I was a mere college student, the guy would take it as his cue to rattle off the list of celebrities he knew. Who talked like this? The artists I met were on permanent scope, guy or girl, their heads bobbing neutrally to whatever I said while their eyes went tick-tick-tick around the room. I could say this for Steven Swann. He focussed his attention on you when you spoke with him.
I walked into what looked like a display kitchen of some kind, with two large serving islands in the middle, spotless gas burners and immaculate trays of silverware. This room, too, was wired for sound, and there was a guy in here alone with his back to me. He wasn’t listening to the Goo Goo Dolls playing in the main foyer, he had on this salsa jazz stuff. And he was playing along with the percussion. He
was
the percussion, more like it. He got sounds out of wooden spoons you wouldn’t believe. He made an entire orchestra out of the hanging pots and skillets. I must have watched him for a full minute.
Thoroughly enjoying himself, he didn’t hear me come in and only stopped when he turned and saw me. Then he burst into a loud self-deprecating laugh.
“I was bored,” he explained.
“What are you? From
Stomp
?”
“I used to be,” he said, and I saw that he wasn’t kidding. Yes, he was. He’d been with the American homegrown production of the show a long time ago. He thrust out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Luther Banks.”
It was strange. Steven Swann and Luther were both about to become very important figures in my life, and they were poles apart in terms of physical looks and natural charisma. Steven had a model’s beautiful blankness, but Luther’s
café au lait
face was all about character. A half-moon scar, very faint, just above his right eyebrow, his black hair perfectly cut, a neatly trimmed goatee that framed a crooked smile. His eyes, people said, always looked a bit sleepy, half-lidded, but Erica would later remark they were bedroom eyes but not a pair that
wanted
you, more like they held an expression as if you’ve both just finished the dirty deed together. Those eyes took everything in. Steven Swann played on his fresh-faced delicacy. Luther had a masculine ruggedness to him that implied a natural quiet leadership. I liked him almost immediately.
I shook hands with him and said, “Hi, I’m—”
“Michelle Brown. Yeah, Erica said you were coming.”
“Everyone’s expecting me, but no one can tell me when she’ll get here. Hey, how could you tell who I am?”
“I don’t want to be rude, but you’re kind of dressed down, and not in an arch, designer ‘street’ way.”
I was back with embarrassment as my theme of the afternoon. “I didn’t know I’d be coming to this. People keep asking me what I’m working on, and I have to say Jane Austen. English lit as a minor.”
“Don’t sweat it. I put in two years at Juilliard, and I’m treated like a Martian. The new democracy in music! These days everybody wants to be a DJ, but they can’t play a note. They think they’ll just string something together with samples on a computer.”
“Umm…Should I know who you are?”
He laughed again. An endearing belly laugh, sincere and loud. “
No!
You mean am I in Steven’s league?
Nooooo!
My big mistake was giving away my best songs to other artists, so there was bugger all left for my first solo album. And Brown Skin Beats put it out more as a nice gesture and a thank-you. There was no marketing support
at all
. The CD makes a nice coaster, though. Hey, listen, we don’t have to talk about the music business just because you’re at this party.”
“That’s a relief. It’s all a little intimidating. Like eating at the grown-ups’ table.”
I stepped over to the window, where Central Park was a square of green in a forest of shiny needles. “This is my first day in New York,” I said, announcing it more to myself than to him.
He flipped a ladle into the stainless steel sink and dusted his
I walked into what looked like a display kitchen of some kind, with two large serving islands in the middle, spotless gas burners and immaculate trays of silverware. This room, too, was wired for sound, and there was a guy in here alone with his back to me. He wasn’t listening to the Goo Goo Dolls playing in the main foyer, he had on this salsa jazz stuff. And he was playing along with the percussion. He
was
the percussion, more like it. He got sounds out of wooden spoons you wouldn’t believe. He made an entire orchestra out of the hanging pots and skillets. I must have watched him for a full minute.
Thoroughly enjoying himself, he didn’t hear me come in and only stopped when he turned and saw me. Then he burst into a loud self-deprecating laugh.
“I was bored,” he explained.
“What are you? From
Stomp
?”
“I used to be,” he said, and I saw that he wasn’t kidding. Yes, he was. He’d been with the American homegrown production of the show a long time ago. He thrust out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Luther Banks.”
It was strange. Steven Swann and Luther were both about to become very important figures in my life, and they were poles apart in terms of physical looks and natural charisma. Steven had a model’s beautiful blankness, but Luther’s
café au lait
face was all about character. A half-moon scar, very faint, just above his right eyebrow, his black hair perfectly cut, a neatly trimmed goatee that framed a crooked smile. His eyes, people said, always looked a bit sleepy, half-lidded, but Erica would later remark they were bedroom eyes but not a pair that
wanted
you, more like they held an expression as if you’ve both just finished the dirty deed together. Those eyes took everything in. Steven Swann played on his fresh-faced delicacy. Luther had a masculine ruggedness to him that implied a natural quiet leadership. I liked him almost immediately.
I shook hands with him and said, “Hi, I’m—”
“Michelle Brown. Yeah, Erica said you were coming.”
“Everyone’s expecting me, but no one can tell me when she’ll get here. Hey, how could you tell who I am?”
“I don’t want to be rude, but you’re kind of dressed down, and not in an arch, designer ‘street’ way.”
I was back with embarrassment as my theme of the afternoon. “I didn’t know I’d be coming to this. People keep asking me what I’m working on, and I have to say Jane Austen. English lit as a minor.”
“Don’t sweat it. I put in two years at Juilliard, and I’m treated like a Martian. The new democracy in music! These days everybody wants to be a DJ, but they can’t play a note. They think they’ll just string something together with samples on a computer.”
“Umm…Should I know who you are?”
He laughed again. An endearing belly laugh, sincere and loud. “
No!
You mean am I in Steven’s league?
Nooooo!
My big mistake was giving away my best songs to other artists, so there was bugger all left for my first solo album. And Brown Skin Beats put it out more as a nice gesture and a thank-you. There was no marketing support
at all
. The CD makes a nice coaster, though. Hey, listen, we don’t have to talk about the music business just because you’re at this party.”
“That’s a relief. It’s all a little intimidating. Like eating at the grown-ups’ table.”
I stepped over to the window, where Central Park was a square of green in a forest of shiny needles. “This is my first day in New York,” I said, announcing it more to myself than to him.
He flipped a ladle into the stainless steel sink and dusted his
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