Debut, p.16
Debut, page 16
“There is no point. It was foolish.”
“It wasn’t foolish.” Steve checked his emotions to keep the conversation from developing into an argument.
“Besides, if that’s the highlight, it’s gotta be the world’s most boring movie.”
“The director is original, but certainly not boring.”
“Give me a superhero flick any day.”
He sighed in exasperation. “You’re depriving yourself by not expanding your horizons.”
“If that’s the best you can do, I doubt it. And what is it with you and ancient history? How come all your references are decades old? Get with the times.”
“I’d hardly call decades ancient. And good is good, regardless of what year it came out.” Since nothing he said seemed to register, Steve decided on another tack. “Think of movies like nourishment. Sure, junk food tastes good occasionally, but you’d die of malnutrition on a steady diet of it. One Truffaut film contains more sustenance than a decade’s worth of those digital Punch & Judy shows.”
“Why are you always going off on superhero movies? What have they ever done to you?”
“You mean besides beating my brain to a pulp with their thunderous vapidity?”
“How snobby.”
“Let me count the ways. There’s no emotional resonance. No mystery. Collateral damage seems an afterthought. The characters’ decisions never matter in the long run. There’s always another gimmicky villain with a gimmicky weakness in a gimmicky costume waiting in the wings. I could go on. Besides, these people are super by definition. They’re supposed to win. I’m much more interested in ordinary people exceeding expectations than extraordinary people meeting them.”
“Meh. Life’s too short to waste on stuff that slow.”
“Tarkovsky used the poetry of images to depict the inner lives of his characters. This one scene encapsulates the entirety of a person’s life struggle. It’s genius.”
Casey’s head floundered to the couch as if fainting. “Well, genius or not, my life will be encapsulated soon if I don’t eat something.”
Steve slammed the laptop shut. “Okay, fine. Let’s go.” He wondered why he even bothered sometimes.
* * *
The thought of letting Made in Heaven down ate at Steve for the rest of the week. He invited the group to his annual Christmas party to make up for it. This wasn’t any old Christmas party, mind you. By tradition, the get-together, now in its fourth year, featured a 60s-era cocktail lounge theme. Moreover, since Steve was well connected with the creative lifeblood in and around St. Ignatius, this party featured a stage for live performances. The guests always made good use of it. Nearly anything was fair game, provided it had some link to the holiday season, no matter how tenuous. Steve promised to debut the “Have No Fear” video there and offered the band a primetime slot during the open mic event.
When Heather received the invitation, she bit instantly. The band was starved for live gigs, even non-paying ones. Aware of Steve’s extensive knowledge of music, she sought advice on cover songs that would fit the party theme. Stoked by the thought that anyone would be willing to sit and listen to his record collection, he invited her to his dorm room that very afternoon.
Perhaps it was overkill, but the three-wick candle usually worked wonders. Its mahogany and teakwood scent quickly filled the room, creating a relaxed and pleasant environment. Heather arrived looking fabulous, wearing a loose-knit super crop top sweater over a matching camisole. She paused a moment to assess his dorm room. “Your style of décor is interesting,” she said.
“People often substitute interesting when they really mean embarrassing.”
“No, I mean it sincerely.” She waved her hands across the walls for emphasis. “You have actual framed pictures arranged in coherent themes. Like you put some thought into it.”
“It’s cheap movie memorabilia collected at garage sales.”
“But clearly a step up from what most guys have. Pyramids of empty beer bottles and taped-to-the-wall alcohol ads ripped from magazines do not impress.”
“Not my style.” He wondered how many guys’ rooms she’d visited but quickly banished the thought. “Then again, most people say I’m the weird one.”
“Considering the state of what’s deemed normal in the world, I find nothing wrong with that.” Steve realized then that he could live 100 years and never hear Casey utter that exact phrase, even in jest.
While Heather ostensibly visited for some setlist recommendations, she stayed long after. Rather than bail at the first opportunity, she seemed genuinely invested in their topic of conversation, specifically female vocalists of which Steve had a particular fondness. The intensity of his impromptu ramblings on the subject tended to scare people away. Heather, on the other hand, seemed eager to absorb every word.
As a result, Steve was excitedly hopping back and forth between his collection of vinyl LPs—which he stored in pilfered milk crates by his desk—and the stereo system—which sat atop a closet dresser. As he selected music to play, he was careful not to step on records strewn over the carpet. Heather examined each cover as they were handed to her. When finished, she’d carefully place them in one of several piles on the floor. Her exact sorting method remained a mystery. When their conversation inspired new ideas, Steve would search for a corresponding record and set it alongside the turntable to be played next.
“Where did you get all these?” she asked. “I’m almost embarrassed to say I’ve never heard of most.”
“They belonged to my uncle, who started collecting as a kid. We talked a lot about music and what it meant to us. He moved overseas three years ago but didn’t want to haul them all along, so he passed the albums on to me, knowing I’d appreciate them.”
“That was thoughtful.”
“It’s mostly 80s stuff, but there’s some real gold in there. Uncle Fred always used to credit these songs as an escape valve when all else seemed lost.”
“I know exactly what he means,” Heather responded quietly, almost under her breath. Steve waited for a more detailed response that never came.
“Many divergent music styles emerged that decade,” he continued. “As did the growth of technology in music and the rise of so many influential female singers. Take this song, “Metro” by Berlin. My uncle always said that the era’s music promised a future that never came.”
“Listening to this, I can see why.”
“Don’t get me wrong. The Eighties has its share of haters, but in retrospect, I think it was a golden age.”
“Apparently.” Heather suddenly jolted in surprise, thrusting an album over her head, “Hey! An all-girl group.”
“Yup, the Bangles were groundbreakers. This song, “Eternal Flame,” is the biggest single by an all-female band.” He watched Heather’s face brighten as she listened to the record for the first time. When the backing vocals came in, she swayed her head, arms, and upper body to the beat. Her eyes were closed, envisioning a scene that Steve could only imagine.
“It’s a trickier song to sing than it seems,” she said. “A lot of registers to negotiate. Strong harmonizing, too. Maybe we’ll cover them someday.”
“You know Susanna Hoffs used to sing naked while recording in the studio. Claimed it was a freeing experience, like skinny dipping.”
“Are you suggesting I try that next time?” Heather asked impishly.
Steve choked. “I…uh…” He quickly looked for an excuse to change the subject. “Oh, look, Scandal.” With no further mention of nudity in the studio, he played “Goodbye to You,” comparing Heather’s singing style to Patty Smyth’s. “Besides her powerful voice, she strikes a perfect balance between cute and sexy with a little bit of edge. Like you.” Steve stopped abruptly, aware that he was treading in deep water for the second time in less than a minute. Heather remained focused on the album cover, though she wore a sly smile. Whatever her thoughts, she kept them private.
What’s this playing now?” she asked once the record changed again.
“‘Destination Unkown’ by Missing Persons. Check out this cover and tell me who the lead singer reminds you of.” He handed her the Spring Session M album.
It took her less than a second to answer, “Lady Gaga.”
“Yup. That’s Dale Bozzio. She sang with Frank Zappa, too.”
“This music is fun,” she said.
“Exactly. That’s what struck me about K-Pop. It reminds me so much of what I like about that era. Good melodies, strong hooks, and not afraid of a little fun. I know minimalism is the order of the day now, but pop music seems to have lost much of its charm.”
“I was so focused on K-Pop for so long that I never took the time to listen to anything else. Go on.”
“Are you sure you want to hear my diatribe? Once this train gets rolling —”
“I’m all ears,” she said, interrupting.
Steve continued to share his observations, admiring the abundant harmonies and melodies, surprising chord changes, boundary-challenging song structures, genre-spanning appeal, and seamless blend of disparate vocal styles. “I haven’t been this excited about pop music in ages. Too many record labels demand simplicity today. They must think we’re too stupid to understand anything complicated. It’s infuriating.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Korea reminds me of what we used to do well. Their songwriting palette is broader. There are so many more moving parts. Not just a reliance on the same four chords all the time. Bridges and melodies aren’t taboo, either. If I were a songwriter, I’d consider working there.”
“Reality is more complicated.”
“How so?”
“It’s hard for idols to have much control over their music.”
Despite their early friction, Steve found talking to Heather as easy as running fingers through a cashmere sweater. But one question piqued his curiosity more than any other. He sensed it was sensitive and decided to approach it obtusely. “Do you miss Korea?”
Heather tapped the album cover she currently held with one index finger. The gesture seemed driven by annoyance and not timed to any beat. “That’s a loaded question.”
“Either you do or you don’t, right?”
“I’m here now. L.A. is my focus.”
Steve opted to quit probing lest he drive her away. Long after sundown, he ran out of records to play. “I have to hand it to you. For the first time ever, somebody outlasted me.” He settled on the floor in front of the dorm room couch, resting one arm on the cushions.
“Thanks. You gave me a ton of ideas,” Heather said as she moved to mirror Steve’s pose. Their eyes met. His heartbeat quickened.
“Are you seeing someone?” he asked, surprising himself in his forwardness.
Heather built a slow smile before answering. “I gave up dating for Lent.”
“Unacceptable,” he teased. “This isn’t Lent. Don’t tell me you’re voluntarily observing the idol no dating rule, are you?”
“That has nothing to do with it. I have other goals right now. Nobody’s interested, anyway,” she said with a dismissive shrug.
“Oh, come on. I bet not a day goes by where some guy doesn’t ask you out.”
Heather laughed and held up a finger as if scolding. “Ha! Now, that’s where you’re wrong. You’d be surprised how many assume I’m taken and don’t bother asking.”
Steve cocked his head back. “If you met someone interesting, would you ask him out?”
“I already answered that. I’m not seeking a relationship right now.”
Steve let the matter drop. They sat awkwardly for a long moment until Heather grew uncomfortable and averted her gaze.
Just then, the dorm room door crashed open. Startled by this hasty intrusion, Heather sprang upright. Steve expected his roommate, Ken; instead, it was Casey. She made no eye contact with her boyfriend but glared at Heather with the heat of a thousand suns. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I interrupt you two?” she asked, her cheeks visibly flushed.
“No, sweetheart, we were finished. We’ve been discussing music.” Steve stood to greet his girlfriend. “Heather, this is Casey.”
Heather stood and smiled, extending her hand in greeting. “Nice to meet you.”
“She’s the main singer of Made in Heaven.”
Casey’s nostrils flared like those of a Kentucky Derby winner. She refused to acknowledge the offered hand.
Heather regarded the couple momentarily. “I should go. It’s getting late.”
“I’ll shoot you a playlist, okay?”
“That’d be great, Steve.” Heather struggled to scoot past Casey, who made no effort to accommodate her movement. As she departed, Heather waved toodle-oo with her fingers and sauntered down the hallway, singing “Goodbye to You” in a clarion voice.
When Casey closed the door, a draft rudely slammed it shut. She didn’t seem to mind. “So that’s why you’re always eager to see her, Steve.” The way she emphasized his name mocked Heather’s way of saying it.
“She was a key part of my video.”
“You never told me she was so…striking.”
His girlfriend would have been aware of this had she watched his video. Steve felt it unwise to mention this as Casey’s interest in this part of his life waned. He weighed a list of potential responses but chose distraction as the safest option. “Hey, would you like to hear some cool music while it’s out?”
Casey surveyed the mess on the floor with disdain. “Not really.”
15
THE PLACE THAT SHAPED ME
The celebration was small but meaningful. Heather’s Finance study group was at The Shed, a local beachside hangout. They were celebrating the semester’s end after earning an A-minus on their final project. Tasked with applying the theories and concepts of finance to the real world, the group chose to cover a globally recognized payment-processing company.
Classmate Brad, without debate, named himself project lead. Type A personality, Katie, repeatedly clashed with him over the unbalanced workload distribution. She felt all parties should share equally in participation. Quiet Gregg was happy to give Brad control if it meant a good grade. Contrarian Maret contributed initial research but mostly horsed around the rest of the time. They were all shocked to learn that Heather wasn’t good at math despite being Asian. But thanks to Katie’s inclusion campaign, she was tasked with presentation aesthetics, a role in which she thrived.
Brad proposed the Shed outing to thank the group for staying out of his way. Heather had little interest in attending but tagged along to remain in the good graces of her classmates. Besides, if she wanted to be honest with herself, the likelihood that she’d enter a career in finance had increased now that the pitfalls of indie musician life were better understood. Regardless of her feelings, Heather spoke little. The conversation gravitated towards future classes, which professors to avoid, and national politics, none of which excited her. She silently ate half her hamburger and a quarter of the fries, waiting for a lull to provide an excuse for leaving.
The discussion then veered into an unexpected new direction. Music. Brad mentioned his streaming playlist, which triggered a sharing of music preferences. It was a topic Heather preferred to avoid. At no point had she revealed anything of her past to them. Katie, however, wasn’t about to let her off the hook so quickly. “What about you, Heather?”
Surprised at their sudden interest in her, she faltered, then conceded tersely, hoping it would end the inquiry. “I listen to pop, mostly.”
“I hate pop music. It’s so shallow,” said Maret.
Chafing against her better instincts, Heather responded, “Isn’t that the point?”
“How’s that a good thing?”
“Accessibility is what makes it work. A good pop song can teach the same basic life lessons as high-minded art but in a fun way. And if anything, the world needs more fun right now.” This statement produced no further challenges. Merely looks of unease.
“Speaking of. Did you hear that new Travis Lenzo song that dropped yesterday?” asked Katie.
“I’ve been underwater this whole time,” said Brad. “Is it any good?”
“I was shook.”
“Bought it straight off,” agreed Gregg.
“It’s not lit like ‘Baseline’ was,” said Maret, “but I’d still download it,”
“And Heather?” asked Katie. “What’s your take on TL?”
She gauged their faces and considered outright lying but thought better of it. “He’s okay.”
“Just okay?” said Gregg, incredulously. “He’s the hottest thing going.”
Their silent anticipation demanded a fuller response. Hers came, naturally, from the heart. “Well, despite being a baritone, his lower range is mostly underdeveloped. His falsetto is airy and lacks projection, while his vocal runs are often pitchy. Interestingly, the more volume he adds, the tenser he sounds. In his defense, though, his mixed voice is nicely relaxed.” She decided to stop there. Her companions remained silent, now seemingly more out of pity than curiosity.
* * *
“Okay, is everybody ready?” Grace queried her group members as they stood outside the 1920s-era bungalow in Pasadena.
“Yes,” they responded in unison. The sounds from the house confirmed that the Christmas party was in full swing. Over the PA system, a musician could be heard tuning his guitar while telling jokes. The crowd engaged in a riotous discord of conversations as they awaited the resumption of entertainment.
Grace continued her briefing as her bandmates shivered in the chill December air. “Remember, as soon as we enter, it’s effectively —” Her speech was cut short when a curly-haired blonde guy wearing a blue pinstripe seersucker suit and a ‘Jerry Mandering’ nametag opened the door.
Heather didn’t know his actual name but recognized his face from St. Ignatius. “I thought I heard voices out here,” said the greeter with a welcoming gesture. “C’mon in.”
“Well, anyway, it’s showtime,” Grace announced as she led the procession into the house. That was the signal to assume their idol personas.
