Rocking the Pink

by Laura Roppé

  Jenny and I erupted in squeals. We were eleven-year-olds at a Justin Bieber concert.

  “Let’s just see if he actually comes through,” Harriet cautioned.

  The next morning, Jennifer and I tuned in to BBC Radio 2’s Wake Up to Wogan in our hotel room, holding our breath. At the nine o’clock hour, we heard Sir Wogan introduce “a new song from superstar Laura Roppé,” followed by the familiar sounds of Jenny’s violin progression, leading in to my familiar voice. “She says I think I’ll go home, turn off the telephone . . . ,” I heard myself sing—to eight million people!

  Jenny and I jumped on the hotel beds for joy and danced around the room. Eight million people had just heard my song! It was unfathomable to me. We couldn’t enjoy the moment for too long, though, because Harriet was awaiting us downstairs in the lobby for yet another round of radio interviews.

  It is such hard work being a “superstar”!

  When we met up with Harriet in the lobby, Jenny and I tackled her from both sides. “Did you hear it?! Did you hear it?!”

  “Yes,” Harriet beamed. “Wonderful news.”

  That afternoon, John “liaised” with Jenny, Harriet, and me for afternoon tea at Harrods, a very “posh” and famous thing to do in London. The tea was sublime, served with silver spoons and exquisite china, and the biscuits and scones were melt-in-your-mouth delicious. I felt like Queen Elizabeth herself.

  “Here’s to Wogan,” John toasted.

  “Here, here.”

  The next day, John drove Jenny and me to Manchester, one of the biggest and most respected radio markets in the UK, for another interview. Oh, such hard, hard work! When I returned to my hotel twelve hours later, having endured hours of snarled traffic to and from Manchester—plus a shopping spree during which I had bought Brad a Manchester United jersey so he could wear it while happily playing his favorite (stupid) soccer video game with our friend Mike—all I wanted to do was sleep. I shuffled through the hotel lobby and dragged myself into the elevator to go back to my room.

  Standing in the elevator was an African American man. Over the past few weeks in London, an exceedingly international city, I had grown accustomed to seeing people of every race, creed, and color, and from every continent on the planet, including Africa. But this man was not from Africa, I was certain; I would have bet dollars to doughnuts he was an American.

  “Hi,” I greeted him as I entered the elevator. My tone was warm.

  “Hey,” he replied, returning my warmth. I knew it. American. My countryman!

  “How’s it going?”

  “Exhausting,” he answered.

  “Me, too. You want to compare?”

  “Sure. You first.”

  Prepare to be dazzled, my American friend.

  “Well,” I began, fake boredom in my voice. “I just went all the way to Manchester today for a radio interview. We hit tons of traffic; it took us hours to get there. I had, like, one second to spare when we finally arrived before I had to go live on-air. And then we drove back, again in traffic for hours. Long day.”

  I know, pretty impressive. I’m sure you’re wondering who the hell I am right about now. I considered squeezing in the fact that my song had just aired on Wake Up to Wogan, but I couldn’t figure out how to shoehorn that into the three-second conversation. Oh well. I was sure he was adequately impressed nonetheless. “Okay, your turn.”

  We had arrived at the guy’s hotel floor. The elevator doors opened, but he stood between the doors, holding them open.

  “I’ll give you the win for today,” he said, “but this tour’s been brutal for months.”

  Tour? “What tour?”

  He reached down to grab a laminated credential card on his belt. He tilted it up to me. “I’m managing U2’s world tour.” And with that, he hopped off the elevator to the other side of the closing doors.

  Just as the doors closed, I shouted to him, smiling, “You win!”

  The last sight I saw before the elevator doors closed was the cocky smile on his handsome face. He’d known all along he’d win our contest hands down.

  I laughed for a good long time to myself about that one. It served me right.

  When it was time to leave the UK, John sent that elegant driver from the first day to “collect” me from my hotel and take me to the airport. When we got there, he wished me safe travels and I happily boarded the airplane to go home to my beloved family.

  As I entered the terminal in L.A., I saw my handsome Brad waiting for me. I ran to him and we hugged as if we’d been apart for years—a hug that rocketed to the tippy-top in the pantheon of Best Hugs of My Life. The entire two-hour drive home from L.A. to San Diego, we talked nonstop about my trip, though we had kept in constant contact throughout it. When I saw the girls at home, I dropped to my knees so I could hug them face-to-face, and they knocked me down, swarming me like excited puppies.

  There’s no place like home.

  Chapter 46

  In this new school year, there would be no nannies, no after-school programs, and no juggling schedules. Just Mommy.

  Brad and I walked the girls to their first day of school. Second-grader Chloe was a ball of excited energy; fourth-grader Sophie was clinging to Brad’s arm. Each, in her own way, was perfect. My girls had weathered the storm of the past year. This was a new beginning.

  When I picked them up from school, they talked without taking a breath. They had so much to tell me! About their teachers! Their classmates! The books they were reading! At home, I made them a snack, since they were starving, and then it was time for homework. That evening, it was dinner as a family, a round of Crazy Eights, and then off to bed.

  It was a simple life. A conventional life. A lovely life.

  As the girls and I were walking to school the next morning, Chloe asked, “Mom, would you rather have a life that’s short and fun or long and boring?”

  Considering my recent head-to-head with the Grim Reaper, I was not eager to answer this question. And I wasn’t all that excited to hear my seven-year-old pondering mortality, either.

  “Long and fun,” I evaded, wanting to change the subject.

  Chloe bristled. “But you have to choose, Mommy.” Her face was scrunched up and intense. She wasn’t going to let me off the hook.

  “Okay . . . short and fun,” I relented. And it was the truth, if I had to pick.

  Chloe smiled. That’s what she had thought.

  “Me too. Short and fun,” she said. She didn’t seem to understand the macabre nature of the conversation. To her, it was just a rhetorical exercise.

  We shared a knowing smile.

  And then Chloe and I both looked at Sophie. Sweet little Sophie. She looked sheepish.

  Sophie shrugged her narrow shoulders, as if to say, Okay, you got me.

  “Long and boring,” she finally answered, with just a hint of apology in her voice.

  But there was no need to be sorry. Sophie was perfectly Sophie.

  Chapter 47

  In November 2009—exactly one year since the start of chemo—I walked the red carpet at the Los Angeles Music Awards in Hollywood, amid flashbulbs and a flurry of questions from reporters. My album Girl Like This had been nominated for Country Album of the Year, and “Float Away” for Americana Single of the Year. It was mind-boggling.

  I’d spent hours deciding what to wear—short dress, long dress, flowing or column? Sequins? Patterned? I finally settled on a floor-length, animal-print dress with an open back. I figured it was kind of rock-starry, but still classy. My hair was easy—I’d continued sporting a pixie length since treatment had ended. Just a little pomade, and I was good to go.

  The Laura Roppé Band had been invited to perform “Float Away” during the show, and my entire band was buzzing. We were one of the last acts to perform, immediately following a Russian heavy-metal band, whose performance featured a clown makeup–clad lead singer, a children’s choir, and a snow machine. (You know, I always find it most appealing to have my Russian-clown-metal
music accompanied by children’s voices and fake snow.)

  Finally, as I stood at center stage, looking out at a room full of music-industry heavy hitters (whose ears were likely still ringing from the Russians before us), Jenny began playing the familiar opening chords of “Float Away” on her violin. I saw Brad’s proud face in the audience, and my soul welled up, once again, with love for this man. Our lives had been turned upside down over the past year, and now it was time to savor our triumph.

  And then, as I heard my voice rising up from my throat, wafting through the room, past the balcony seats and straight into the night sky, all the way up into the farthest reaches of heaven, where it shot like fireworks into a million little stars, all I could feel was peace: I was singing again, I was alive, and I had finally staked my claim on the life I’d always wanted to live. I could feel the audience’s rapt attention. Perhaps they sensed they were witnessing a rebirth on that stage.

  When they announced “Float Away” as the Americana Single of the Year, I wanted to collapse in a heap on the stage, as if I’d just reached the finish line of an arduous marathon. Luckily, Jennifer was standing there, too, as Instrumentalist of the Year, and she propped me up. We cried and laughed in each other’s arms.

  I was a jet-setter now, peeps!

  I packed my bags for a week at the famed Rock ’n’ Roll Fantasy Camp in Holly wood. I’d been invited by the camp’s generous founder, David Fishof, and sponsored by the angels at the breast cancer awareness organization Keep A Breast.

  The gist of the camp was this: Musicians of any level came for a week. Campers were divided into bands of five or so people, led by a counselor—a musician with impressive credentials. Each “band” rehearsed daily for a big showcase to be held on the last day; meanwhile, big-name rock stars dropped in to wow everyone with their rock star–ness.

  For a girl who loves music (and rock legends), it was heaven on Earth.

  Upon my arrival, five other campers and I were assigned to a bighearted camp counselor known as Teddy Z, a keyboardist who’d toured with Guns N’ Roses and Carole King, among others. Two of my new bandmates were successful entrepreneurs, two others had raided their savings to make their rock ’n’ roll dreams a reality, and the fifth was an aw-shucks guy from Arkansas who’d won entry to the camp in a contest. And me? I was the wife-and-mother-of-two cancer survivor who was now a thirty-nine-year-old fledgling singer-songwriter. You know, the usual.

  Not surprisingly, music made short shrift of our varied backgrounds, and almost instantly the members of my band became the best of friends.

  On the first day of camp, I attended a songwriting class taught by Grammy-winning songwriter Mark Hudson, a larger-than-life personality who initially rose to fame in the ’70s as part of the Hudson Brothers trio. In addition to having written some of the biggest radio hits, Hudson has produced records for big names like Aerosmith, Ringo Starr, and Ozzy Osbourne. (And here’s a fun fact for pop-culture junkies: Mark is also the uncle of the adorable actress Kate Hudson.)

  As I settled into my chair at the workshop, spiral notebook in hand and ballpoint pen at the ready, I eagerly anticipated absorbing Mark’s songwriting pearls of wisdom. Would it be “the top ten tricks to songwriting”? Or perhaps “how to write a hit song”? Either way, I was ready to take detailed notes.

  But then Mark walked into the room, and I knew instantly this wasn’t going to be your typical Learning Annex lecture. Maybe it was the fact that Mark was wearing a purple pimp suit. Or maybe it was his rainbow-streaked beard, which made him look as though he’d just taken first place in a rainbow pie–eating contest. Whatever it was, I knew this man was unlike anyone I’d ever met before. I was immediately transfixed.

  “Hello,” he said to his adoring audience of songwriting students. His eyes were fierce but warm.

  “Hello,” we answered back in unison.

  “Hey, look, it’s Guitar Zero,” Mark proclaimed, motioning to one of the campers assigned to his fantasy band, a poor sap who’d apparently displayed less-than-stellar chops in their rehearsal earlier that day. “How’re you doing?”

  When the object of Mark’s playful scorn bantered back that perhaps the real problem was Mark’s leadership, not the camper’s prowess as a guitar player, Mark laughed easily and heartily.

  “Well, for some reason, they’ve asked me to speak to you all about songwriting,” Mark began, turning his attention to the task at hand. “Ah, yes, one of my favorite topics.”

  I leaned forward in my seat, my eyes trained like lasers on his magnetic face. He seemed so comfortable in his own skin, so unapologetic.

  “It’s actually quite simple,” he began. “The song has to tell the truth. Dig deep and find the truth.” His voice rose with emotion. “Always. Or don’t bother writing the song.”

  Someone in the audience asked a question then, but I didn’t hear what the student said. The only person in the room, as far as I was concerned, was Mark Hudson. Everyone else had disappeared.

  “Stand up and be yourself,” Mark responded to the no-name pupil. “Be yourself, in your full glory, in your songwriting and in life. You can’t write good songs if you aren’t brave enough to be yourself.”

  I am certain I gasped. You can’t write good songs if you aren’t brave enough to be yourself. The words took my breath away.

  Mark continued to tell some highly entertaining anecdotes about how he had written songs for Aerosmith, Celine Dion, Hanson, and others. And though I listened to every word, I could not move past his bone-crushing thesis: You can’t write good songs if you aren’t brave enough to be yourself.

  After class, a crowd of fawning campers surrounded Mark, laughing, smiling, thanking him. They were jovial, backslapping. Merry.

  I hung back, waiting for everyone else to leave the room. I was not merry. I couldn’t breathe.

  Finally Mark was alone and I approached, tears threatening to fill my eyes.

  “Mark,” I said. “Your words . . . ” I could barely croak out the phrase. “Thank you” was all I managed. And then, dammit, tears began to distort my vision.

  “You’re welcome,” he answered offhandedly, still glancing at the dissipating crowd. But then his eyes met mine and he saw the dark storm brewing beneath my contorted face. “Why are you so upset?” he asked, concerned.

  “Oh, no, I’m not upset . . . I’m inspired. I’m so inspired!” And with that, those damned tears spilled out of my eyes and right down my cheeks. “I’ve never been so inspired in all my life!”

  Mark looked relieved and touched. He smiled at me. He understood.

  “Mark, would you mind listening to one of my songs?” I asked tentatively.

  “I would love to,” he answered, and his interest sounded genuine.

  I was overjoyed. “Thank you so much, Mark,” I said, fumbling in my purse for my CD. “Here you go. Thank you! Track three: ‘Float Away’!”

  That night, I tossed and turned, imagining the Mark Hudson actually listening to a song of mine. I just couldn’t get over the idea of him listening to my voice! What if he liked it? But what if didn’t? What if he hated it? What if he told me I shouldn’t quit my day job?

  The next morning, after waiting for yet another doting crowd to clear out from around Mark, I approached him at the bagels-and-cream-cheese table.

  “Good morning,” I said, trying not to seem like a pest, trying to seem like I was only vaguely interested in whether he’d listened to the song.

  “Ah, yes, good morning,” he answered, as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “I slept with you last night, you know,” he said. And then, to my expectant face, he explained, “I fell asleep listening to your album, on my third time through.”

  I clapped my hands together involuntarily in the universal sign of “oh, goodie!” He had listened to my entire album? And more than once?!

  “I couldn’t stop listening,” he continued. “Your voice! I could feel you in each song.”

  I had goose bumps! The great Mark Hud
son had felt me in each song!

  “But, Laura, you need to keep going,” he encouraged, looking at me with those piercing eyes and grabbing my full attention. “You’re on the right path. You, my dear, are a songwriter. But you were holding back in these songs, both as a songwriter and as a vocalist. You’re just trying too damned hard to be perfect and pretty, honey. There’s so much more to you than that. I know there’s more inside of you! Now go find it. Go deeper. Be willing to fail. Don’t get bogged down in trying to do it right. Songwriting isn’t about being right; it’s about being real.”

  I was blown away. He had hit the nail on the head. I nodded my assent, at a loss for words.

  “Be willing to fail,” he said, his tone gentle, “and I promise you will soar to great heights.”

  Mark was right. I had been holding back, afraid to fail. In my songs. And in life. The songs on my album—all written when I cared what others thought of me, before I’d fully committed to following my heart, back when I’d been afraid that people might call me a “dreamer,” before I’d been ravaged by cancer and forced to own the deepest truths about myself—were not as vulnerable, as real, as the songs I’d been writing since my treatments. Mark Hudson was right: It was time to let go and expose myself in all my flawed glory—both in life and in my songs.

  I felt that familiar electric current coursing through my body: I have to record a second album.

  The next day at camp, famed Kiss guitarist Ace Frehley talked to us about some of his musical adventures. After his group question-and-answer session, I managed to chat briefly with him one-on-one.

  “You can have a big house with maids and a garage full of cars,” he told me in his tough-guy voice, straight out of Goodfellas, “but you gotta be inspired every day, or it’s all nothin’.”

  I nodded. I hadn’t expected Ace Frehley to be so deep.

  The next day, Meat Loaf walked into our rehearsal room in the middle of a song. When we had finished, he beelined over to me.