A Brit who grew up in Cornwall, Natalie was not only beautiful, she also had an upbeat manner and dry sense of humour that I found magnetic. Living in LA, it often felt like whenever I went out, no matter where I went, phony Hollywood types abounded. Natalie kept me grounded and reminded me of who I was and where I came from, just like my entourage of old friends did. She didn’t care about fame or money or social media influence; she liked me, the person. It was refreshing and a great counterbalance to my workaholic tendencies. That she was an innovative and playful choreographer was the icing on the cake. Natalie helped enhance a few of our newest videos with her work, and her choreography helped inspire a new emphasis on visuals and blocking—the precise staging of performers throughout a show—in our touring productions.
This era of entourage advantages also helped produce two massive hits for PMJ. Haley Reinhart, who was by now a prime attraction on tour, recorded her first video at Bro Mountain: a bluesy, dirge-inspired remake of The White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army,” featuring her cooing and growling alongside a plunger-muted New Orleans horn section. Mykal, our star emcee in Europe, paid us a visit stateside so we could record a couple new tunes, one of which went on to become a bona fide hit and tour standard: a ’50s-style remake of “My Heart Will Go On,” the love ballad from the movie Titanic, originally performed by Céline Dion.
Our take on “My Heart Will Go On”—influenced by the type of love songs that Jackie Wilson used to sing—caught fire online as soon as we released it. Kate Winslet, Ashton Kutcher, and even Céline Dion herself shared it on social media. It was vocally stunning, creative, and extremely danceable—in essence, Postmodern Jukebox at its best. A few months later, the video helped Mykal land a role on NBC’s musical television special The Wiz Live! alongside big names like Queen Latifah, Mary J. Blige, and David Alan Grier.
Mykal wasn’t the only PMJ artist to experience wider recognition. One day, Jaron emailed me to tell me that folks at Extra gum—after watching “Creep”—were interested in having us record a popular Elvis standard with Haley for one of their ad campaigns. Since doing covers of older material wasn’t exactly what Postmodern Jukebox was known for, we agreed to put Extra in touch with Haley directly so that she could take charge of the project herself. The resulting recording—a stripped-down version of the Elvis classic “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” with Casey on piano—went on to feature prominently as the soundtrack of an award-winning sentimental campaign titled “The Story of Sarah & Juan.” The single caught on, massively, and as of this writing, it’s sold over a hundred thousand units—certified gold.
Of course, nobody could stop talking about the beautiful voice that infused the track with so much emotion: Was it the singer who sang “Creep” with PMJ? Haley had become a superstar, and little by little, my Postmodern Jukebox entourage was evolving into a robust, full-fledged community of prolific talent.
No matter how high the success stories stacked up, we were careful to never let them turn us pretentious or self-serious. We knew that the anything-goes vibe at the heart of PMJ was our special sauce; no way were we going to let it subside. Between recording madcap videos at home and playing shows to thousands of people, we still managed to find the time to get ourselves into a multitude of absurd situations. Rook got kicked out of a karaoke bar after being deemed too drunk to finish his modified, much more risqué version of the Baha Men classic “Who Let the Dogs Out?” Adam, in honor of our first summer pool party, bought us all matching Speedos, which obviously we gamely wore (much to Natalie’s embarrassment). Indeed, if I had any pretentious leanings or ambitions, my entourage helped dispatch them swiftly.
In an effort to preserve all the friend memories and PMJ milestones, around this time we established what has since become our fabled “tour museum” in Bro Mountain’s second floor common area—an absurdist collection of unusual artifacts from PMJ tour history, largely curated by Adam. Perhaps someday we’ll open the collection to the general public and look on as our fans cycle through confusion and possibly disappointment in the face of so many seemingly random objects—think a “Merch Madness” poster featuring a Photoshop of Rook jumping out of a barrel or a disturbing X-ray of Casey’s tooth after he went to the dentist for the first time in years—that really only have significance insofar as they remind us of our favorite inside jokes.
Life was great. I was surrounded by people who made me happy, and I was doing what I loved. I had achieved what felt like just the right level of fame—enough that I got to relish the occasional rock star moment but not so much that I risked becoming big-headed and losing sight of my sincere artistic values and reasons for creating. I felt like I could do this forever.
THE SEARCH FOR FREEDOM
By the end of 2015, I was in an unprecedented position an as artist: I had complete control and ownership over every aspect of my art—every recording, every video, every show. Each day, I got to wake up and spend my time exactly as I decided: planning new videos, coming up with fresh bits for the show, and brainstorming songs for our singers that we hadn’t covered already. I didn’t have a boss breathing down my neck or rigid hours to conform to; I was blessed to not be dealing with any personal crises, and I was completely financially independent. The struggles in life that most people my age were dealing with—job security, debt, family issues—no longer applied to me.
On the surface, this no doubt looked a lot like freedom.
In reality, though, I did report in to a boss, one whose standards weren’t always so easy to meet. That boss was none other than my own expectations for myself and the life-defining project that Postmodern Jukebox had become. And let me tell you, this boss was relentless.
The perfectionist monster that prevented me from reaching my potential earlier in life had returned, albeit this time convincingly disguised as something that—at first glance—looked a whole lot like healthy ambition. After all, I was on a roll. My YouTube subscriber count had surpassed the one million mark. PMJ was easily topping the iTunes jazz charts with each new album released. I was profiled in crème de la crème publications, including Forbes, AdWeek, and Billboard. On The Voice, Christina Aguilera pointed to our version of “Creep” as inspiration for a contestant, and other celebrities were declaring their love for PMJ. I played a Justin Bieber song with Broadway and television star Kristin Chenoweth on my Instagram.
As the act’s fame grew, we found ourselves booking bigger and better venues, and in turn we rose to the occasion, pouring all our energy into making our shows increasingly elaborate and engaging. In London, we played two nights at the beautiful (and appropriately named) Roundhouse. In Los Angeles, we played the Microsoft Theatre, home to the MTV Video Music Awards and Kanye West’s infamous announcement that he would run for president in 2020. I parodied this event onstage by announcing my own presidential bid, which went over well with the crowd; the mic drop I followed it up with, not so much… at least by the venue staff, who just stood shaking their heads in frustration. With the exception of Microsoft Theatre’s sound techs that night, my talent—and the talent I’d passionately brought together under the umbrella of PMJ and encouraged and also benefited from—was being validated left and right, and it felt good.
But beneath the surface, the pressure was getting to me. Gone were the days of simply overseeing a YouTube channel. I now had a touring company, my own record label, and an online merch store, all with employees who directly reported to me. It had been a good ten years since I’d begun bringing others onto my team, and yet still, maddeningly, I couldn’t grasp how to properly delegate tasks. When our social media managers posted to Facebook, I would often go in and edit what they’d posted to better fit our brand aesthetic. When our promoters requested a promo video to help market our tour, I hired a company to create one and—unhappy with their results—just did it myself. I was clocking close to eighty hours per week on work, often waking up in the middle of the night to send emails and rewrite publicity materials—and that’s when I wasn’
t on tour. My need for control had spiraled out of control.
On tour, the burden of my self-assigned, crazy-making workload was even greater, as my need to micromanage every aspect of the project prevented me from ever relaxing. Although I still incorporated cast members’ ideas into the show, I’d become quicker to shoot down ideas that didn’t grab me immediately. I believed that I had earned the right to not have my judgment be questioned. I wasn’t leading; I was dictator-ing.
The truth, I realized later, was that I was nowhere near as free as I believed myself to be. Freedom doesn’t necessarily come from working for yourself, or from setting your own hours, or even from never having to worry about money. Freedom is a state of mind. It’s the recognition that pursuing what modern celebrity culture has a way of telling us we should want in life—fame, fortune, accolades—will never lead to contentment. Freedom is about surrendering control and letting the chips fall where they may—and knowing that you’ll be okay.
“Hey, Scotty, Jaron emailed me… the Aussie promoters changed the interviews, so as soon as you land, they’re going bring you to the hotel so that you can do two hours of press.”
I stopped packing and looked at Rook.
“Are you serious? It’s a sixteen-hour flight, and I can never fall asleep on planes. I’ll be exhausted. No way I’m doing that.”
“Well, the promoters really need this to sell some more tickets. What should I tell them?”
“I don’t know, tell them you’ll impersonate me and do the interviews or something.”
“Sounds good.… I bet they’ll be excited to hear Scott Bradlee’s fancy new Australian accent! G’DAY, SYDNEY!” Rook said, delivering that last line in some bizarre hybrid of Cockney English and Cajun accents.
“Never mind… I’ll do the damn interviews myself,” I said wearily.
Suits? Check.
Phone charger? Check.
Laptop? Check.
Enough granola bars to keep me from racking up excessive hotel minibar charges? Check.
As I packed my suitcase for another month-long tour—this time of New Zealand, Australia, and Southeast Asia—I reflected on my early days of making YouTube videos in a small, dimly lit apartment in Astoria. I had nothing to lose back then, and it showed in the videos: They had a certain un-self-conscious spirit to them. I wasn’t making things to please a mainstream audience; I was making them for myself. I was doing what I loved. Every time I set up the camera and hit the red Record button, I felt the exhilarating rush of discovery.
Things weren’t quite the same now. The last few videos I made before leaving for the PMJ: Down Under tour were rushed and came across more as attempts to keep a deadline than as the products of profound, undeniable inspiration. Worse, fans were noticing, and they let me know as much in the comments.
“This channel just doesn’t do it for me anymore” read one comment.
Then don’t watch it, asshole, I thought of writing back, but thankfully stopped myself. Since when did YouTube comments get under my skin like this? What had happened to me?
As I rode to the airport, I couldn’t help but wonder whether I had it all backward. Perhaps I’d had more freedom at the start of this journey, back when I was still playing restaurants, than I did now. Perhaps “freedom” was actually recording jazz covers of Nintendo theme songs with my friends, as Aunt Agatha served us five-gallon jugs of split pea soup and creditors left me voicemails that went unanswered.
The TSA agent examined my passport and smiled. “I follow you guys on YouTube,” she said. “Congrats on all your success!”
THINKING OUTSIDE THE JUKEBOX
You want to WHAT?”
I was on the phone with ICM, and they sounded incredulous, as if they were actually not sure whether or not I was joking.
As I said the words again, slower this time, I wasn’t entirely sure either.
“I’m going to take myself off of the road.”
Silence on the other end.
“So, Postmodern Jukebox is done with touring? After we’ve built a successful touring act? Is this what you want?”
“Postmodern Jukebox will still tour,” I clarified. “I just won’t be on the road. I’m the creative director. I need a schedule that allows me to be creative. Besides, this project is bigger than any one person. It’s bigger than me.”
Jaron, who was also on the phone, predictably and excitably broke the silence. For once, I was relieved.
“We’re going to build something that no one has ever built before. FUCKING. NO. ONE. This isn’t a band. This is a chance to build a global move—”
“Jaron,” Scott Mantell interjected, “are you expecting me to go to our promoters and sell them on the idea of a concert by Scott Bradlee’s Postmodern Jukebox without Scott Bradlee?”
“That’s precisely what I’m expecting you to do.”
“You’re crazy. You took an act from YouTube and turned them into a band that grosses millions, and now you want to just throw it all away. You know how rare success is in this business?”
It was crazy. I had taken creative risks my whole life, but this was the first time that something substantial hung in the balance: my entire career. I was by no means confident that my crazy plan would work, but something needed to give, and I was desperate. I knew that the only way for Postmodern Jukebox to reach its full potential—and the only way that I could have the energy to guide it there—would be if I stepped out of the spotlight and permitted it the space to grow into something exponentially bigger than me.
After the jet lag from our recent tour of Australia, New Zealand, and Southeast Asia subsided, it dawned on me: I didn’t want to be a star. It had been a successful tour, but I closed it out feeling overextended, uncreative, and miserable. The sense of freedom that I’d naively believed I’d achieved just by having my name in lights was an illusion. Instead of free, I felt constantly confronted—by upset cast members who felt neglected; fans who didn’t appreciate the videos I hurriedly put together between tours; press opportunities that demanded immediate attention; even belligerent hopefuls who would corner me after shows and sing at me in the hopes that I would cast them. I wanted to make everyone happy, but in trying to do so, I was stressing myself out and losing my temper at them instead.
I didn’t want to be famous. I just wanted to have the space to be creative.
In the middle of one particularly rough week, feeling as though I’d reached my wit’s end, I called Jaron. Sensing something was amiss, he just let me talk. As much as Jaron loved the sound of his own voice, he knew when to keep his mouth shut and listen.
“Remember how fun it was in the early days? When everything was new? When everything felt exciting? It’s gone now. That feeling’s gone. ‘Make a video, go on tour, make a video, go on tour.’ It’s become a job. I feel so guilty for saying it, I really do, because I’m so grateful to have had this opportunity, but it does—it feels like a job.”
I was expecting to be met by a pep talk filled with colorful language and questionable metaphors, like Jaron usually offered. But he seemed to be, shockingly, at a loss for words. I think he knew where I was coming from, having been a performing artist himself. It wasn’t lost on me—or him—that he’d turned his back on performing right when he had a number one hit on country radio.
“Why don’t you take a few days to think about it?” he countered, calmly. “And we’ll go from there.”
Worst pep talk ever, I thought and hung up, still frustrated.
Not five minutes went by before Jaron called back. “Why are we trying to force you into a box? You’re not our accompanist, you’re our fuckin’ Walt Disney!”
Yep. The Jaron I knew and needed was definitely back.
“If the rules don’t work for us, then we’re gonna break the rules. What’s been your goal with Postmodern Jukebox all along? What’s the big picture?”
That was easy. “I want to spread it all over the world.”
“Well, imagine if instead of taking
ten years to do that, we could do it in five!”
I thought for a second.
“Wouldn’t that require more shows?”
“YES!” he exclaimed. “But it doesn’t matter, because we’ll have multiple casts on the road—all with different pianists and different bandleaders, executing your vision for the show. You could come to as many or as few shows as you wanted to. If you wanted to spend a month planning videos, you could do that. If you wanted to start a new project and needed six months off to do it, you could do that. Everything is built already. Now let’s scale it and take it around the world.”
It took a second to wrap my head around this. Was this even possible?
“So we’d put together multiple casts, rehearse them, and send them out. I wouldn’t have to be on the road 24/7. And that way, we could get lots more of our performers out there, too.”
“YES!” he screamed, accompanied by the sound of something shattering. “Fuck! I just knocked over my coffee.”
Jaron had had an epiphany. He saw that I was holding myself back by attempting to do everything instead of just focusing on the things that only I could do. He’d also had a vision for how to grow Postmodern Jukebox so that it would reach more people around the world and expand its roster of performers. Best of all, PMJ would no longer run the risk of becoming an act with a short shelf life because we would constantly be bringing new and interesting talent to our fans. Suddenly, this was looking like something with the potential to last… forever.
The longer I thought about what Jaron was proposing, the more I realized that it wasn’t just another way forward, it was the only way forward. The prospect of recapturing the creative freedom from those early days was incredibly enticing. No longer would I have to choose between writing arrangements and producing new remakes—the lifeblood of the project—and casting and touring. The two could happen in tandem. My main objective was ensuring that the show remained excellent, night after night, and that it retained the magic that’s born from putting world-class performers together onstage.
Outside the Jukebox Page 19