largest venues we’d ever played—that loose approach wasn’t going to cut it. The promoters were taking a risk by putting us in spacious performing arts centers instead of small clubs, and we had to prove—through consistent and reliable delivery of smooth, professionally executed performances—that we belonged alongside the successful touring acts that came through such venues. I was confident, however, that the high level of musicianship and creativity we presented onstage would more than compensate for a lack of experience. After all, we were here to shake the music industry up—not adhere to its rigid standards.

  Our first stop was Boston, where we’d be playing at the Wilbur Theatre. Unlike most of our other venues, the Wilbur was larger and seated, and tickets were accordingly pricier. The audience wasn’t just coming to see some of their favorites from YouTube; they were here to experience a show. Backstage, I gave my best motivational speech to the cast; we had lots of talented people on tour, and I was determined to show the crowd what we could do.

  Now, in a smaller, standing-room venue, the mere act of being onstage can generate the kind of frenetic energy that carries a show all the way through to the end. In a seated performing arts center, the energy from the crowd doesn’t reach the stage, which leaves the performers feeling much more exposed. Any slight mistake or late entrance seems magnified in this setting. Despite all the great performers, the evening had its share of rough moments
and pacing hiccups; I hadn’t quite figured out yet how to properly tailor our performances for a seated and more mature crowd, and it showed.

  There were other logistical challenges, too. We had set up a pre-show meet-and-greet for VIP ticket holders, which enabled them to come watch the sound check and meet the cast. What hadn’t been factored in was that this was scheduled for 5 p.m., and the performers typically didn’t get into hair and makeup until after dinner. In fact, many of them used the afternoon to exercise and then would arrive to sound check in their gym clothes. As a result, the VIPs who had been so excited to meet us that night at the Wilbur were treated to some very interesting photos, in which they were invariably dressed far better than the performers. It was a bit awkward for all parties involved, and conditions didn’t improve much when Rook began filling the time our VIP guests spent waiting for the cast to arrive by telling “jokes” like this one:

  ROOK: Why do interior designers hate flying?

  VIP GUESTS: (silence)

  ROOK: Because it’s so plane.

  VIP GUESTS: (more silence)

  It was definitely a realistic peek behind the curtain, but our held-together-with-duct-tape aesthetic wasn’t always appreciated.

  One major factor that contributed to these planning slip-ups was that I wasn’t used to running a tight ship. As a jazz musician, I was accustomed to just winging it and frequently suggested that others do the same. This had served me well in the past, but it was looking like it was time to reassess my approach and grab the reins a little tighter. People who pay good money for ticketed seats expect polish and a sense of security, not production values that, as one displeased older audience member put it, “resembled a high school musical.”

  After initially viewing the complaints with defensiveness, I began to see that many of them had merit. Our fans were incredibly excited about this new type of entertainment, and it was frustrating to them when the entire experience didn’t reach its obvious potential. As the tour continued, I wisely sought more help with organization and overall logistics, and Jaron and his associate Jordan flew out to several shows to watch from the audience’s perspective and give critical feedback.

  I was obviously a bit sad to scrap Talent Corner from our soundchecks, but the extra fifteen minutes we saved allowed us to spend more time troubleshooting certain elements of the show. One obvious problem that Jaron and Jordan identified was that our technical specifications called for a fixed spotlight, and on each show—without fail—one of our singers would somehow end up a couple of feet off the mark, effectively delivering their song in darkness. We simply had the singers practice “finding their light” in soundcheck, and before long, they were hitting the marks consistently.

  To address the flaws in the meet & greet comedy-hour, we decided to move the entire experience post-show. Now VIP fans got the chance to meet and congratulate the performers in full wardrobe, which killed the previous awkwardness and made the pictures come out that much better. Little by little, the complaints dwindled and the overall show feedback quickly went from good to great. Our tour had found its rhythm.

  We sold out big shows at Nashville’s Cannery Ballroom, the Vic in Chicago, and Crystal Ballroom in Portland. Fans were recognizing us on the street and stopping us for photographs. The cast was enjoying the creature comforts that came with a higher-profile tour, too. The cramped and dirty dressing rooms of tours past had been replaced by more lavish accommodations. Even our bus had been upgraded significantly, with mood lighting and a slide that expanded the square footage when parked.

  At last, we seemed to be making a great impression on our U.S. audiences, and it felt fantastic. Positive reviews of the show circulated in influential industry magazines like Pollstar, and ICM was getting a slew of offers from new promoters excited to bring PMJ to their cities. The last stop on the tour, conveniently, was home: close to twenty-five hundred people attended our Los Angeles show at Club Nokia—our biggest crowd to date. It was overwhelming in the best way possible; we were mobbed by fans after the show, until venue security showed up to escort us from the building. Times like this never felt completely real to me, and perhaps they weren’t.

  The next morning, when I went for my usual run from my house down to The Coffee Bean to get breakfast, no one recognized me or seemed to care that I was there. It was jarring. I thought about the jazz musicians I idolized; to me, they were larger than life, almost inhuman. I wondered if this was their experience, too, with making it—equal parts life-changing and mundane.

  THE ADVANTAGES OF AN ENTOURAGE

  Scotty! Come out here real quick!”

  I muted my phone for a second. “Can’t right now, guys, I’m on the phone.”

  “It’s really important. Just ten seconds.”

  “All right, all right, hang on.” I sighed, then unmuted my phone. “Uh—hey, can I call you right back? By the way, this online store idea’s great, can’t wait to hear more.”

  I walked through the sliding glass door and into the hot Tarzana sun. Rook and Adam were at the edge of the pool in matching Speedos. The pool deck was littered with cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

  “Me and Kubota came up with our own YouTube show—MASTERS OF DIVE!!”

  With that, Rook jumped off the diving board and pantomimed a karate chop as Adam blasted Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” from a small stereo. The water shook violently, forming a tidal wave that sprayed outside the pool, taking a few beer cans in its wake. Rook and Adam roared with laughter.

  I shook my head and turned around to head back into the house. “Well done, guys.”

  Indeed, the people you surround yourself with will become the most important people in your life. If that thought doesn’t scare you too much, you’re probably doing it right. As I gained access to more exclusive parts of society, I realized that many of the people I was being put in touch with had self-serving motives for wanting to work with me. Your friends, if you pick wisely and are lucky enough, can be a buffer against these sorts of people. Your entourage—in addition to being useful in sniffing out the snaky characters—can also make life a hell of a lot more fun than going it alone. When I found myself at parties with celebrities and CEOs and the like, I usually wound up just hanging with my friends and making dumb jokes instead of networking. In part, this was because I still hadn’t shaken the pinch-me feeling that I’d snuck into this exclusive world and would eventually be outed as an imposter. The other part is that it takes me a long time to trust people. So, instead of making new friends, I did the opposite: I brought all my old friends with me. Trusted old friends, I found, can also make for awesome collaborators.

  A prime example of one such friend-turned-PMJ collaborator is the extraordinary singer/songwriter and indie darling Nicole Atkins. We first met back at Sleep No More, when she was singing with the house band and I was the show’s music director. Even then, I recall being taken by not only her vocals but her awe-inspiring stage presence as well. She may have been singing jazz standards, but Nicole was a rock star. She worked the stage, throwing her entire body into the performance. Outside work, she was down-to-earth, friendly, and candid about her weaknesses, in particular her struggle with alcoholism. The day after performing with me at one particularly boozy, slightly off-the-rails late-night set at the Manderley Bar, she called me to apologize and own the fact that she needed to get some help. The apology was wholly unnecessary, but I was concerned for her, and I hoped that she would follow through on getting help—for her own sake. She had such a good heart, and her boundless talent was deserving of far wider recognition; it would be a shame to see her addiction hinder her.

  It wasn’t until several years later, shortly after I’d moved to Tarzana, that Nicole let me know that she was coming to town, newly sober and ready to channel all of her energy into performing. This was music to my ears.

  When Nicole arrived, it was clear she was in a much better place. We discussed how life was too short not to cherish it completely and then began talking abou
t David Bowie’s recent death and how we both had watched people dear to us face cancer. We hit upon the idea of covering Bowie’s “Heroes” and donating the first week’s sales to the Cancer Research Institute. I hastily scribbled out a chord chart, and with the help of Adam on bass and Chip on drums, composed an arrangement on the spot. It was the least amount of time ever spent on a Postmodern Jukebox arrangement, but with Nicole at the mic, I was confident it would be great nonetheless.

  It takes a singer of Nicole’s caliber to really make you feel the lyrics of a song like “Heroes.” Her performance started out restrained and almost whisper-like, but by the end she was picking the microphone stand off the ground to belt out “We can beat them forever and ever!” The recording went on to be prominently featured in an anti-drunk-driving campaign starring Formula One champion Jackie Stewart. Weaving in classic footage of Stewart through the years—and ending with an appearance by Stewart himself—the video was widely praised as a cinematic feat, and Nicole’s heartfelt vocals made it all the more impressive. With so many things going right for us—our own freestanding space for recording (noise complaints no more); a growing network of very fine collaborators, old and new; better equipment than we’d ever been able to afford in the past; and the California sun melting away our stresses—we were perfectly positioned to produce some major hits. We continued to film all the new videos at the house, having modified the living room to include an Austrian drape backdrop, a checkerboard floor, and a new lighting rig. Being able to walk downstairs and step right onto the PMJ set made the environment feel much more relaxed. The drama of the previous year had largely dissipated, and for once, I was finding balance in my life. I also had another reason to be happy: I had begun dating a dancer named Natalie Rose White.