How to Kill a Rock Star (16 page)

“What’s the last hit record you produced, Paul?” I stared him down, hoping he didn’t notice my hand on my pancreas. He said if I wanted a career I better quit pouting, get my ass in the studio, and make it work with the Sykes Bros.

Actual y, what he said was: “Show up and shut up, or get the fuck off this cloud.”

So I did. I showed up, shut up, and made it work. But it felt like compromise. And if you ask me, compromise feels like amputation.

Winkle was beginning to hate me. I could see it in his eyebrows and I could smel it on his breath, which cal ed to mind the warm air that shoots up from the subway grates and smacks of a slow, steely death.

The Michaels and I spent four months in the studio with Sykes and Sykes—three weeks longer than our al otted time.

We recorded fourteen songs, twelve of which were slated for the album, two that wil be saved for B-sides and the like. After finishing what the brothers considered to be the final song, they decided their work was done, packed their bags, and moved on to the next bunch of heathens, even though I was stil unhappy with the half the tracks.

Their departure turned out to be the best thing that could have happened. It gave me a chance to fiddle with al the moments on the record that didn’t feel right. After a couple more weeks working out the kinks, I was satisfied we’d made the best record possible under the circumstances.

That’s when I final y let Eliza listen to it. I’d been holding out on her. I wanted it to be a big deal, you know? I wanted her to get the whole package in one dose.

She cried and told me I was a genius.

Note to self: Always remember how lucky you are to wake up next to someone who thinks you’re the shit.

Next step, the finished product got messengered over to Winkle for approval, but before he’l sign-off on it, he’s sending us to Los Angeles to meet with “a few key marketing and promotional people.”

Sounds fun, huh?

Michael and Vera have never been to California, and Vera is out of school for the summer so Michael’s going to bring her along, maybe stay a few extra days and hang out on the beach.

13Here’s how stupid I am. I had this notion that I’d tel Eliza about the trip, the prospect of a few weeks frolicking on the beach would inspire her, and she would agree to come.

As soon as I broached the subject, Eliza’s expression dark-ened, like it does every time we talk about travel requiring flight.

Man, the amount of pain that history, fear, and irrationality can dredge up is mind-blowing.

I played like I assumed she would be tagging along, and mentioned that we’d be leaving on the twelfth. So she turns to me in al seriousness and goes, “Can we drive?” I had to make a conscious effort to keep my eyes from expanding. First off, we don’t have a goddamn car. A train would take, like, a week. And a bus, a zil ion years. Eliza kept repeating the date and I sensed a fit of hysterics coming.

“Paul,” she said, practical y hyperventilating, “don’t you know that more planes have crashed on August twelfth than on any other day in the history of aviation?” Believe it or not, I was completely unaware of this fact.

Something like fourteen accidents so far. She made me promise I wouldn’t go anywhere near a plane on August twelfth.

I sat her down on the couch and told her the same shit I always tel her: flying is no big deal. I said I’d sit right next to her and talk to her the whole time. I tried to convince her how much fun we could have eating crappy food, watching a stupid movie, and having cramped sex in the bathroom.

After five minutes she wouldn’t even know she was in the air.

First she used work as an excuse, claiming Lucy would never let her go. Then I made the case that it could be a working vacation. She screamed, “I CAN’T!” and locked herself in the bathroom.

I hate that word, CAN’T. I wish it had never been dreamed up, spoken, or defined. I wish the concept of CAN’T could be eradicated not only from language, but more importantly from the psyche of a girl who I know is fil ed with so much CAN it How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00 PM Page 133

seeps out of her pores and scents the air.

I told her I could change the date. We could leave on the eleventh. She kept screaming “No!” and then I sort of lost it. I pounded on the door and started screaming back at her. I told her she was a baby and that she couldn’t stay in New York for the rest of her life. I told her that someday— hopeful y—I’l be going on a world tour, probably be gone for months, and if she cares enough to see me she’s going to have to get her ass on a plane.

She stayed in the bathroom and cried. After I calmed down I told her I was sorry, but she sniffled and said SHE was the one who should be sorry.

I sat against the wal trying to get her to come out, trying to reason with her, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Eliza, it’s that there’s no reasoning with fear.

I’m off to the City of Lost Angels.

Let the odyssey begin.

Over.

“Armageddon,” Paul said when he cal ed from Los Angeles.

“I mean it, Eliza. The end of the goddamn world.” He’d only been gone for three days and already he was having a breakdown. “Do you have any idea how this company made most of their money, before they acquired a record label, a movie studio, and half of the Internet? Cigarettes and processed dairy products. ‘If our goddamn tobacco doesn’t kil you, try the mayonnaise!’”

Apparently Paul had been doing research on the corporation that now “owned his ass,” as he phrased it.

“Technical y, the Gap was a better gig. At least they gave me health insurance.”

According to Paul, the corporate structure was a hierarchy of separate companies, with the most profitable division—its Internet server—the apex.

Music was third on the ladder, and probably did little more than provide a nice tax write-off every year.

“I’m stil working for the man and he’s stil got me by the bal s.”

By the end of the first week, Paul’s resentment had evolved into doomsday pessimism as he gave me blow-by-blow accounts of the budding compromises he was being faced with on a round-the-clock basis.

“Day one,” he said. “This guy, Clint, a.k.a. Winkle Junior, tel s us that although he
likes
the songs we’ve recorded, he’s How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00 PM Page 135

sorry to inform us that he doesn’t hear a single, and in accordance with a stipulation in our contract that says we have to deliver recordings the company deems
commercially satisfac-tory
, I have to write one. Or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else
everything
. If Clint doesn’t get his single, Clint can make it so our record never sees the light of day. He told me I
had
to write a single. He said: ‘Go write a single, Paul.

You’re not leaving here until we’ve got a single.’ That began World War I I.”

I’d never heard Paul sound so upset. “What are your options?”

“Options?” He took a long hit off of a cigarette—a habit he admitted had returned with a vengeance during the week.

“I wouldn’t exactly cal them options. I either give them their radio song or, according to Feldman
and
Damien Weiss, they can terminate my contract on the grounds that I’m in breach of the deal.”

“Jesus…”

“Wait. It gets worse. Meredith from—I don’t know what department—art or marketing or something—Meredith is concerned about the Bananafish image. She wants to take us shopping and buy us some new clothes. She’s convinced I need a new hip-ass hairdo to go with said clothes.
And
she informed me, after a day-long photo shoot, they were planning on putting my goddamn face on the cover of the album.

Me
. Not some cool graphic, not the whole band, just
me
.

World War IV.”

I wondered if Meredith was pretty. “I thought you had approval over that stuff.”

“It’s al bul shit. Our contract says we have to be
consult-ed
on the artwork. It says nothing about them having to listen to the opinions expressed during that consultation. The only good news is I think I won that battle. Unfortunately,
13it didn’t come cheap. I give them their goddamn single and they keep my face off the cover.”

As much as I loved Paul, his ambivalence toward success made me want to kick him. “Explain to me why you don’t want your face on the cover.”

“Eliza, my pancreas.”

“You’re cute. And cute sel s records.”

“Holy Hel , I don’t want anyone buying my record because they think I’m cute.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Day three, Clint’s back. And Clint has developed an annoying habit of ending every goddamn sentence with my name. First thing he says to me: ‘How you coming on that new
song
, Paul? You’re going into the studio in three
days
, Paul. You’re not leaving California until you record a
single
, Paul. We can’t make plans for the
video
if we don’t have the
song
, Paul.’”

I visualized Paul’s hand roaming his lower abdomen, searching for that infernal gland of his.

“I miss you,” I said.

“Yeah. Me too.” He coughed again. It sounded like bark scraping his esophagus. “Nobody’s on my side with this video thing. Even your brother wants to make a video.” Paul was out of his mind. That’s what I decided. “You’re kidding right? You
have
to make a video.”

“Music is not a visual medium.”

“How do you expect to sel any records if you don’t make a video?”

“Music is
not
a visual medium.”

“Yes, it is. Music became a visual medium on August 1, 1981, the day MTV was born. I don’t like it any more than you do, but—”

“Music is
not
—”

“Al right, I get it. We’l talk about it when you get home.

In the meantime, hang in there. It’s only a few more days.”
“I don’t know if I’m going to make it. My pancreas is kil ing me and I can’t breathe. Wil you meet me at the airport on Friday?”

It sounded like the choice between life and death.

“Just say you’l try.”

“I’l try.”

I didn’t make it to the airport. Instead I spent the five and a half hours Paul was on the plane cal ing the airline’s auto-mated flight arrival and departure information number every fifteen minutes to check on the status of his trip just like I’d done when he’d left.

When I heard Paul’s feet ricocheting off the stairs, I ran to the landing and leaned over the railing just far enough to get a peek at him. He was lugging his duffel bag over his shoulder, and his face looked jet-lagged and freakishly pale for someone who’d just spent the better part of the month in Southern California.

Without a word, he took me by the arm, dragged me into his room, and made me sit on the bed. At first I thought he was mad that I hadn’t shown up to meet the plane, but he didn’t look mad. He looked single-mindedly preoccupied.

“Nice to see you too,” I said.

Dropping his bag to the floor, he said, “Close your eyes,” and then picked up his guitar.

“What kind of hel o is that?”

He leaned over, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and then proceeded to tune the guitar. “Close your eyes.”

“Are you high?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have a surprise for you. Now close your
goddamn
eyes.”

Once I complied, he said, “Okay. This is the sound of Paul Hudson making Clint happy. And the only reason I don’t consider it sel ing out is…wel , just listen…”
13He did a vocal dance to find the right key, and then strummed a slow, melodic, dare I say “radio-friendly” tune and sang:
She is a dolphin. She is a keyhole.

She is a candle but the wind still blows.

She is a lover. She is a dance.

She is an angel but only at a glance.

The days before her never were

Nights alone now only a blur

I just want to go home to her

She is a choir. She is a hurricane.

She is the sun when it looks like rain.

She is granite. She is sand.

She won’t tell me the way but she’ll take my hand.

She is a virgin. She is a whore.

She gives it all and I beg for more.

With lace under her clothes she drinks my soul.

She opens up and swallows me whole
.

Not only was it the most commercial y viable song Paul had ever written, with a running time of less than four minutes, it was romantic, sexy, and remarkably close to being a bal ad.

“It’s about you,” he said.

This incited an emotional riot in me, and for a brief, irrational moment I didn’t want anyone else to ever hear the song. I no longer wanted to share Paul with the world. I wanted to lock him up in that room and keep him there like a songbird in a cage. I wanted him to belong to me and only me. I didn’t want his talent or his soul to be picked apart and trampled underfoot by Winkles and critics and al the poten-How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08

5:00 PM Page 139

tial y insensitive music listeners who might never dig deep enough to find a place for him.

He set the guitar on the floor and scooted toward me.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “What’s it cal ed?”

“Original y, ‘The Goddamn Single,’ but Clint is forcing me to rethink that. I might name it after you just for shits and giggles.”

I flopped backward onto the bed, pul ed Paul on top of me, and for the rest of the night, at least, he did belong to me and only me.

Some people believe in a master plan, that there’s no such thing as free wil , and humans are nothing but pawns in the chess game of the gods who sit up in the sky on their white fluffy clouds lavishing good fortune on a select few and con-spiring against the rest.

I know better. Namely, I know that if I ever have the audac-ity to blame fate or God for holding a gun to my temple, I also have the wherewithal to remind myself that if I end up with a hole in my head, I was the one who pul ed the trigger.

Those were the thoughts running through my mind after Paul turned to look out the window of the limousine and said, “Someone shoot me now.