Faux Love

Chapter 1

Eric

I sit at the booth, keeping time with my foot, eyes focused on the mixing board levels.

We’re recording with Route Seller, one of the world’s most popular bands and idolized by young girls who buy too many copies of Teen Vogue all over the world.

The drummer, Jett Black, wears a look of cool removal as he powers through a solo, hammering out the drumbeat of a broken heart on the latest love ballad. We’re positioning it as this album’s first single.

Boom-tap-tap, hiss, boom, da-dum.

The vocals and guitar gallop in.

“Maybe in a future life,

We’ll end the fairy tale just right.

Walking on the edge of a roller coaster,

Jumping to safety when the cars get closer.

The parachute's ready in my hand

For the happily ever after waiting when we land.”

I close my eyes. Yes. Pop music hooks, brooding lead singer, driving guitars. Catnip for every female demographic from ages eight to 48.

An idea flashes that I think could catapult this song from a moderate hit to an inescapable pop culture phenomenon. I hear a version of the song inflected with new wave synthesizers and drum machine loops. It would mix a moody, intellectual edge with the eighties retro sound that’s currently in vogue.

It might be the perfect way to seal their evolution from teen heartthrobs to serious artists. The music video could also tap into the zeitgeist.

When Route Seller moved on from the producer who had overseen their albums since the record company assembled them as fourteen year olds, I was the one they rang. They’re counting on me to advance them to the next level, and I plan to deliver.

I share my new-wave synth idea with my colleague, Sydney Collins. Apart from being my right-hand man, a virtuoso on practically every instrument, and one of the best sound engineers in the business, he’s a musical genius.

“I think this could be the next great pop hit in the making, Sydney.”

“Yeah, I agree. It’s got that special something.”

“…But I think it needs to have the right kind of arrangement,” I continue. “Specifically, synthesizers and drum machines could make it big. What do you think?”

“I think as usual your instincts are spot-on, Eric. Hits the right dramatic notes.”

I can see the gears working in Sydney’s head.

“I think it’s worth having at least an alternate version,” I say. “If it’s not a winner, we release it on EP.”

“And if it sounds great, it could make pop history,” Sydney chimes in.

“Exactly. It might take a while to persuade the guys, but I think it’s worth it. We just have to convince them it’s their idea.”

“Yeah. I know how they can be,” he says. “Twenty going on twelve. I’ll go to the practice room and tinker with some things. I don’t think it’ll take long. Then I can jam it out with the band, and they can think they wrote it.”

“You’ll get a writing credit of course, though. Thanks, Syd. I can always count on you.”

“You too, man. We’re a dying breed.”

“Don’t I know it.”

The band finishes the take, and I join them in the recording room.

“That was great, guys. Really phenomenal,” I say.

“Thanks, Eric. That means a lot,” says the lead singer, Blake Rodney. He’s a baby-faced 20-year-old with ripped jeans, dyed black hair, and huge brown eyes. The type of boy every woman thinks they can fix.

“I was talking with Sydney. We think it could be a huge hit,” I say, priming the pump to suggest embellishments delicately.

“Yeah, it’s one of our favorites,” Jamison Nichols, the keyboard player, chimes in.

All four of them – Blake, Jett, Jamison, and the keyboardist Upton McCandless – look at me expectantly. They’ve been together as a band since they were fourteen years old, and they have been through nearly as many managers and agents. Their difficult reputation precedes them – and follows them everywhere.

I tread carefully. “There’s an angst and longing in this song. I think you can bring it out with some synths and drum machine effects. I spoke with Sydney, and he’d be eager to collaborate on it if it’s something you’d want to pursue.”

“Maybe. It’s something to think about,” Blake says indifferently, as if it’s no more consequential than whether he wants a burger or a chicken sandwich for lunch.

“I don’t know,” says Jamison. “We have a sound that works. Why mess with it?”

I bite my tongue to keep from telling him that they came to me so I could help them evolve their sound. If they want to stay in musical kindergarten, there’s no reason to come all this way for my help.

“It won’t necessarily be the final version. We just think it’s something very much worth trying. At worst, it can score cool points on the EP by tapping into the eighties nostalgia zeitgeist. But there’s a chance it could strike gold. Either way, a sound from an older era that’s trendy right now could make you assume the youthful maturity you want. And it’s a sound with an intellectual undercurrent.”

“Are you saying we don’t sound intellectual now?” Upton asks.

Is he trying to pick a fight? It’s not a competition, it’s a collaboration. Just be open to it. I wish I could tell him that, but I know even a gentler version would get me fired.

“No, of course you’re intellectuals. It’s a brilliant song.”

Jett is the only one I haven’t heard from. “It could be cool to jam toe-to-toe with a drum machine,” he says.

Phew. At least one of them is on my side.

“I’m the keyboardist, so drum machines are more my turf, Jett, not yours,” Upton barks. Jett rolls his eyes.

I miss working with groups that draw inspiration from each successive idea, rather than try to tear each new idea down. Bands where every brainstorm is addition, not subtraction. No ego, only creativity in the quest for the perfect pop song.

In other words, I miss working with groups like Daughters of Fortune. We all have the one that got away, and that’s mine. They burned far too bright just to flame out too quickly.

And then there’s Desirae Scott, the heart of the band and one of the biggest reasons I loved working with them so much. She’s still one of my best friends, thank God. She’s such a kind person and so easy to work with, you’d never think she was one of the biggest stars in the world. That is, until you saw her face and heard her voice. Then, you’d ask yourself how she could not be.

“What do you think of using autotune?” Upton asks, interrupting my respite.

Of course, that’s his suggestion. There are no bad ideas in brainstorming. Except in music, there’s always one bad idea, and its name is autotune.

“Or sampling amusement park sounds,” Jamison says.

Better. Could possibly work. Anything but autotune.

“It’s something we could consider. A roller coaster track, like the sound of chains pulling maybe, could mesh with the synthesizers,” I say, steering it back.

“Yeah, I like that direction,” Blake says.

When working with people whose egos make the gaming floor at Caesar’s look small, it’s not difficult to convince them that a good idea is theirs. It requires a careful dance of coaxing and praise, but it looks like I’m getting there with Blake. Once Blake is on board, the rest of the band will fall like dominoes.

When I envisioned a career in the music industry, I pictured great songs and artistic inspiration. I didn’t picture days in the studio spent as a glorified babysitter, holding the hands of egomaniacs with the goal of warding off a temper tantrum.

The money is great, though. No complaints there. I make a better income than I ever could have imagined making as a kid coming from a family that was barely on the right side of the middle class.

But I wonder if it wouldn’t be worth it to get off the fast track. I could stop producing superstars and dedicate myself to the principles that made me pursue this career in the first place. I could return to the pure love of music.

Everyone who gets into this industry does it for love, at least initially. It’s so easy for that fire to go out, though, regardless of whether you succeed or fail. If your career topples, this business will incinerate your dreams. But if you find success, it can be even more terrifying, because you won’t notice you’ve sold your soul until it’s already too late.

That’s one of the reasons Desirae’s friendship has always meant so much. She reminds me of who I am. If she can maintain her passion and see through all the bullshit, even when she’s a once-in-a-generation talent making a fortune in her solo career, then I can certainly stay true to my roots.

Sydney bounds into the recording room with a huge smile. He’s holding composition paper triumphantly. I give him a tempered smile, indicating they still need a little persuading. We’ve worked together so closely for so long, he can read me like team members signing plays in a World Series game. He nods.

“Hey, guys. ‘Future Life’ sounds fucking amazing,” Sydney tells the band. "Eric told me about some of your ideas. Maybe we can riff a little to see what we can make happen.”

I give the ‘great job’ hand signal. We look like good cop, bad cop. Or maybe industry shill, virtuous musician. But we’re on the same side.

“We’d love to,” Blake says. “I’m glad you liked our ideas.”

Phew. Another day, another crisis averted.

I joke sometimes that I’m writing a book called Working with Musicians. The punchline is that I have to keep revising since authors of books like Advice for New Parents and How to Train Your Chihuahua keep accusing me of plagiarism. It’s basically all the same thing.