Pop Life
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Note from the Publisher
Dedication
Trademarks Acknowledgement
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Part Two
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part Three
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Ryan Loveless
Pop
Life
Ryan Loveless
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WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated and is punishable by imprisonment and a fine."
Cover Artist: Reese Dante
Editor: Dawn Sievers
Pop Life © 2011 Ryan Loveless
ISBN # 9781920484422
Attention Readers: This book uses US English.
All rights reserved.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only; any person depicted in the Licensed Art Material, is a model.
PUBLISHER
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Note from the Publisher
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Publisher
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Dedication
for Brian J. Heck.
"Pop Life" has been many years in progress, beginning when I was barely out of college. As such, there are many people to thank.
In place of a specific list, I'll mention groupings and hope that each person knows how much I appreciate him or her.
Thank you to everyone who read various drafts and offered suggestions that were sometimes hard to take but often worth hearing, as well as encouragement and fact-checking help; and to my writing teachers from junior high school through post-college who taught me that there is always something new to learn about telling a story.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Aberdeen AECC: Aberdeen Exhibition and Conference Centre
Banana Republic: Banana Republic (Apparel), LLC
Car Talk: Tom and Ray Magliozzi
Dawson's Creek: Columbia TriStar Television, Inc.
Frosties: Kellogg Company
G.I. Joe: Hasbro Inc.
Giorgio Armani: Giorgio Armani S.p.A
Grammy Awards: National Academy of Recording Arts & Sciences, Inc.
Heaven London: Pure Brand Management Limited
Hot Rod Magazine: Source Interlink Magazines, LLC
Hammerstein Ballroom: Manhattan Center Studios, Inc.
King's College University: King's College London
Law & Order: Universal TV LLC
Mercury: Ford Motor Company
Moscow Ballet: Akiva Talmi
NASCAR: National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing, Inc.
National Geographic Magazine: National Geographic Society non-profit corporation
Oliver!: Oliver Productions Limited
Rolling Stone Magazine: Rolling Stone, LLC
Royal Albert Hall: The Corporation of the Hall of Arts and Sciences
Saturday Night Fever: Paramount Pictures Corporation
Stringfellows: Stringfellow Restaurants Limited
The Big Breakfast: ITV Studios Limited
The Los Angeles Times: Tribune License, Inc.
Under 17's: The Football Association Limited
Part One
* * * *
"Living in a pop life
know it cannot last
hang on to me baby
because we're livin' fast"
—Jamie Webster, "Pop Life"
Words and Music by Andrew Brennan and Michael Scott Martin, Wide Variety, Ltd.
* * * *
Chapter One
"Paeder Brogan called," Michael said. He was sitting at our kitchen table amidst a pile of half-finished score sheets and a precariously balanced keyboard.
I almost didn't hear him over the paper rustling in his hands and the water running over mine into the metal sink as I washed up. I did my best thinking when I was in motion. We had twelve gold records and a Grammy as proof. I didn't usually resort to dishwashing while we were working. However, after a three hour songwriting session, the lyrics I'd come up with weren't gelling with Michael's melody, and neither lyric nor music was suited for the style of the young pop artist to whom we were planning to pitch it. So, I was desperate.
"Did you hear me?" Michael asked.
"Paeder did what?" I thought I did pretty well at keeping the dismay out of my voice, but Michael chuckled behind me. I slipped my hands out of the dishwater and flicked suds at him. He flinched.
"He called. And careful, Andrew. This shirt's Armani." Michael smoothed his hands over his sleeves and chest, checking for water damage.
"I'm nowhere near you." I took a few steps forward to demonstrate that he was out of bubble-throwing range. "What does he want?"
Paeder Brogan was the lead singer in a three man Irish boy band called Icon that had been going strong for almost a decade. The other two members, Keelin and Russell, were nice guys, but in comparison to Paeder, so was anyone. No one over the age of fourteen would be excited to receive a call from Paeder; I was twenty-nine. There was only one reason for Paeder to call us. I hoped to God that I was wrong.
"He wants us to write for
his solo album."
"Well, that's just great."
"Why, Drew, I think you're being sarcastic." Michael smiled with fiendish glee.
He was entirely too happy about this.
"Is this a joke? Is this your Australian humor acting up? You know what I've told you about that."
"One hundred percent true. My word of honor."
I balanced a casserole dish on the drying rack. "He doesn't like me, remember? That awards show three years ago?"
"He told you that you were annoying. That's different from not liking you. I think you're annoying, too, and I like you fine."
"Michael! He's going to figure it out when he meets us." I could see it happening. Paeder would have one look at me, and Michael and I would be on the plane home. Actually, that might not be so bad…
"C'mon, Andrew, Paeder barely remembers the names of his own band mates. Trust me; he's got no room in that head of his to concern himself with your tendency to stick your foot in your mouth. You need to focus on the important thing: he called us. Not one of his people. Him. You know how much that means."
"Yeah," I said, albeit with reluctance. It meant that I was headed to LAX to catch a flight. I didn't have time to go to London. I was already scheduled to be in New York for a wedding rehearsal in two days and the wedding the day after that.
"And speaking of meeting with him, he wants to get together in New York. He's there now. You're going for that wedding anyway…"
"Cousin Arthur."
"Yeah." He pushed an envelope across the table. "Paeder had this sent over yesterday."
I dried my hands on my slacks before opening the envelope. I pulled out an airline ticket and a hotel confirmation. "What's this?"
"Your arrangements."
"I have arrangements already," I said. I tossed the envelope down. Any relief I had felt from discovering I wouldn't have to completely upend my schedule and commitments fizzled away. It figured that Paeder would think he could be this controlling anytime he pleased.
Michael grinned. "Well, Paeder has made you new ones."
"Lucky me."
"You know, I didn't tell you sooner because I thought you might react badly."
"Imagine that."
"So, you do the two birds, one stone thing. No problem in that, is there?"
"Oh, no, not unless I mind that he's being completely inconsiderate and, and rude."
"This surprises you? Well, there are benefits to staying in the same hotel. If you wanted to, oh, call him by the wrong name or anything, you could do so at all hours."
"I still don't know why he called us," I said. I ignored Michael's reference to the first time Paeder and I met when I had mistakenly called him 'Peder' instead of 'Podder', and he had asked security to have me removed. "Were we the only songwriters available? Have the others stopped talking to him?"
"He said Jamie recommended us."
"He did?" The answer surprised me. Our writing for Jamie Webster was responsible for three of the gold records hanging in the hallway as well as the Grammy. We had gotten our first gold record writing for him with the song "Forgetful," which had been his first in America. We liked to develop a collaborative writing process with the artists, and most of 'our' musicians stopped by the house at least once while we were working on their songs. Jamie was the exception. He had stayed in England. His assistant handled all communication between us. "Jamie has complete faith in your abilities," she had said.
Michael had translated: "That means he's too drunk and high to stand up, much less fly."
The lack of communication was not why I was surprised Jamie had recommended us to Paeder. We had, after all, 'done him good'. No, the reason would be related to the Grammy Awards two years earlier, when Michael and I had picked up the trophy for "Forgetful," and Jamie had unexpectedly kissed me backstage. I'd been on the verge of kissing him back when he'd passed out. That was the first and last time we had seen him in person, although we'd continued to write for him. Now we heard about him as others did—through the newspapers. One of the British tabloids had begun a chart marking his "Struggle to Sobriety" with little bunnies hopping up and down gray lines.
The last song we sent Jamie was called "I'd Have to Look It Up (The Reason I Loved You)." I wrote the lyrics directly after Kate divorced me. It was bitter by my standards and tempered by Michael's orchestrations. It had, with Jamie's self-mocking delivery, planted itself on the British and European charts the previous year and refused to budge from the top ten for five months.
"We haven't written for him in a year," I said. "I'm surprised he remembers us."
"I'm sure he remembers you." Michael grinned at me. He'd been right there when Jamie had planted one on me. I ignored him. "Those songs we did are still play-listed," he continued, dropping his teasing. "Paeder needs a hit if he's going to break away from Icon. He knows it, and he'll put aside his attitude to get it. So, we're going to help him."
"Because we're good people?"
"Because he is paying us, and this is what we do."
"If you say so."
"So tomorrow you'll go to New York and meet with Paeder."
"You're not… you're not going with me?"
"I can't. I have to babysit the Scooter & Boots album. Drew, you're invited. He needs you. He won't do anything to you, I promise." He squeezed my shoulder.
I pushed his hand off. "I'm not comforted." So that explained his good mood—he was sending me out alone. I thought of my father hurling me into a lake when I was a toddler and screaming, "Swim, damn it," from the dock. I remembered being angry because I did not have a clue what 'swim' was. What kind of man tossed a baby into frigid water and then demanded it perform a feat it could not define? He could have ordered me to snarfuggle for the same result. I thrashed my way back to him just so I could bite him. His praise shocked me. It took the bite right out of me. Turning back to the sink, I plunged my hands into the now lukewarm water. Scrubbing wasn't a great distraction, but it was something.
"Well, Russell and Keelin will be there as well. Does that help?" Michael started tapping the keyboard. Beethoven. He played him whenever he got stuck.
I thought it over. "It would be good to see them again."
"Not to mention, we might be asked to work on Icon's next album if this job goes well. Then you could invite Russell and Keelin here and see them all you want."
"If there is another album." After nine years together, Icon had outlasted nearly all of their contemporaries. Their last single had gone straight in at number one on the British charts. They were a record company's blessing—at least in Europe—but rumors were swirling, not that the fall in popularity that cursed other boy bands to flash-in-the-pan status was imminent, but that Icon had numbered its own days. Word was traveling through the industry that Paeder wanted out. And I knew, despite what Keelin and Russell said, that Paeder always got what he wanted.
"Yeah. Well, that's not our concern, is it? Hey," Michael said, "this is the first time you've been to New York since…Grammy night." His voice faltered. For the first time in the conversation, he looked embarrassed, like he had crossed a line.
"Since Kate left," I said, which had been the other thing that had happened that night. Grammy win, unexpected kiss from a drunk rock star, wife leaving. Big night. "You were going to say it's the first time I've been since Kate left." My mouth filled with a bitterness that I attributed to the memory of my wife walking out until I realized that I had wiped my soap-soaked hand across my lips.
"Hey. You know it wasn't your fault. Some people just aren't suited to being married. She wasn't, you know, cut out to be a wife," Michael said.
I had worn my ring for six months afterwards. I kept thinking she would change her mind. "She was cut out fine. I was the problem. I put work first."
Putting work first was a euphemism for putting Michael first. Kate knew it. I knew it. She accused me of loving Michael more than her. Michael was no fool. He already knew that much. I saw no need to make him feel guilt
y by confirming it. He had his way of protecting me, and I had my way of protecting him.
It didn't matter that we were not, would never be, lovers. We were partners in every other way, and it was unfair to her.
"You taking me to the airport?"
"Yeah. Five in the morning."
"Okay. I have to pack. You'll be here?" I wasn't sure if I was asking if he'd be here at that god-awful early hour or just in general.
Michael resumed shuffling his composition sheets. "Aren't I always?"
The difference between Michael and my father was that while my father watched me flailing from the shore, Michael went in after me.
* * * *
Junior Beat Magazine
Getting Cozy with Icon
By Staff
Published April 1999
The lads of Icon showed up at our offices yesterday for a little tête-à-tête with JB. As you can see from the picture, they couldn't wait to have a go at all the questions you guys sent in! So, here you go, and congrats to everyone who had questions answered!
JB: Stephanie in Kensington writes, Do you guys have any plans for the summer?
Russell: Ah, I haven't really thought about it. I guess spend more time with my family. The usual stuff.
Keelin: And to spend more time with me!