Outside the Jukebox

by Scott Bradlee

  I reached the open garage—her office—and there she was, at her desk, just as she had been three years before, at the start of my journey.

  “Scott!!” she said with a sparkle in her eye as she opened the door. “Come here! So good to see you!”

  “Hey, Agatha. It’s great to see you, too.” I smiled and gave her a big hug. She started talking very fast, occasionally slipping into Greek.

  “You need a place to live?” she asked. “I have very nice apartment—it’s twenty-one hundred dollars but for you, fifteen hundred!”

  I laughed. “No, I’m just visiting today.” She didn’t hear, though, because she was excitedly dialing her phone.

  “I must call Helena! We are having a party for Christmas, and we need piano! We pay you one hundred dollars. Stay right here—you’ll talk to her!”

  I started to explain that I was no longer located in New York City, but before I could get the words out, she thrust the phone at me, Helena on the other end of the line. I didn’t outright refuse her friend’s invitation to play at their party, but I thanked her and told her that I wasn’t sure I could commit to it, and managed to extract myself from the conversation. I motioned for the video crew to come closer so they could pick up every word of what was to come next.

  “Agatha,” I said. “Remember the music thing I used to do in the basement, with the videos?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, we’ve made it big time now. I’m playing at Radio City Music Hall tonight, and I’d love to have you come be my VIP guest and see the show.”

  Agatha shifted uncomfortably. Her eyes darted back and forth for a second, and she drew in a deep breath.

  “I cannot.… The exterminator is coming, I must wait for him. No thank you.”

  So much for that emotional moment. I motioned to the video crew to wrap it up, and we packed up and said our good-byes. I’m not sure why I ever expected a different outcome than this. In a strange way, though, it was perfect. For isn’t one of the beauties of family, after all, that we accept each other as we are?

  During my time at Sleep No More, I had learned the value of paying attention to even the smallest visual details in a production. Their meticulously curated rooms were so well furnished with estate sale items from the 1930s that it often made guests question whether they had actually stepped through a portal into a different era. The sum of all these tiny details—an old typewriter with its original ink, the scent of a popular bourgeois fragrance from the 1930s, a flickering tube radio—combined into something whose effect was far greater than the individual parts would suggest. It was an entire world, with its own signature atmosphere that was better experienced than described.

  Playing Radio City Music Hall meant that we needed a visual upgrade from our usual minimalist setup consisting of an Austrian drape and white music stands. The stage at Radio City was enormous, and we would easily get swallowed up unless we brought a bigger set piece. The set designer I hired sent me a number of gorgeous mockups, including one that seamlessly integrated Greek columns, contemporary lighting spheres, a 1940s-era bandstand, and New Orleans–evocative damask wallpaper. It was just the right visual to express the otherworldly, vintage-yet-quirky feel of the Postmodern Jukebox universe.

  The show was, of course, our biggest Postmodern Jukebox concert yet, both in audience size and cast size. (If I keep emphasizing this, it’s because COME ON—Radio City!!) Being in the birth state of PMJ also meant that the show was something of a This Is Your Life reunion, as cast and crew both old and new caught up with one another backstage. Morgan and Haley reconnected and reminisced over their first tour in Europe together. Drue and Steve hung out and talked about their upcoming projects. Natalie and the other dancers went over the moves for “Give It Away” with Aubrey. Casey and Tim worked out their own tambourine dance moves. Robyn and Von planned a duet version of “Thrift Shop” to showcase how important that song was to both of them. Jaron was there, excitedly telling me about a new idea he had, while suggesting, of course, that I hide the champagne so the promoters would bring us another bottle. It felt like a dream, one where people from different eras of your life were all together. Rook was on stage-manager duty and had inexplicably acquired a very large stick that he was using to point at people for emphasis. Everything had changed, and nothing had changed. When it was time to go on, Will gave his usual pre-show pep talk, but with a twist: “Congratulations to each and every one of you. I’ve had a blast with you guys. And tonight is actually the night”—here he paused for dramatic effect—“that I’m going to turn the speakers on so the audience can finally hear the show.” In such a nerve-wracking setting, his humor was a relief.

  From my vantage point in the wings, it looked and sounded like we were playing a PMJ show into a black hole; the stage was so gigantic that I couldn’t see the audience beyond it. As emcee, Mykal hyped up the crowd and set the mood of excitement for the evening. Sara Niemietz charmed the audience with her brilliant vocals and infectious smile during “Hey Ya!” and Haley Reinhart received cheers from exuberant fans when she stepped onstage during the bass ostinato in “Seven Nation Army.” The show seemed to race by—despite clocking in at a solid two hours—and before long, it was time for me to take the stage. I strode down the long corridor, passing well-wishers who worked for the venue and our promoters, and I ran into Robyn, who had just finished performing. We had both moved on in our personal lives and didn’t speak all that often, but right now, tonight, it was suddenly important to me that we share a moment of recognition. After all, she’d been there at the very moment my crazy idea took off, transforming both of our lives in the process. She spoke first.

  “Hey… remember when we used to make those funny YouTube videos in your apartment?”

  Robyn’s mascara started to run, and I could feel my own eyes watering.

  “I’m proud of you,” I told her, and I was. Despite all her doubts and insecurities, she faced them head on and refused to give up on her dreams, no matter how difficult things got.

  We hugged. What a crazy ride it had been.

  I continued on, making my way past the crew to stand just behind the curtain as Mykal gave my introduction. I still couldn’t see the crowd; part of me considered the possibility that the show wasn’t real, that this was all some elaborate prank my friends had organized to mess with me. Then I heard my name, and with it, thunderous applause.

  Stepping onto the stage at Radio City and looking out over the crowd of thousands, everything finally hit me. I looked out and saw the faces of so many people—people who were now on their feet, people who were strangers to me but that I recognized in an inexplicable way. It didn’t feel like I had somehow managed to sneak into somewhere that I didn’t belong. It didn’t feel like a high school dance where I didn’t have a single friend. It felt, at last, like home.

  My mind flashed back to the early days of Postmodern Jukebox, when I was filming videos in Agatha’s basement and paying musicians in falafel sandwiches. It hadn’t been a glamorous operation, and there had been no promise of fame or fortune. What kept me going, back then, were the messages I’d receive from viewers all over the world who saw the possibilities of this project and who believed in the value of supporting real, live music in an industry that was becoming more airbrushed and overedited and inauthentic by the day.

  In time, these messages of encouragement grew in number, as people told their friends and family about the crazy group of musical misfits turning today’s radio hits into Golden Oldies in a living room somewhere.

  Our group of performers grew.

  It became a movement.

  It became Postmodern Jukebox.

  I pulled myself back into the present, onstage. This time, I was regretting my decision to not prepare a speech in advance; I think I mostly just uttered “Wow!” a whole lot, in awe. But my thought as I gazed out over Radio City Music Hall that night was about how these were the people who’d helped build Postmodern Jukebox into what it was today. These
were the people who gave our collective of talented vocalists, musicians, and dancers a stage and told them, We’re here for you.

  The show finished in an appropriately grand fashion, given the prestige of the venue and how far we’d come. I took a seat at the piano and accompanied Morgan on “Take Me to Church” and Haley on “Creep.” The show ended with “MMMBop,” which had everyone in the cast onstage, dancing and partying. It was truly a celebration; Tim even found a kid dressed up as Tambourine Guy in the crowd and beckoned for this “Tiny Tambourine Guy” to come join us. Rook, who was assisting the stage manager and still carrying that large wooden stick around and poking things and people with it, sidled up beside me.

  “Congratulations, man. This is really awesome. I’m proud of you, bro.”

  “I’m proud of you, too. You’ve helped build all this.”

  “So does that mean I can go out there with the rest of the cast?” he asked, half-jokingly.

  “Of course, brother! You’re part of the family.”

  He looked to the stage, then hesitated; he wasn’t entirely convinced.

  “I mean, I don’t want to ruin the biggest show you’ve ever done.”

  I laughed. “Remember Rappin’ Einstein? Remember selling your pants on our first tour? We didn’t get here by doubting ourselves. Now, go out there and bring that damn stick.”

  We were a bunch of creeps, a bunch of weirdos who didn’t fit into any of the boxes in the music industry, and yet here we were, right where we belonged.

  But this night wasn’t only about us. As we bowed one final time, I caught a last glimpse of all the smiling faces in the audience. They had found a place where they belonged, too. They were the people who championed my idea, who cheered for our performers, who spread the word about us, even when radio and TV hadn’t—all because they believed that this community made their world a brighter, richer, more musical place. Out of all the lessons I learned on this journey, this was the final, most important one: You can’t go it alone. Freedom doesn’t come from doing what you want, whenever you want, and then abandoning ship as soon as the going gets tough. Freedom doesn’t come from accumulating cash or material possessions and stuffing them away, lest they get stolen. Freedom comes from understanding that you need other people, just as other people need you, in this strange, twisting dance that is life.

  In the pitch-black of night, I climbed into the back seat of my dad’s car, and he drove my mother and me through the sleepy roads of the small town in New Jersey where I grew up, until we came to a stop at the family home they had built thirty years earlier. My ears were still ringing from the show, but I could hear the crickets chirping and the frogs croaking, a country lullaby. My mom hugged me good night, exhausted but all smiles. My dad shook my hand and then jokingly pretended to arm wrestle me, just like he did when I was a kid.

  Upstairs, my room was exactly as it had been when I was in high school (except for the fact that my bed was now neatly made). I undressed, brushed my teeth, and climbed under the covers. It was comfortable and familiar, but I felt like it wasn’t quite complete. Then I remembered. I sat up, flicked on the lights, and opened my closet door, which was full of boxes—each one a time capsule from a different phase of my life. In the corner was a familiar sight: “A Great Day in Harlem.” The frame was a bit worse for wear from being moved in and out of storage, but the picture was as clear as ever. I delicately removed it from the closet, found the nail on my bedroom wall, and hung it back up.

  EPILOGUE

  Although I’ve chosen to end this story here, the story of Postmodern Jukebox continues to be written. In 2017, we launched several concurrent tours worldwide, toured our fifth continent (South America), and performed at such renowned venues as The Greek in Los Angeles, Red Rocks in Colorado, and Sydney Opera House in Australia. I signed a distribution deal with Concord Records to help spread our work further and released a “greatest hits so far” album, The Essentials. In late 2017, we filmed an hour-long PBS show called Postmodern Jukebox: The New Classics—our first televised special.

  Many of our cast members have released and toured in support of their own solo albums, in addition to working with PMJ. Puddles reached mainstream television viewers when he landed an appearance on America’s Got Talent. Tim “Tambourine Guy” Kubart won a Grammy for best kids’ album.

  Jaron is still working tirelessly on the project and is always coming up with ideas to help PMJ reach new audiences. He’s also found joy in giving our performers advice on building their own careers and connecting them with people who can help them along the way. He doesn’t get in nearly as many fights with other managers these days, either; perhaps he’s mellowing out, or perhaps we just command a little more respect.

  My longtime friends continue to thrive, both within and beyond the universe of PMJ. Ben met one of his heroes, Dave Matthews, at an airport overseas, and was invited to perform with him at several shows. (Turns out Dave is a PMJ fan.) Adam holds the record for most shows performed with us and leads the band on many of our tours, with help from Jesse Elder, who has now become music director for our multitude of tours worldwide. Steve—the friend from my infamous Walmart debut—got married and started his own studio, producing recordings and viral videos for Robyn, Drue, and other PMJ performers. And Rook still stays busy with PMJ in a wide variety of roles, including recording engineer, production supervisor, tour manager, and—according to the credits at the end of our PBS special—“spiritual advisor.” In addition, he’s become an in-demand studio tech, having helped engineer tracks for pop artists like Usher and producers like Steve Albini. During the 2017 World Series, our “Heroes” track that he engineered could be heard playing during the commercial breaks. He’s certainly come a long way from the days of wearing a koala suit.

  My parents still live in my hometown but travel quite a bit to visit my sister in Washington, DC, and to catch the occasional PMJ show. Inspired by my use of social media, my mom even started her own Facebook live stream, Sunday’s Storytime, where she reads childhood favorites like Watership Down to her online viewers. My dad still plays the cornet, and I jam with him on songs from the ’60s whenever I visit them in New Jersey. They both still call me Scotty.

  As for me, I may no longer be a kid searching for his place in the world, but I’m learning new lessons every day. I’m far from perfect, and sometimes I mess things up, but these days I try to just accept this in myself and move on instead of stressing out. I’m thirty-six now, and thanks to experience, I know I’ll likely never recapture the same intense rush I got from my first viral video, or from being on TV for the first time, or from playing our first concert, or from seeing my name in lights at Radio City Music Hall. And that’s okay. Whenever I sit down at the piano, none of those things matter to me, anyway. My fingers instinctively know what to do, and suddenly, I’m transported to another universe, a place that has always existed to me, ever since I was twelve years old and fumbling through Rhapsody in Blue. Making music will always fill me with a sense of possibility.

  Finally, I hope that as you, the reader, close this book (in either the literal or digital sense… this is 2018), you feel some small spark of profound inspiration yourself, and that the spark gradually builds into a roaring fire as you turn your own creative passions into creative pursuits. Mine is just one such story; every day, people around the world are making creative breakthroughs that change the way we live, listen, and learn. And although it may seem like these breakthroughs come about spontaneously, born from inspired bursts of clarity, the reality is that most of them make their way to the surface only after a series of disappointments, false starts, and spectacular failures. If you can find a way to smile through the letdowns, learn from the disasters, and—above all—stay loyal to the people you care about, you’ll discover that you’re unstoppable.

  Life is messy, and we’re all just a bunch of creeps and weirdos. And that’s okay. We are perfect, just the way we are.

  Now go forth and make art.
/>   Me, at age 9, at the bus stop on the first day of school. I clearly look thrilled about this.

  Goofing off during a photo shoot with my very first band, The Sesha Loop. From left to right: drummer Mike Lapke, me, bassist Chris Anderson.

  Playing a post-college gig at The Spigot in Hartford with Adam (pictured with bass guitar) and Rook, who appears to be rapping.

  Another weird gig I booked with my friends, this time after moving to New York City. From left to right: Rook in a bear suit, Steve Ujfalussy, Ben Golder-Novick, and me in a powdered wig.

  Photo shoot for my first band to go viral, A Motown Tribute to Nickelback. I instructed everyone to look serious—except for Tambourine Guy.

  A Motown Tribute to Nickelback takes the stage in British Columbia, at the Live at Squamish festival. We were shocked to learn that we had fans—some of whom even made signs.

  ABC World News Tonight setting up to interview me, after the Postmodern Jukebox cover of “We Can’t Stop” became the most-watched video on YouTube for a day. They were under the impression that they were coming to our “studio”; turns out they were actually coming to my kitchen.

  Robyn and me, just before Postmodern Jukebox made its television debut on Good Morning America.