hands. “Then come on. You shouldn’t be cooped up in here. You’re a tourist, for fuck’s sake.” When I hesitated, he said, “This thing’s going to go on until three in the morning, trust me. Let’s get you some fresh and smelly, lung-choking New York air. What do you feel like doing? Anything you want. I live here, so you come up with the ideas.”
I was concerned for two whole minutes about whether I was being picked up, but the conversation kept circling around to Erica. Erica’s career was going to Pluto. She was going to be
huge,
he assured me. She had great instincts, and the hooks she came up with for her tunes…Luther’s daily bread was his producing, in addition to his songwriting, and he had worked on or mastered five of the tracks for her second album in progress. He said he’d put in enough time that he knew how far she could go.
“If, of course, she doesn’t fuck up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I leaned my face into the wind and tried to pick out Liberty Island. Not very original of me, wanting to go up the Empire State Building, but Luther was a good sport about it. “What do you mean
if she doesn’t fuck up
?”
“I mean your friend has a slight case of John Lennon disease.”
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“She’s bursting to tell the world all these things she wants to say, and she’s going to be raw about it. She’s cynical about the issues, and that’ll sell, sure. Beautiful young artist pointing out ugly shit going on in the world? It’ll play
big
. But she’s also cynical about people. They say Lennon was the same way. He’d go off on rants when he was younger. Shit-scared that his ambition and talent made him a phoney, so he projected all that out to other people. Now, your friend doesn’t harangue folks. She’s found more creative ways to use people just to prove shit to herself.”
It was the most interesting way I’d heard yet for calling Erica Jones a slut.
“The trouble is,” Luther went on, “eventually artists like Erica run into smooth talkers who will know exactly what buttons to push and what they want to hear. And she’ll get snared. It’s good that you came down to visit, Michelle. Honest. People starting out in this biz, they need friends from their old lives to ground them.”
“She’s doing well,” I argued. “She’s already famous. Is there any reason to worry?”
He nodded.
“You sound bitter and burned,” I suggested.
“Oh, I am,” he admitted, nodding. “I’ve been burned. But I’m not so spiteful that I watch others poke their toes into the fire. They’ve got all kinds of ways so that you never realise there’s smoke coming from your head—until it’s too late.”
He laughed ruefully and said, “You know how I ended up producing? Didn’t have much of a choice. I signed my deal with my music publisher, thinking I was the cleverest S.O.B., and then I took a second look at my submissions quota—so many tunes to create and turn in per quarter. And it was ridiculous, no way I could crank ’em out. Fine, said my publisher. I breach my contract, they feel justified in cutting off my advances on stuff turned in already.”
“Bastards,” I said politely.
“Oh, but it gets better. If you don’t read the fine print, you may find out—like me—that you, the writer, are responsible for getting the cuts.”
“Cuts?”
“Uh-huh. It’s biz lingo for getting an artist to record and release your song. Well, lo and behold! Your publisher has turned you, through the magic of a signed contract, into their salesman.
They’re
supposed to be the ones securing the artists, and unless you’re a hot producer with a thick Rolodex, the water’s going to get a bit deep. I got good at producing for the sake of survival. When my publisher came back to me one day bitching over my submissions quota, I said go ahead and cut me off. Fuck you. I just made more off my work for Busta than you pay me for
I was concerned for two whole minutes about whether I was being picked up, but the conversation kept circling around to Erica. Erica’s career was going to Pluto. She was going to be
huge,
he assured me. She had great instincts, and the hooks she came up with for her tunes…Luther’s daily bread was his producing, in addition to his songwriting, and he had worked on or mastered five of the tracks for her second album in progress. He said he’d put in enough time that he knew how far she could go.
“If, of course, she doesn’t fuck up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I leaned my face into the wind and tried to pick out Liberty Island. Not very original of me, wanting to go up the Empire State Building, but Luther was a good sport about it. “What do you mean
if she doesn’t fuck up
?”
“I mean your friend has a slight case of John Lennon disease.”
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“She’s bursting to tell the world all these things she wants to say, and she’s going to be raw about it. She’s cynical about the issues, and that’ll sell, sure. Beautiful young artist pointing out ugly shit going on in the world? It’ll play
big
. But she’s also cynical about people. They say Lennon was the same way. He’d go off on rants when he was younger. Shit-scared that his ambition and talent made him a phoney, so he projected all that out to other people. Now, your friend doesn’t harangue folks. She’s found more creative ways to use people just to prove shit to herself.”
It was the most interesting way I’d heard yet for calling Erica Jones a slut.
“The trouble is,” Luther went on, “eventually artists like Erica run into smooth talkers who will know exactly what buttons to push and what they want to hear. And she’ll get snared. It’s good that you came down to visit, Michelle. Honest. People starting out in this biz, they need friends from their old lives to ground them.”
“She’s doing well,” I argued. “She’s already famous. Is there any reason to worry?”
He nodded.
“You sound bitter and burned,” I suggested.
“Oh, I am,” he admitted, nodding. “I’ve been burned. But I’m not so spiteful that I watch others poke their toes into the fire. They’ve got all kinds of ways so that you never realise there’s smoke coming from your head—until it’s too late.”
He laughed ruefully and said, “You know how I ended up producing? Didn’t have much of a choice. I signed my deal with my music publisher, thinking I was the cleverest S.O.B., and then I took a second look at my submissions quota—so many tunes to create and turn in per quarter. And it was ridiculous, no way I could crank ’em out. Fine, said my publisher. I breach my contract, they feel justified in cutting off my advances on stuff turned in already.”
“Bastards,” I said politely.
“Oh, but it gets better. If you don’t read the fine print, you may find out—like me—that you, the writer, are responsible for getting the cuts.”
“Cuts?”
“Uh-huh. It’s biz lingo for getting an artist to record and release your song. Well, lo and behold! Your publisher has turned you, through the magic of a signed contract, into their salesman.
They’re
supposed to be the ones securing the artists, and unless you’re a hot producer with a thick Rolodex, the water’s going to get a bit deep. I got good at producing for the sake of survival. When my publisher came back to me one day bitching over my submissions quota, I said go ahead and cut me off. Fuck you. I just made more off my work for Busta than you pay me for
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