Pop Life

by Ryan Loveless

  * * * *

  Junior Beat Magazine

  Jamie Webster: Summer's Top Bloke

  By Colleen McDougal

  Published May 1987

  Jamie Webster is the boy to watch this summer. His first single, "The Ones We Are," is racing up the charts. In his first interview, we chat with Jamie and his manager/brother David Grant.

  JB: How did you get your first break?

  Jamie: I was actually playing football for the Under 17's and looking at that as my future, but I got injured pretty badly, so that was that. I got sent home and sulked for about a month. Basically just sat around being underfoot. Then, I don't know, I guess Mum got tired of listening to me whine because she told David to get me out of the house.

  David: She didn't have to tell me.

  Jamie: He's lying. He's never taken me anywhere without being told.

  David: Anyway. I took him to a talent night down the pub, and he goes up and starts singing this song…

  Jamie: It was, um, "It's a Sin" by the Pet Shop Boys, and when I went back to my chair David was talking to this bloke who said he wanted to offer me a contract.

  David: That's pretty much it, yeah.

  JB: That's amazing. Were you at all hesitant about it?

  Jamie: Not at all. I've never turned from an opportunity.

  JB: David?

  David: Certainly. I've always had to watch out for Jamie, and I wouldn't want him to get into any trouble because I lowered my guard. But, I checked the guy out and he turned out to be legit.

  JB: This guy has produced Elton John, Rod Stewart, Bob Dylan…. The list goes on.

  Jamie: Yeah. So, I'd say that's pretty legit.

  JB: Absolutely. And now you've got this song that looks to be a huge hit…

  Jamie: Yeah, knock wood.

  JB: So, are you following your dream?

  Jamie: Well, my dream was to be a footballer, but that didn't work out, so I've had to adjust my dream a bit. So, yeah, I'm following my dream. My new dream.

  JB: What about you, David? What's it like working with your brother?

  David: Well, I'm really just here to keep an eye on the finances. I'm kind of a math freak.

  Jamie: He keeps an eye on me, too. He's—what is it—in loco parentis? I don't think that's quite right, but you know what I mean.

  David: Yeah, well, I have to earn my paycheck somehow.

  JB: So, now that you're about to embark on your first tour, are you worried that the rock star lifestyle will change you?

  Jamie: Not at all.

  David: Yeah, he's got me to keep him in line.

  JB: So, you usually do what your big brother tells you.

  David: It really depends on the time of day.

  Jamie: And how pretty the girl is.

  Jamie's first album, "Here I Am," drops in August.

  Chapter Four

  In the seconds between sleep and waking, my mind latched onto an untraceable but familiar guilt. It snapped my eyes open, and I awoke with a terrible, uncomfortable fear of myself. The bed was empty except for me, and if not for the rumpled sheets beside me, I would have decided that I had imagined Jamie's presence. I pulled his pillow to my cheek. His scent lingered, impressed into the fabric.

  The first time I woke in such a state, I was in college. The shock of being away from home might have awakened something in me. The habit continued well into my marriage, and Kate became as familiar with the physical symptoms as I was, though I never quite knew how to explain the mental parts of it to her. The emotion was wholly locked in my subconscious—I had as much chance of deciphering the guilt's cause as I had of dancing in the Moscow Ballet.

  "Do you think I'm a good person?" I asked her once, when I woke on the edge of hyperventilation.

  "I think you try," she said.

  It wasn't the answer I wanted. Trying to be good was not the same as being good. I wanted to be a natural at it, but Kate would know better than anyone that I wasn't. I loved her. That was the thing. From the beginning, I loved her. The first time I saw her I was eight years old. I was small, nebbish, and shy. She was… perfect. And so, she didn't notice me for ten years. She wasn't snobbish. Nothing like that. It was my fault. I was inconsequential. And I was too scared to approach her. She sparkled. She would never want someone like me.

  Jamie had thrown the sheets over his side of the bed as though he were trying to make it but had failed because of either haste or incompetence; I was unsure which. I peeled myself out of bed and made it properly. Hospital corners, pillows parallel to the headboard.

  Growing up, there were boys I liked, like Tony Warburg with the glow-in-the-dark necklace and the perfectly white smile, and girls, like Alice Johansen, whose laughter sounded like panpipes, but there was always Kate. In high school, I copied my notes for her if she missed class. It was the only way I could think to get close to her. If I passed her in the hallway, I said "hi", never "hello." I never looked her in the eye. When I was a teenager, I never looked anyone in the eye. I was protecting myself from rejection.

  Protecting myself from the boys who stalked my school looking for an excuse to fight.

  In May of our senior year, when she called me by my name instead of "Hey, you," it was the greatest day of my life. We dated through college, though we went to different schools, and married after graduation. That's when it started going wrong between us, when we were finally able to be together. I had met Michael, while I was at college in Irving, when his band played at a bar where my roommate had dragged me. Michael had saved me from a drunk drag queen who thought I'd taken her seat and was ignoring my attempts to explain that she was at the wrong table. We started talking about writing together that night and completed thirty songs before I graduated. They were all still sitting in a drawer.

  After we got married, Kate and I moved to Los Angeles, where Michael had already settled, to officially start my writing partnership with him. At first, everything was great. But soon I was preoccupied with my new career, swept up by Michael's enthusiasm for our future. I never noticed that she was miserable.

  She hurt me more than once—biting comments about the songs, pretending to sleep when I came to bed.

  I could not imagine how often I hurt her. Could I tally the times I had stayed out with Michael at an industry party instead of going home? Or the vacations I had cancelled so I could work? Or the glances I had ignored because I wanted to avoid fighting with her? None of it was done with spite. I put work first. Kate was never a factor in my decisions.

  She was my wife. She should have been the only factor.

  As far as I knew, she never cheated on me, and I never cheated on her. But we were in love with other people. I, with the Kate I had loved during my adolescence, before she knew I was alive, and she, with another me. I often wondered what he was like. I imagined that he brought her flowers and always remembered her mother's birthday.

  I removed my boxer shorts as I walked to the bathroom, kicked them off my ankle into my hand, and tossed them under the sink. I turned the shower on and let the water warm up while I peed. I washed my hands under the shower spray.

  From time to time I reminded myself that I did not love her anymore. Otherwise, such grief smothered me that I wanted nothing but to huddle in bed and not move. Love was permanent with me, always had been. I loved Kate and I still, in my way, loved Tony and Alice. It didn't mean I was going to call them to suggest a reunion. Just… there was a fondness in my heart that, on occasion, burned.

  I tried to push these thoughts out of my mind. I thought about Jamie as I jerked off, of his hands, and the broad expanse of his back that I'd rubbed the night before as he was draped over me, sleeping.

  I lost track of time and took too long shampooing. By the time I dressed and grabbed my notebook, I was off-schedule. Shoving my wallet into my back pocket, I hurried down the hall. I brushed the remaining droplets of water out of my hair with my fingers. No time to dry properly. I had never been fired from a job. Even though I wasn'
t over the moon about working with Paeder, I was not going to break a perfect record. The last thing I needed was to give Paeder an excuse to send me back to California without a contract.

  I knew how absurd it was. Michael and I were as successful as we had ever hoped to be, and yet I still acted like it would disappear if I was three minutes late to a meeting—as if my demand hinged on punctuality. The fact was, Paeder needed Michael and me. We could give him what we gave Jamie: a song to break America. He knew that. It was the only reason he would have called. He might never admit the truth, but I knew. I took a breath and raised my fist to knock on his door. He needed me. Simple as that.

  I had questioned my abilities since I heard about this assignment, but now my confidence in myself returned. For once, I had the advantage. I understood him, and he didn't have a clue about me.

  The door swung open as soon as I knocked. I dropped my hand, nascent confidence shaken. Was I late enough to merit someone waiting so close to the door?

  "You made it," Russell said. He clapped my shoulder with a cupped hand. With the other, he pushed the denim strap of his overalls onto his bare shoulder for a quick readjustment.

  "Yeah. Sorry if I'm—"

  "No. It's just… there's not much food left." He cocked his thumb towards two oranges and a bagel left on the service cart. Turning, he motioned for me to follow him into the suite. Paeder and Keelin shared the couch. Russell flung himself into an armchair opposite. Paeder's hair was doing the mind-of-its-own thing that took hours to perfect. He barely glanced up from the composition book in his lap as I entered, offering me a rapid gesture that was either a wave or an invitation to seat myself. I took it as the latter and plopped down between him and Keelin. Keelin yawned through his smile and offered half of his egg sandwich to me.

  "Want a bite?"

  "No. Thanks," I said. "I'm not an egg guy." Keelin raised an eyebrow like I had said something Freudian. I ignored the implication. "Besides, that sandwich is a little too close to your feet." He was sitting cross-legged, bare feet in his lap.

  "Suit yourself." He smiled, wiggled his toes and resumed eating.

  A brown-haired man sat on the floor facing us. He hunched over a camera in his lap, flipping the shutter. I leaned towards him and stuck my hand out.

  "You must be Jeff. I'm Andrew."

  He looked at me with an expression that was somewhere between a glare and disinterest. I dropped my hand.

  "You're in the way, Andrew," Russell said.

  "I… the way of what?"

  Russell adjusted his cap. "Jeff will be nice to you if you move out of the shot."

  "Oh. Sorry." I scooted closer to Keelin. "Is this better?"

  Jeff started snapping pictures. I took it as a yes. Paeder continued writing in his notebook, apparently unaware of what was happening around him. However, when Jeff stopped, he asked, "Did you get enough?"

  "Aye," said Jeff.

  Paeder slapped the notebook against his thigh. "Grand. Those shots will go in the 'At Work' chapter."

  "Yeah. Because it's a lot of work to make those spontaneous shots look spontaneous," Russell said. "Eh, Paeder?"

  Paeder snorted. "You'd know, wouldn't you, Russ?"

  Of course he would know. They had all been through it, together even. It was ridiculous to point it out at all.

  "I'd know as well," Keelin said. I felt as if I had walked in on a family dispute. Jeff was reloading his camera. I ignored the bickering beside me and watched him.

  His orange shirt was unbuttoned to his sternum and stretched around his body with a tightness that suggested the buttons were undone out of necessity rather than vanity—an impression quickly dismissed by the carefully exposed skin. A chest tanned to caramel glistened with the luster of the freshly waxed and newly oiled. His arms coiled with muscles that shifted beneath his skin like a live rabbit inside a snake's belly. Curled hair the color of Jeff's rumpled khaki shorts highlighted the sharp contours of his calves. The rumor about Jeff was that he could seduce anyone. I had imagined someone sleeker. Less tree-like. Maybe I was showing my prejudices, but physically he was frightening. I glanced over at Keelin and saw that he was looking at Jeff, too. If I'd thought Jeff was frightening, Keelin's expression was deadly. His lips were set in a hard, thin line, and his pupils were pinpricks of black. I looked at Jeff again, to see how he would react, but he was bent over his camera. When I returned my attention to Keelin, his face showed no trace of anything but his usual pleasantness. Perhaps I'd imagined it. I must have… Keelin and death glare didn't belong in the same sentence.

  Jeff looked up at Paeder, mumbled something, and Paeder responded by showing him his watch. The movement distracted Icon from their contest and Keelin leaned over to me and whispered, "Andrew, are you angry with me for asking about Kate yesterday?"

  The question surprised me. "No. Why?"

  "You haven't said much. I thought that might be why."

  I smiled. "I'm sorry. I'll try to be louder."

  Keelin grinned. "You do that."

  "Keelin, stop messing about," Paeder said sharply. Keelin's head dipped. He sat up, his expression carefully blank. Paeder passed his vibrant glare onto me. At least I had his attention…

  I took advantage of it. "Paeder, did you want to talk about the songs? I've got a few ideas, but I need to know where you're going with the album."

  "Can't just now. I'm in the studio this afternoon," Paeder said. "Just have to shape up these three." He tapped his book, "then of course the ones you and Michael do for us. All goes well and I think we'll have a winner."

  "Yes. Well. About Michael and I—It would help us a great deal if we knew your overall theme. Give us a jumping off point, you know?"

  "It's sort of adult contemporary mixed with jazz and a bit of rhythm and blues for good measure." Somehow I kept a straight face while he rattled off the genres. I had seen it happen too many times to count—boy band member goes solo and can't decide what he wants to sing to set himself apart, so he makes the musical equivalent of a grab bag and ends up being crap at everything. Well, he might screw up his own songs, but I'd be damned if he'd ruin the ones I gave him.

  "Ah," I said. "So, it's a bit of a departure from Icon, then?" I thought it was more polite than, 'So you're struggling to find a niche for yourself without alienating your fans?'

  Paeder shrugged. "We've had nine years together. Maybe it's a new beginning."

  "But it's not something we can take lightly, after all, one of our own heading out solo," said Russell. "Haven't decided what it means for the group yet." In an interview, it would be an innocuous comment, but here it was almost a threat. Their leader might have decided to bail, but the troops were still considering their verdict. One morning with Paeder was wearing me down. What would a decade do?

  "It seems rude to stop when so many people still like us," Keelin said without lifting his eyes from his lap. "I mean, we're tops in Ireland and through Europe, especially in the ten to sixteen year old set." He blew his hair out of his face and offered a hesitant smile before his bangs covered his eyes again. Icon's fans all wanted to mother him because of motions like this.

  "Ireland's great… always grand to be number one in the homeland," Paeder said, as though he wouldn't mind if the rest of the planet disappeared. "But being on millions of little girls walls isn't what I'm after."

  "That's the whole point of Icon, Paeder," Russell said. "Or have you forgotten?"

  "Well, maybe I've outgrown that, Russell." The two men stared at each other. Russell leaned forward, his elbows balanced on his knees and hands dropped casually between his legs. Paeder tilted his head like he was trying to decide if Russell was a nuisance or a tasty snack. Russell simply looked bored. Jeff started taking pictures again. Perhaps there was going to be a chapter dedicated to posturing. I sighed loudly to remind them they weren't the only two in the room and waited for them to start beating their chests. Keelin untangled his legs from his lap and ignored the masculinity contest.

 
"So what are you doing today?" he asked.

  I turned my back on Russell and Paeder. "Wedding rehearsal. Want to come? I doubt it'll be fun, but it's not here and I think that's a plus."

  Keelin stood. "Sounds great."

  Paeder's head snapped around. "Keelin, sit back down."

  Keelin sat. "I just thought it would be nice to go out," he said. He stared at his folded hands.

  This wasn't the first time I'd seen Paeder try to pull rank on one of his band mates, as if his status as lead singer gave him that right. Keelin was the kind of guy who would put up with it, too. I wasn't. I turned to Paeder slowly, giving myself time to stop if I chose. "What do you care what he does, Paeder? You're in the studio today."

  Seconds passed as Paeder stared at me. "Ah. Yes. Of course you're right. Go on, Keelin. Have a grand time." He smiled at both of us with sealed lips and nodded like it was his idea all along.

  "Can you leave in fifteen minutes?" I asked Keelin.

  "Sure." He hopped off the couch.

  Russell unfolded his limbs from the chair. "You're not leaving without me, Keelin." He draped his arm around Keelin's shoulders as they went out the door.