Best Of Everything Page 5

  “That would be awesome. I’d fly anywhere to do one.”

  “Let me think about it a little. Saul’s protective of his acts. He’s putting everything he has behind you – he’s convinced you’re going to be a megastar, and Saul has the juice to make that happen. I get the feeling he views you and Derek as a complication, not a positive, but maybe I can turn that around. He’s stubborn, but he’s also one of the smartest businessmen I know, and if he sees an opportunity, he’ll jump at it.”

  “Well, then let’s try to make him see Derek and me as an opportunity.”

  Terry and I eat in silence, canned music piping through overhead speakers like in a cheesy department store elevator. When I sit back, stuffed, the last of the pancakes hulking defiantly in the center of the plate, she pushes her salad away and orders a cup of black coffee. When the waitress clears the dishes, she lowers her voice.

  “How serious are you about this guy?”

  Blood rushes to my face, and I do my best to keep my tone flat. “Very.”

  “And he feels the same way?”

  I nod.

  She takes a long, thoughtful sip of her coffee and frowns. “This stuff tastes like tar.” She puts the cup down. “How are you coping with the kid thing? Really?”

  “Fine, I guess. I mean, I don’t have to do much about it personally. I’m here, he’s there. So not a lot I can offer but moral support.”

  “You okay with that? You looked like your head was going to explode on the tabloid sites.”

  “That’s just my ‘surprised by the ex with the kid at a public event’ look.”

  She nods. “Don’t let it get you down. We need you laser focused on making this launch work. Everything else has to take a backseat. Are we clear?”

  I’ve been expecting this, and suspect it was the whole reason she invited me out. She wanted to get a read on my stability and mood, and read me the riot act if she had to. She needn’t have bothered. I’m way better at beating myself up than she’ll ever be – I’ve had a lot more practice.

  I match the intensity of her gaze with my own.

  “Crystal, Terry. Crystal.”

  Chapter 6

  The next morning I’m up early. I’ve got an interview with a national music pub at 10:00 and a syndicated radio program at noon. After that I’ll be at the record company’s offices going over set and lighting ideas for the tour, and signing off on cover art for the album – purely a formality, I’m sure, since if I completely hate it, they’ll still run it. I’m getting used to the entire illusion of choice, the way the industry works, and I’m fine with it. As Terry’s said a dozen times, if I go huge, it will all change, and then they’ll be falling all over themselves to do what I want. But for now I’m a pretty face and not much else, so I’m expected to suck it up and keep smiling, which I’m refining to an art form.

  Ruby picks me up at 9:30 and drives me to a coffee shop in Beverly Hills, where I’m totally out of place with my black jeans, Chucks, and long-sleeved concert T-shirt. The woman we meet there is in her early thirties, laid back with an easy smile, wearing nondescript business casual that makes her look like she works in a big-box store. She’s the West Coast stringer for the publication, and talking to her feels more like a discussion with a fan than a journalist – she’s seen every TV performance I’ve ever done and opens by telling me I’m one of her favorite singers.

  The coffee’s strong and the questions routine: What was it like working with Sebastian (fun and challenging), what song do I like the most on the new album (I love them all, but the first single has a special place in my heart), how do I feel about going out on the road for what’s looking like at least a year (excited), did I ever think things would snowball as they have (not really).

  These are all softballs I’ve been rehearsed on numerous times by Terry and Ruby, and I know the answers cold. I get the sense she wants to explore the Derek thing, but is holding back – it’s not part of the article’s scope, and she’s too much of a fan to push it, for which I’m grateful. After half an hour we shake hands and go our separate ways, and Ruby assures me the interview went well, which I already know. The publications basically print whatever press release the record companies send them – the content’s just filler between the soda, skin cream, and gum ads.

  The radio station is in Westwood, near the apartment, and we stop in so I can use the bathroom and freshen up before we head over for the show. Ruby is busy assuring me that the talk show host will play nice – apparently he’s normally a shock-jock type who’s built his following with abrasive commentary and inflammatory topics. I don’t listen to the radio, so I have no idea what to expect.

  We get to the radio station and it’s underwhelming. I was expecting something like Sebastian’s complex, and this is more an armpit. The waiting room smells like a high school locker room, and the harried receptionist looks jumpy as she juggles phone calls.

  The co-host, a weasel-faced man with a heavy East Coast accent sporting enough gold jewelry to start his own pawn shop, comes out of the studio and introduces himself as Fast Eddy. I’m guessing that’s supposed to mean something to me, and I smile and make nice. He leads me into the studio, which has sound-deadening baffles on the walls and feels too humid, and seats me in front of a microphone across from a morbidly obese man wearing sunglasses even though there’s hardly any light.

  I don the headphones and the fat man finishes up his rant against illegal immigrants, and then looks up at me as Fast Eddy gives me a thumbs-up sign.

  The host turns his attention to me. “It’s a real pleasure to have one of America’s hottest talents with us on the Don Simons show today. Everybody knows her by only her first name, but like with Bono and Madonna, that’s more than enough. I’m talking about, of course, the lovely…Sage! Sage, sweetheart, welcome to the show!” he says, his voice professionally modulated and smooth.

  “It’s great to be here, Don. Thanks for having me.”

  “I’ve got so many questions for you, but the first one is…how tall are you? You’re a little thing, aren’t you?”

  “I’m five three.”

  “You know I like ’em small, right?”

  I’m not sure where this is going, but I don’t skip a beat. “It never came up.”

  “Well, when you’re old enough to drink, give me a call. I’ll treat you right.”

  “That’s something to look forward to,” I say, a smile in my voice. This is his deal, shock stuff, and I’ve lived on the streets long enough to be able to talk a good game.

  “Now, Sage, you’re putting the finishing touches on an album, am I right? Do they still call them that?”

  “Sure.”

  “You know, when I was your age, they actually had records. Vinyl. Those were heady times. Now it’s all MP3s and iTunes.”

  “The technology’s always changing,” I agree. “But what doesn’t change is a good song.”

  Fast Eddy cuts in. “She’s got that right.” He’s obviously the yes-man of the duo, there to play straight to the host’s over-the-top delivery.

  “She’s got more than that right. I wish the listeners could see what I’m looking at. I mean, va-va-voom!” Don says with an exaggerated leer in his voice.

  I don’t say anything, figuring it’s his problem to cover any dead air his off-color remarks cause. He leans forward, obviously not happy I didn’t go for the bait.

  “Listen, Sage, I was on the Internet today, and I saw a big row over you and Derek, the deadbeat who almost cost you the talent show win – some floozy showed up with a rug rat. Can you tell us anything about that?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” I say, still smiling. I’ve been expecting it to come up, and Terry and I have discussed how to answer any questions.

  “What? Some bimbo waves a kid at my man, I’d be going all ghetto on her ass, am I right?”

  “I’ve seen him do it. It’s not pretty,” Fast Eddy pipes in.

  “I think everyone was surprised, that’s for sur
e,” I concede, a diplomatic nonanswer.

  “What’s really going on? You can tell me. Come on. Give. You back together with that bum? I loved it when you kicked him to the curb.”

  “I don’t discuss my private life,” I say, my voice still calm, even though my heart rate is climbing and my ears are burning.

  “Oh, baby, don’t do me like that. Give daddy a little shugah. What’s the deal with him? You banging him?”

  I’m not going to play along anymore. “Do you know how old I am?” I ask quietly.

  Something about my tone stops Don dead, and suddenly his routine isn’t so funny anymore. He makes an attempt to salvage things, but it falls flat.

  “Not exactly. But you look plenty old enough to me.”

  “That’s probably because I lived on the street for a while – where I had to dodge perverts and scumbags who like to bully and hit on young girls.” I pause and then go in for the kill. “You know anyone like that?”

  Fast Eddy can’t jump in fast enough, and after a few one-liners they cut to commercial. The host looks like I punched him, but I don’t care. Fast Eddy escorts me out of the room, where Ruby’s sitting, her face white – she’s been listening over the speakers in the reception area.

  “Oh, Sage. I’m sorry. Are you okay?” she asks.

  “I’m fine. I can take care of myself.” The truth is I’m furious, but I won’t give anyone the pleasure of seeing it. I turn to Fast Eddy, who looks embarrassed.

  “Don’t take any of this personal. It’s just the way we roll on the show, you know?” he tries, an oily smile in place.

  “Yeah. No sweat. I’m sure that went down great with his fans. Maybe next time he can club a baby seal to death or something. You know, for shock value.”

  That pretty much cuts off the civilized discussion. I turn to Ruby. “Are we done here, or do you want me to go in and kick him in the nuts?”

  She laughs in spite of herself. The receptionist smiles for the first time since I arrived, and even Fast Eddy has to stifle a chuckle. “No, I think you got your fifteen minutes of fame, Sage. Come on. Let’s go to the next one,” she says, and we leave without me saying another word.

  Once we’re in Ruby’s car, I shake my head. “Sorry if I ruined things. The guy’s a complete douche bag. He crossed a lot of lines.”

  “Well, we’ll need to see how fans respond, but my take is that you ate his lunch and bitch-slapped him. I think it’ll play well. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that’s all anyone wants to talk about for the next few days during your interviews. You made him look bad, and I think he’s had it coming for a while. Best of all, you did it with class. That’ll buy you a lot of cred with a younger demographic. Who hasn’t wanted to tell off a bully and bury them in the process?”

  “So it’s not just me overreacting?”

  “Not at all.” Ruby’s phone rings, and she takes the call while pulling into traffic. I can’t hear the caller, but I can guess it’s Saul from her responses. When she hangs up, she’s smiling. “Saul listened to the playback and he loved it. Said you just went up a couple of notches in his book, and he wants me to get maximum mileage out of it.”

  “That’s great. Let me call Terry.”

  I dial her number, but it goes to voice mail. I leave a cryptic message. “Terry, it’s Sage. Interesting interview with the shock jock. Call me whenever.”

  We grab lunch at a retro fifties burger joint and head to Saul’s offices, where I spend several hours looking at photos of set designs being proposed for the tour. I’d imagined just setting up amps and playing, but the record company has other ideas, some of which are pretty cool, and others that look like Cirque du Soleil gone horribly wrong.

  In the end we agree on a minimalistic approach, with a slide show and retro effects that harken back to the sixties, with a hippie-ish vibe. It’s very Haight, and reminds me of my busking days. I hope audiences will respond well to it. Of course the designers assure me that they will.

  The album cover is gorgeous. It’s a frosted photo of just my face looking off in the distance, my hair blowing in the breeze, and I recognize it as one taken by the still photographer at my video shoot. It’s got a lot going on – there’s a sadness to it I really like, and the font treatment is total Janis. I have no problem signing off on it. I’m actually relieved, because it could have been so terrible. After seeing some of the set ideas, I’m glad the cover designer went with classic instead of trying for cutting edge.

  Ruby gives me a lift to the rehearsal studio, and I check my messages as she drives. My phone has been blowing up all afternoon, but I had it on silent, and now I see a dozen messages, from Jeremy, Melody, Derek. I scroll to his first, and he’s high-fiving me for my radio interview – his engineer played him the clip. He’s also apologetic that his shit wound up in my lap. I text him back that it’s all good and that I’ll call him after rehearsal, and then busy myself responding to Melody and Jeremy as the anonymous sameness of Los Angeles blurs by the tinted windows of the Lexus.

  Chapter 7

  When I arrive at the rehearsal studio, Sebastian is waiting with Terry. If I ever felt like there was pressure to be on my game, this is it. Even after working with Sebastian for six weeks, I’m still in awe of his reputation, and if Terry brought him to check out the band, it’s either because she thought we were really good or because she wanted a second opinion.

  He gives me a big hug, and I note he smells really good. Melody’s a lucky girl; or at least she wants to be. I’m way past judging whether it’s a good match or not. What I know about sensible relationships could fit on the head of a pin. My boyfriend’s got a surprise kid, we’re doing the long-distance thing, and we both have issues, to put it mildly. If a famous producer and a teenage sex bomb can make it work, more power to ’em.

  “How have you been?” he asks, as though it’s been more than a week since he last saw me.

  In truth, it does seem like a lifetime ago. So much has happened since then, the obvious being Derek. I feel like a completely different person than the girl who was sitting next to him at the mixing board, even if the change is psychological – well, mostly.

  “Good. How about you?”

  “Last minute tweaks. We’ll be mastering your project tomorrow. You’re welcome to come by the mastering lab if you want. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.”

  “Ruby’s got my schedule. I don’t go to the bathroom unless she says I have time.”

  “Sounds uncomfortable,” he says. Terry’s muttering into her cell, her attention elsewhere, as the band troops in. I introduce Sebastian to everyone, and I can see they’re impressed that one of the top dogs in the music business is dropping by to check us out. I kind of take it for granted – I mean, it’s Sebastian – but the effect he has on the guys is electrifying.

  The band tunes up, and then we launch into the set. I’ve got a tambourine for a few of the tunes, which I’m still getting the hang of, but overall I think we do a good job. When we finish, Sebastian claps, as does Terry, and we take a fifteen-minute break. Sebastian and I walk outside, where the sun’s setting in a reddish-orange blaze over the Pacific.

  “So?” I ask.

  “You want the good or the bad?”

  “I want the truth. You’re one of the few people besides Terry I trust. Give it to me.”

  “You sound great, but it’s missing something. It’s like you’re hitting all the notes, but I’m not getting you as a person. I want to connect with you when you’re onstage – I want to feel like you’ve invited me into your life and I’m spending an hour, just you and me, sharing secrets and whatnot. I felt that way on a few of your talent show performances – like the audience might as well not even have been there. This feels too much like a…a show, for lack of a better word. You need to find a way to make it more personal.”

  Leave it to Sebastian to cut to the essence of what I’ve been feeling. The band is good, the songs are fine, but the problem is…me. I’m not comfortable, not co
mpletely so, with all the pomp and ceremony, and that’s coming through.

  “What would you suggest? I mean, you know me as well as anyone.”

  “Remember that first day? At the piano? When you sang my song? That’s the Sage people want to see. That’s the one they’ll fall in love with. Part waif, part woman becoming. You need to put that across, but first you need to find it inside yourself again and get used to the idea that it’s who you are as a singer. All I can advise is what I’ve been telling you through all the recording: find your personal truth, and then make that your performance.”

  He studies me like he’s seeing me for the first time, and it feels uncomfortable, more intimate than I’m used to. “People aren’t coming to hear you sing, Sage. I mean, yes, that’s what they’re paying the fifty bucks or whatever for, but in the end, they’re coming to see what you’re all about. To share a special hour, where you give them something nobody else can. You’ve got it in you. Now you just need to figure out how to make the band an extension of you. If you can do that, you’re going to be unstoppable.”

  I consider his words and nod. “Where would you start?”

  “Your guitarist is pretty damned good, but for my taste the arrangements are too…big arena. See if you can bring it down, make it more intimate. Maybe do the whole thing unplugged. Get some incense going. Take your shoes off. Make it personal, one-on-one. I think I’d do our ballad with just you and the piano, like the demo – leave out the rest of the band. Some of the others, just you and the guitar player sitting next to each other, like you and Derek did those first appearances. Maybe set a hat or an open guitar case on the edge of the stage so the audience feels like they’re watching a street performance. Those are your roots, so you shouldn’t stray too far from them. Stay true to what got you here, and the audience will love you for it.”