One Hit Wonder (10 page)

Audrey returned to her seat and continued to read the comments on their website. Glen, Bill and Tim went inside the sound room with the band. Glen sat on a stool and listened to their ideas. With the door open, she could hear their conversation.

“Kevin is our lead singer. He should be the one recording this song. I can’t reach the high notes he can.” John announced after Tim explained Atlantis’s idea for “North Star.”

“I understand and I agree with you. From the demo Bill has sent me, I can tell you don’t have Kevin’s emotive falsetto.” Glen proposed to record a version of the song in which John and Kevin would almost perform a duet, leaving the latter with the high notes and the chorus.

They worked for fours hours straight and only stopped to eat when a catering company changed the breakfast table to lunch. Audrey photographed them recording, and Tim asked to see her photographs from the tour. He told her they would be able to use some of them on their promotional material. He asked her what her employment status was with the band. So corporate, she thought. What he really wanted was a title. Kevin, who was in front of them in a line for the potato salad, overheard and said. “She is our muse and drinking buddy.”

“How sweet, Kevin. I’m truly touched.” She elbowed him on the back.

“She is our chief executive officer of public relations, strategic planning, and visual imaging.” Matt was eating chips standing on the other side of the table.

“Congratulations, Matt, you’ve made up the longest bullshit title in history.” Audrey said.

At that point, everyone in the room was listening to their conversation.

“I can tell you one thing, toasting after a finished gig has been much better when you have a hot chick waiting for you at the bar, and the girls think we’re sensitive when they see us partying with another girl,” Tyler said.

“Amen to that, brother,” Glen said.

“Like you ever needed my help to hook up.” Audrey glanced at Tyler and he gave her a vehement shrug of the shoulders. “And for your information, girls who hook up with musicians at bars are not looking for sensitivity.”

They laughed.

“A liaison between the fans and the band is something many performers have these days to help them keep up with the fans in the social networking age. The fans are also crazy for behind-the-scenes photographs and videos.” Tim said.

“Who better to do this job than someone who’s already been doing it — very well — without pay.” John stretched out the word ‘pay’.

“Oh, we have to rectify that.” Tim looked at Bill, who twisted his face up in a mournful smile.

Tim turned back to Audrey. “Bill had told me you were leaving after the tour.”

As Audrey, John, and the rest of the band turned their gazes to Bill, he said, “Circumstances have changed, apparently.”

“Are you available to go to L.A.?” Tim asked her.

“Absolutely.” Her eyes met John’s, and he gave her a radiant smile that seemed to say: I told you so.

Los Angeles — the place where rock stars were born was, of course, the next logical step for the band. Atlantis was there, and the amount of money spent on the band suggested the good-faith agreement Tim had them sign soon would be followed by a contract. The band and Audrey were settled in a house for out-of-town artists in Silver Lake, from where they could see a miniature downtown L.A. It came complete with pool, hot tub, and a guest-house converted into a studio, fully equipped and soundproofed. After a day to get settled, the band was off to the Atlantis offices to perform for several executives.

With “North Star’s” recording wrapped up, the band was off to shoot its music video. They were taken to a warehouse where a large area was covered in green screen and illuminated by flood lights. As it turned out, most of the scenes with the band would be shot in front of the green screen, and later on, graphic artists could create a computer-generated background.

Audrey was introduced to the director of photography, a tall and handsome Brit named Edward. The perfect black 007: strong cheekbones, broad shoulders, and charming accent.

“I’m not really a professional photographer,” she explained while shaking his hand. “My education is in art history.” Her tone was apologetic.

“Mine is geography.” He was a very kind man and a generous professional who didn’t hesitate to share tips of the trade. In exchange, she answered his questions about the band’s members, which he assured her helped him to establish a connection between his subjects and the camera. She tried to take in everything Edward was willing to give; cameras he liked to work with most, his thought process, other photographers who might have influenced his work, and even gossip on some of his celebrity clients. They quickly hit it off, and he invited her to observe how he worked in his studio, where he promised there were a scandalous amount of equipment and props.

She’d never seen a professional photo shoot before; actually, she didn’t even think there were cameras as big as the one Edward was using, but she discovered later a battery pack was attached to it. She had taken photography classes in college, those involved spending many hours inside a darkroom burning and dodging her photographs to bring the images of poorly shot negatives to life. She would not even have a digital camera if her father hadn’t given her one a few Christmas ago. He had been generous — and a little pushy — to give her a Nikon SLR with high pixel resolution, telephoto lens, and a set of filters.

“You take beautiful pictures, sweetheart. You should do it more,” He said after she unwrapped her gift. It appeared he knew she was unhappy long before she realized it herself. It wasn’t that she hated her job; rather the problem was she didn’t know what she loved to do to earn a living. Otherwise, she knew exactly what she loved: travel, art, cook, going to the movies, tequila. Unfortunately, the last time she checked the classifieds, there was no job for a tipsy arts critic who was available to travel and that could cook a mean chicken parmesan.

• • •

By midday, the shooting hadn’t started yet and, after a while, it felt as if the taping of a four-minute video was like untangling dreadlocks: nearly impossible and very painful. She was particularly amused because, judging by the sheer amount of green screen, this video would probably be completely redone on a computer. She’d instantly become more appreciative of full-length movies.

John walked out from the dressing room, and said, “what are you doing?” He plopped himself beside her on the couch in the makeshift waiting area across from the green screen.

“Twittering about your big Hollywood day.”

“Imagine what would take to make a full-length movie? No wonder they spend months at the time on locations.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “I was just thinking that.”

“Great minds think alike.” He kissed her neck below the earlobe. “Do you think we can find a more suitable place to elaborate?” He mumbled between kisses, breathing so close to her skin it gave her goosebumps.

“I think due to the importance of the subject at hand, we shall try.” She nibbled at his lips and got up. John followed her to a side door where she had seen some of the crew going in and out earlier.

“John.” Just as they reached the door, the costume director, a stubby middle-aged woman, called out from the dressing room. “We need you to try your outfit with the rest of the band’s. Got to make sure they’re all good on camera.”

“Be right there.” John sounded as enthusiastic as a teenager going to the orthodontist. He kissed Audrey and whispered in her ear, “hold that thought.”

On her way back to the couch, she stopped at a table covered with pastry, fruit, and a caterer-style thermos of coffee.

“Audrey, how are you?” Tim and a young woman approached when she was filling up a foam cup.

“Well. You?”

“Great. Has the shooting started yet?

“Not yet.”

“I meant to be here earlier.” He turned to the woman. “This is Jennifer, she is one of our P. R. associates and she will be working with the band.” Jennifer was lithe and petite, like a Barbie doll.

“Nice to meet you.” Jennifer touched Audrey’s hand the same way one would pull strips of dead skin from a sunburned back.

“You, too.”

“I love ‘North Star’.” Jennifer measured Audrey up from head to toe. “You’re so lucky.”

What the hell are you looking at, Audrey thought, but said, “Yes, I know.” She smiled, trying to dilute the tinge of irritation in her voice.

“Where are the boys?” Tim said.

“Trying on their outfits.” Audrey nodded toward the dressing room.

Tim looked at Jennifer. “Let’s go talk to them.”

“See you later.” Jennifer walked away, giving Audrey a conceited smile.

Welcome to Hollywood, Audrey thought, then sipped her coffee and resumed her place on the couch to fiddle with her phone.

It was almost four in the afternoon when the cameras started to roll. John and Kevin had to lip sing to the version of “North Star” they had recorded in Austin. Audrey could tell they were uncomfortable, but after a few takes, they performed more naturally. They played for hours, moving around to accommodate the new position of the cameras. For the close-ups of each band member, the others had to stop playing and move out of the way completely. The band had to walk from the back to the front of the green screen-covered room so often she had lost count. Later, a production assistant told her the video’s concept was to have the band — especially John — walking in the desert at dusk following the stars. Because the green screen wasn’t long enough, they would have to piece together the footage to the length it needed to be. They must have played “North Star” at least fifty times that afternoon, and when the director finally yelled “it’s a wrap,” it was almost midnight.

Two days later, Bill called to let them know the shooting had been a success. The director had all he needed and it would only take a few more days to put the video together. Atlantis was making the graphic artists work around the clock. Then Bill, saving the big news for last, told them the band was to perform live on the Ellen Degeneres Show.

• • •

She wondered what she would do all day; it couldn’t be completely boring to watch the band on a live show and, hopefully, meet Ellen in person. Audrey had always liked her stand up comedy routines. Ellen had to be extra clever to come up with funny material while still keeping it clean from the racist, sexist, and dirty jokes many other comedians relied on. But she was tired of following the band, and never completely forgot what Bill had told her in Austin. He was a douchebag who had no idea of whom she really was — not a groupie, that’s for damn sure. Nevertheless, the prospect of being called a “groupie” on national TV gave her the shivers.

“We have to leave in an hour,” John told them after he hung up the phone.

“Good luck, guys.” She looked up from her newspaper. They were all in the kitchen, Matt had made a pot of coffee that was quickly drained by everyone, Kevin ate cereal from the box sitting on the counter, and Tyler sat at the table reading the comics.

“Uh, Bill said everybody.” John walked to the coffee maker and started to work on a fresh pot.

“I’m sure he meant everybody in the band.”

“Maybe we should get you to play percussion, Audrey. What you think of a tambourine?” Kevin said, his mouth completely stuffed with cereal.

She grimaced at him and shook her head in disagreement for both — his comment and his lack of manners; then turned to John with pleading eyes.

“Sorry, babe, Bill said ‘Audrey too.’”

“What would you do all day, anyway?” Kevin had pulled out the orange juice from the refrigerator, and lifted the carton to his mouth but, having realized everyone was watching, stopped himself.

“For starters, I wouldn’t have to look at your face.” She stood up and walked away; behind her, they erupted in guffaws.

• • •

When John walked into the room, she had finished showering and was sitting on the bed towel-drying her hair.

“Hmm, live TV show. What should I wear?” He turned from the closet holding two black T-shirts, differing from one another only by their degree of fading. She loved the way he dressed: solid-color Ts or V-necks under button-down shirts in some sort of subdued plaid with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, never sporting prints or logos, and low-waist jeans; not so low the jeans clung to his ass by paranormal powers, but low enough she could sneak a peak of his midriff whenever he lifted his arms.

“If Bill asked for me — specifically — he’s up to something.” She was wearing a cotton bathrobe that came with the house. After a long moment of silence, she stopped working out the tangles in her hair to look at John. She followed his gaze to discover he was looking at the contour of her left breast, visible through the opening of the bathrobe.

“John?” She turned and sat cross-legged facing him.

“I don’t know. Maybe he just wanted to make sure you didn’t feel left out.”

“How thoughtful.” She tried, unsuccessfully, not to roll her eyes.

He walked around the bed and sat behind her, his expression was one of concentration. Perhaps he would be able to make sense of the situation. He slid one hand inside her bathrobe and ran his fingers lightly over her breast. She couldn’t help but giggle.

“Get out of here.” She pulled his hand away.

“I’m thinking!” He protested.

“You have been playing for nearly ten years, have written hundreds of songs, and you know the only thing they will talk about on that show is that damn YouTube video, don’t you?”

He twirled a strand of Audrey’s hair around his finger, looking at it pensively. “Everyone starts from somewhere.”

“How did you come to be so wise?”

“Ha.” John chuckled. “I guess all the partying and drinking I’ve been doing with the band for the past eight years have served me well.”

“Something did.” Was it possible some people were born with the kind of wisdom that others had to search for their entire lives?

“I’m not wise, babe. I just know sometimes sacrifices must be made.”

John was off-the-charts smart, read Nietzsche and Kafka and knew all that there was to know about music, from blues to classical and everything in between. Would it be enough to protect him from fame? From money?