by Dan Kennedy
It gets heavier from there. Sentiment about feelings, emotions about pain, and frankly, the guy’s doing an amazing job of describing these, well, just sad feelings that . . . you know? What I mean? Jesus, try not to look at the others in the room. Don’t listen to what he’s singing. Don’t think about it, just try to look like the guys who run entire divisions of this company; calm, cool, a reserved and polite tap of the foot or bob of the head. Just do that.
I can almost, I mean, with his gentle strumming and singing about this stuff that screws all of us up, I can almost see every executive in this room as they were when we were all . . . innocent . . . children. I’m just saying, you have to be a human being about it, you know? You can’t stand here and say this isn’t moving. It feels like when you see a Mother’s Day commercial that makes you cry because you’re tired or a little hung over. Man, how do things get so messed up between two people? What the hell goes wrong with love? Why does some love last and some just blows up so fast? Or worse, blows up in your face after so long, when you never thought the end would come. Why can’t we figure love out! Nobody knows. God, how do we settle for some of the messes we all get into, these things that should’ve ended years ago by the time they finally fall apart. I . . . I love my girlfriend so much. We’re really good for each other. We have a lot of love and a lot of laughs together. We’re kind. Kind to each other, because that’s what . . . what love is. That’s what hearts do. But getting close to somebody, that’s how we all got hurt at one point or another. Everyone in this room. It’s scary, you know? Opening your . . . your heart to somebody. I wonder if I’m ever going to be a dad. More love near us, more life around us. Or would it be a drag somehow? It could be a total drag. Everyone says that having kids changes everything, but what they don’t tell you is that so does sitting in a studio apartment alone in your forties. I’m so afraid of marriage, and all that. It just freaks me out for some reason. As if it could ruin everything we have and we’d be stuck like that. Christ, I’m probably screwing up every good thing in my life because of fear. I feel like I’ve been so lucky to have ever been in love and have loving feelings that seem to love like a lover who . . . Holy Christ, you’re listening! Snap out of it! The song’s got you in its grip!
Look around the office and get your mind off it! Now, dammit! Look at anything! Stare at the Stone Temple Pilots platinum plaque like you’ve never really noticed it! “Hmmm. Interesting plaque. I love that band. ‘Interstate Love Song’ was a great song,” I seem to be saying when I look at it, tilting my head a little to indicate that I’m really appreciating it. I keep looking around the room, so these guys can’t make me have feelings. Hey, I like the way Vallerie has her plant right there so it kind of covers up all her phone lines and computer cables. Good thinking. That’s smart. Hey, nice picture frames, she’s really got some good ones. I try to think about the first time I heard the Pixies and that feeling of walking around college towns aimless in life, but happy to at least finally feel connected to something. I think of anything I can to get out of this sad love song’s grip — like ineffective names for hardcore death metal bands. I distract myself by building this list in my head:
Ineffective Names for a Hardcore Death Metal Band
Light Tropical Storm
The Peppermint Twists
The Trolleymen
Fine Living
Gene Doubleday and the Fall River Players
Hoopla!
West Burlington Death Metal Combo
The Ginger Snaps
Scrimshaw
Actually, that last one kind of works.
The song ends. No way, they’re getting ready to start another slow one. Jesus, please, we get it: Love is hard, and there are a lot of difficult emotions in life. Let’s wrap it up, I need to get some fresh air and some sweet food to shove the feelings back down.
The guitarist is taking a few minutes to tune up again. And the singer/leg smacker guy actually has these little raps between numbers. And those are what really make me like him, because they sound exactly like the little raps I say in my head every morning on the subway to work trying to rationalize every little compromise I’ve made in life. He says something like, “I just want to say that we are not here to become what we have never been. We’re here to do what we do — but, I mean, obviously things change, and sometimes changes can get confusing. That’s what this next song’s about.”
Amen, brother. You think I like these slacks I’m wearing? I’m going through some pretty confusing changes myself — trust me. These hair highlights or whatever they’re called were supposed to be cool, bleached-out streaks like the ones Anthony Kiedis from Red Hot Chili Peppers had.
They start into the next number — something about a lover changing his mind about loving and how it hurts emotionally. I’m just staring at the carpet and counting the little squares in the pattern, trying to keep my mind off of this song, but occasionally I squint a little while tilting my head, so it looks like I’m thinking about the music. I am shifting my focus from the carpet, and up to the leg of the chair, then after looking at that for a minute, I stare at the base of the lamp. Suddenly I can’t help but think, Is Vallerie okay with this? Didn’t she go through a big breakup pretty recently? She’s beautiful. I mean, everyone is, but . . . It takes everything in me not to walk across the room and hold my boss in my arms, sway her to the beat, and tell her that everything is going to be all right for all of us.
The song finally finishes. Dude has another little rap to say as a closing thing. Something about, “Thanks for the opportunity to be here today, we have no idea what comes next, so we’re just going to try to stay true to what we do.”
Look, dude, here is maybe the real reason that I can’t listen too closely to the songs you’ve written: All I can think about is what a huge day this is for you, and it would be for me, too, and every friend I’ve ever had: a record company has plucked you from the masses of hopefuls, and flown you to the New York office so you could play for us today. I envy you deeply, seriously. I’m not trying to be smartass. It’s a pretty huge thing, any way you cut it, to stick it out until record companies are forced to pay attention. But I’ve only been here a relatively short time and I’ve already seen the likes of you disappear before you even had a chance to get out there and do what you do. I mean, they blow all of this smoke, they talk you up like this. They sign you to a contract, and they fly you out to play in the office or at a club. And maybe your record will come out. A lot of times it doesn’t. A lot of times, believe it or not, it winds up on a shelf and you’re trapped in a contract. But if it does come out, and if it sells less than five hundred thousand copies, every vice president or copresident that is kissing your ass in the offices today will act like it wasn’t their idea to sign the guys that fell short of selling a million. So in a way, it’s like you were singing in your song there, I’m afraid to get my heart into this and be made to look like I was stupid for being the guy who was trying to believe.
They’re done playing their songs. I look to Dick to see if there will be any closing remarks, or if we’re free to leave. He’s quietly looking at them to make sure they’ve stopped, but when he realizes they’re done, he just kind of looks up at us like, “Hmmm . . . interesting.” He doesn’t say anything. None of us do. Aging Suburban Classic Rock Guy starts to make a slow move for the door, loudly whispering to nobody in particular something about a conference call. A phone rings out in front of Vallerie’s office and Amy excuses herself to grab it. Vallerie is looking at me like she has an assignment to talk to me about. In my head, I pretend the songs have moved her as much as they did me, and she wants to talk to me about love. She picks up the phone, getting distracted by the call. We all file out in silence and I tell myself everyone’s quietly thinking thoughts like The heart is a fragile thing and I will never make sense of life; so finite, bittersweet, and over too quickly, no matter when it ends as we walk briskly back to our offices to finish the day.
BEFORE WE MOVE ON, A
RECORD-BUSINESS RIDDLE
Q: How many of the likes of us does it take to change a light bulb?
A: First of all, before we change anything, is the light bulb really burned out? Maybe we just need to breathe some life into it; repackage it, maybe the light bulb could do a duet with somebody (Sheryl Crow? Tim McGraw?) in hopes of getting some crossover appeal, maybe it could be in a beer commercial, maybe we could get it out on the road with a brighter light bulb. The other thing to think about is that this summer, Honda is rolling out a $100 million campaign for a new car aimed at thirty-somethings who consider themselves adventurous/spontaneous but can’t really afford something like a luxury SUV and it might be a perfect campaign to tie this light bulb into, at least it would be the perfect demographic, in terms of age.
Also, and this is just an idea: what if we found out what video games are being released in the third quarter and maybe pitch the idea of having our light bulb make an appearance in the video game at some certain level of completion; like, you get to a dark cave, let’s say, if it’s an adventure game, and if you have enough points, you can get the light bulb — and it would be our light bulb, obviously — and then it’s easier to see in the cave. The other thing is this: worst-case scenario, the light bulb is, in fact, burned out. Is that really the end of the world? I mean, maybe that’s actually of more value to us in the long run. Picture this for voiceover: “The light bulb is dead . . . but the legend lives on . . . rereleased, remastered, revealed . . . the light bulb . . . in stores now.” It almost makes more sense than taking the time changing it, plus, if it’s dead we can sell it without dealing with it, you know what I mean? No demands from it, no hotels, no road expense, no delays in the project from its end, etc. But, like I said, I’m just thinking off the top of my head here, just brainstorming, and none of this is written in stone. But the first thing we should do is figure out how we want to handle this, because the light bulb’s manager is a total nightmare and we’re going to have to take a meeting and listen to him sooner or later, and we should know what our plan is before we sit down with him. And let me tell you right now that the first thing out of his mouth is going to be, “This light bulb should be the brightest light bulb in the world, and it could be the brightest light bulb in the world, but you need to support the light bulb, you need to give the light bulb TV ads, you need to be more active in giving the light bulb tour support, we need to have some promotion from your end!” and on and on. And in that meeting, if you’re in it, the only answer from our side should be that we’re obviously very excited to be working with the light bulb, that we don’t think it needs to be changed, that the only problem is people haven’t seen how bright the light bulb could be, and our plan is to do everything we can to make this light bulb happen.
I’ll send out an e-mail to everyone before the meeting to remind people of our position on this, but the bottom line is we don’t have the budgets right now, and basically we need to see something happening with the light bulb before we go throwing good money after bad, but obviously we can’t have the light bulb’s manager hearing that. I can tell you all that I’m personally very excited to be working with the light bulb, I think it will light up very brightly, and we’re not going to stop working the light bulb, in whatever ways budgets will permit, until it does, in fact, light up very brightly. . . . The light bulb is a very big priority for us from the top of the company to the bottom. Period. We can talk more about this when I am back from Barbados next week, and I’m going to need everybody’s help on this. I know we can do it, but we need everybody working hard.
HOW TO SHOOT A THREE-HUNDRED-POUND HIP-HOP STAR FROM THE BRONX
Vallerie asks me to write a treatment for the new Fat Joe commercial. I find myself writing some totally over-the-top gangster thug scene that would cost way too much to shoot. Partly because I’m over-compensating for feeling like a timid white guy in a pretty little office, nervous to be writing a thirty-second TV commercial treatment that’s going to be sent to a South Bronx gangsta-rap icon who spits rhymes about life on the streets. And yes, maybe the other reason is that the more over-the-top the scenario I write, the more it will cost to shoot, and I’ll be off the hook from directing said three-hundred pound, totally intimidating South Bronx gangsta-rap icon, and able to make a simple TV commercial by editing something together from his music video. The only problem with my big plan is that Fat Joe (aka Joey Crack in the old days) loves my treatment.
“He loves it. Hands down loves your idea!” Vallerie says with a sense of glee that, after growing up with an older sister, I have come to recognize as lovingly sinister.
“Yeah, well, it would cost so much to shoot, so, you know. I mean, the location alone. I mean, I’ve got him in something called ‘hip-hop headquarters high above the city, with power-mogul-thug panoramic windows,’” I say in hopes I will dissuade her from the whole idea.
“A location will cost us nothing! I’ve already put a call into Ahmet’s assistant saying you’ll need to scout out his office as a possible location. They said you can go up there this afternoon and check it out.”
Ah, nice. Yeah, that is a perfect first impression to make on a legend in this business. Good then, Ahmet Ertegun — the man who signed John Coltrane, who’s arguably responsible for bringing black music to white America, who started Atlantic Records with a eight- or ten-thousand-dollar loan from his dentist in 1947 to watch it become one of the most influential record labels in America during the sixties and seventies — he’ll be on the lookout for the guy from marketing who wants to make his perfectly respectable office into something called a hardcore hip-hop headquarters with power-mogul thug windows. Charmed, I’m sure. I can see it already:
“Hello, sir, yes, yes, nice to meet you. Finally. Wow. None of us would even be here without you. You’re a legend — more of a rock star than today’s so-called rock stars. You signed everyone from Ray Charles and Aretha Franklin to Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones. Ahem . . . okay, well, little bit about me, sir. Uh, let’s see; been here a number of months now. You may recognize some of my work — ‘Don’t Bring a Gun to School’? That ring a bell at all? It was a public service announcement? With the Donnas? Uh, let’s see . . . ‘twenty-five’? That was a Phil Collins print ad. Anyway, could I just get you to move your coffee table, sir, that’s where I want to have some bitches and hoes hanging out. I might have one of my thug’s posse knocking boots with a ho on your sofa there, as well, because that’s a real nice couch. That looks expensive; could really say ‘hip-hop mogul’ if I dress it up a little. And if you could move some of the things off your desk for me, that’d be great. Great place for the bling and ice an’ shit that I’d like to have laying around this crib; big platinum piece with a bunch of diamonds that says Terror Squad on it. Frankly, sir, I see nothing but possibilities in here, the way you’ve set things up.”
I have never been more terrified of an idea of mine getting the green light.
That afternoon, I go upstairs to see his office. He’s not in, but his assistant meets me in front of his office. She walks me over and lets me go in and look around. She stands at the door while keeping an eye on me. The desk is immaculate. Huge and solid and square, and everything on it placed perfectly in order.
“And we could move, just maybe that stack of papers off of his desk, right? We would want just a clear shot of . . .”
“Oh, no, no. I don’t think you could really move any of the papers.”
Right . . . okay, that answers my next question about rigging the ceiling with lights, moving the couch up against the window so the skyline’s in the background, running steel tracking for the camera from the door and up to that desk, and basically having about fifteen crew people with walkie-talkies walking around in here. Fact is, I knew the second I walked in here and saw this place that there was no way we could ever invade this place. But I’m sure this as close as I’ll ever get to the legend that started all this. I’m just some ad guy working in the marketing department and I’m
pretty damn certain that isn’t the kind of guy who gets a formal introduction to Ahmet Ertegun. Hands politely clasped behind my back — remember to use the kind of posture that my parents taught me to have for special occasions when I was a little kid. I feel like I should start asking her more logical questions about the office since my only other option seems to be to gaze upon all of this with my mouth wide open until I get goosebumps and start weeping openly.
Look at these photos on the table between the couches. Here he is with Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall. Here’s one with Led Zeppelin way back in the day — this might be the actual day he signed them; the day that was responsible for eventually getting Led Zeppelin IV into the world and eventually into my sister’s suburban bedroom so I could sneak it out and listen. Wait, are they sitting on these same couches in the photo? I walk over to a wall lined with photographs from a lifetime of friendships with everyone you can think of, from musical legends to diplomats and presidents. Look at this, a framed royalty accounting statement from one of the first Ray Charles records, typewritten through a carbon and sent to his attention. Even the texture of this wall says something. Put your face close to it. Feel that? It’s almost a fabric, isn’t it? Get close to the smell of it, smell this world where walls feel almost like a thick parchment, a world where America is still . . .
“Okay, so, did you have any other questions, or . . .”
She’s still standing behind me watching.
“Right, anyway, I’m just looking at the, uh, wall here, making sure it would work if, uh . . . Yes, yes, that’s good. That would work. Good. Okay, well, thank you. Thanks for, you know, letting me . . . okay, thank you.”
Of course the location for my hip-hop TV commercial does not end up being Ahmet Ertegun’s office. The location turns out to be this guy’s office on the next floor down. Vallerie meets me there to unlock it and let me in. Nice place, pretty big corner office with one of those, like, twenty- or thirty-thousand-dollar stereo systems with all the tube amps and everything; oddly, there’s no music next to it. No photos of anyone anywhere, either. No framed notes or letters, nothing more personal than a very expensive collection of furniture and lighting that looks like a permanent installment at a museum of modern art in any key U.S. city. This place already feels like a set; like a façade.