Chapter 30
30
Mamie Houston lives at the top of Beachwood Canyon in the kind of Spanish bungalow I could see myself putting down roots in, whenever I finally get my act together and stop living in hotels. Lush topiaries frame the white stucco exterior, teal window trimmings, and a scalloped clay roof—forming a postcard-worthy meeting place to discuss what my future might look like if I stay on at Onyx Records.
She answers the door with a smile that is warm enough to curb the chill of the late morning. Around my mother’s age, Mamie sports a floor-length duster made of vibrantly embroidered silk. Her platinum blond coils create a striking contrast to the deep complexion of her blemish-free face. It’s almost hard to believe the woman in front of me made it big in the eighties as an emcee, with now-classic hits that were once deemed too transgressive for even MTV’s airwaves. She is the epitome of Chaka Khan’s “every woman”—the auntie and the DJ at your cookout, who happens to now be at the head of the table in the boardroom too.
“Ella, I’m glad you could make it,” she says before waving me inside the foyer. Stepping forward, I thank her for the invite, then quickly lose my train of thought as I am instantly swaddled with dueling scents of jasmine and thyme. Her home is a delight for the senses, with every nook and corner providing an elaborate treat for the eyes.
“Your home is gorgeous, Ms. Houston,” I tell her.
“Oh pfft!” she says. “Call me Mamie. But thank you. Everyone deserves a sanctuary to call their own.” She levels me with a pointed glance, and the words feel loaded with meaning. I’ve been a vagabond for months. I wonder if she knows.
“I thought we’d have some coffee out on the terrace,” she says, interrupting my thoughts. “But if you prefer tea…I’ve got that too.”
“Coffee is great,” I tell her. “I’m easy to please.”
She chuckles at this, as if to say, We’ll see about that , before leading us out to the terrace.
Mamie’s garden is picturesque, with a sitting area she’s meticulously designed for the warm, cozy kind of outdoor entertainment you’d expect from the party-planning matriarch of a large family—not a music mogul who’s just benefited from a hostile takeover. Fuchsia and periwinkle bougainvillea climb a latticed pergola, with potted plants and string lights suspended overhead. An outdoor Moroccan rug lays at our feet, where I’ve just noticed a chocolate Lab is taking a rest. I startle when I see him.
“Oh, don’t worry, he’s friendly. That’s Clarence Clemons,” she tells me, warmly eyeing her dog. “He’s an old boy. Doesn’t have much energy anymore, but he’s the best company in the world.”
“He’s beautiful.” I kneel to scratch him behind the ears. “And what a tribute,” I say, referencing her dog’s namesake—the legendary saxophonist for Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.
Her smile stretches a mile wide. And the setting is so inviting, I expect we’ll ease into business talk with a getting-to-know-you chat. I open my mouth to ask if she’s lived here long, when she beats me to the punch…
“So, I have to be honest with you,” she starts, just as my butt hits the plush love seat across from hers. “A birdie told me you’re seriously thinking of becoming an indie artist. So I’ve asked you here to convince you not to jump ship. Because there are things I want to do at Onyx Records that I’d really love for you to be a part of.”
“Well, I’m not used to people showing their cards right out of the gate,” I admit. “I have to say it’s very refreshing.”
“I learned a long time ago that holding back the things I’m really after doesn’t usually serve me in the long run,” she explains. “I may not have all the kinks figured out. The plan might need some tweaking. But voicing what you want, even if only to yourself, isn’t just the best place to start. For me, in business and in life, it’s the only place to start.”
What she’s just said flashes before me like a blinking sign. Voicing what you want is the only place to start.
“By the way, you’ve got a fireball of an attorney vouching for you. I love to see it,” she says. “She’s already sent over a list of terms you’d want negotiated in a potential contract extension. But I want to know what, say, your top three nonnegotiables are?”
She’s right about Janet. I was well prepped before walking into this meeting and advised to come in with a handful of asks to put in front of Mamie. Think “pie-in-the-sky, if this world were yours” kinds of things , Janet told me roughly twenty minutes ago over another Bluetooth-car chat. The worst she could say is no, and then we’d be right back where we started.
“After I finish touring this album, I want to explore artistically…tap into genres outside of pop and R&B for once. I’m really inspired by neo soul, even jazz. And I’d love to experiment with a whole new kind of instrumentation,” I say.
“Ah, jazz. Something like that Whitney rendition you performed at the charity gala in New York recently?” she asks, which takes me by surprise.
I perk up. “You were there?”
“I was not.” She shrugs casually, taking a sip of her coffee. “But the internet is everywhere . I love what you and your band did with the arrangement. I’ll admit I’ve always been excited to see more of what you’re capable of…beyond covers and samples. Matter of fact, I might still be subscribed to your old YouTube channel. What else are you looking for in a partnership?”
For starters, I’d like for my relationship with the label to actually resemble a “partnership,” I think but don’t say. Instead, I go with, “So, with this kind of departure, I think it only makes sense for me to drop the ‘Ella Simone’ persona entirely and rebrand as just myself, ‘Elladee.’ ”
Mamie appears to consider this with a bit of hesitation, and I inwardly cringe. “I’m not married to your original stage name, but out of curiosity…why change now and risk shedding the brand recognition?”
“Well, that’s sort of the point,” I confess. And when her eyebrows knit together, I go on to explain. “?‘Ella Simone’ was Elliot’s creation, in every sense. Her hair. Her clothes. Every single off that first album. All him.”
As I speak, she nods her head in recognition. “Got it. Anything else?” She says, simply. Like my reasoning here is not only adequate but convincing. I sit up a little straighter.
And now for the big ask. The words I’ve been terrified of saying out loud in stuffy rooms with starched suits and stern faces for years. The dream that Elliot entertained only in theory, like the marathon training you push off year after year because you know running that far isn’t really for you. I’ve been so terrified, and still am, I practically say the words with one eye closed. “I want more time and resources, so I can produce and write for other artists too.”
And to my surprise, when I’ve finished the scariest sentence I have ever uttered—apart from Elliot, I’m leaving you —a creeping smile spreads across Mamie’s face. It’s not a small, polite grin aimed at placating me only to dismiss me later. And it’s not a teasing smirk that threatens to break apart with laughter at my grandiose plans. This smile is broad and genuine and accepting. It looks like affirmation—like real recognizing real. Like she’s taking me and my plans seriously.
“Okay,” she says, clapping her hands together. “I like it.”
“So, that’s it?” I ask. “Just…okay?”
“Well, of course there’ll be some red tape. And you’ve got a long list of other concerns that legal will need to do its due diligence with, but if these are your main nonnegotiables, as president of the label, I’m in full support. And look, I can’t promise you there won’t be any pushback or roadblocks along the way. I may be chairperson and CEO but I’ve still got a board of directors to answer to. On top of that, come next week, I’m walking into murky waters, what with Monzano loyalists already calling for my head. So, I can’t promise you easy, but I can promise you an ally.” She pauses for another sip of coffee. “So, can I answer anything else for you before you consult with Janet and decide?”
“Yes,” I say, peering at her intently. “Why me?” I ask. Partly because I’m an artist, and we always need the reassurance. And partly because I’ve had my fair share of too-good-to-be-true, and I need to understand her reasons.
“It’s really as simple as this…I’m motivated by legacy,” she says, placing her mug on the table between us. “I’m a fan of your talent. Not just your music, or your brand. But of what I’ve seen you do and what I think you have left in you to accomplish.” She crosses her legs and leans back. “There are people who have made decent money and good music with you. I would like to see you make great music…albums that will play for the next sixty to one hundred years. It’s what I want for all the artists I sign and work with at Onyx two point oh.” She leans forward to take a final sip from her coffee. “I hope that answers your question?”
I bound out of Mamie’s bungalow as if floating on a cloud. I’ve still got some things to consider—terms to discuss with Janet. Plus, it’s always best to sleep on life’s big decisions before we make or break them. And it might even be best for me to wait on signing the contract until the divorce is final.
But all of that aside, I’ve just had the best meeting of my life. The sheer freedom of giving voice to what I want in the presence of a person with the ability and desire to make it all happen is something I don’t think I’ve ever experienced.
As I hop in my car and turn on the ignition, Mamie’s words flash again across my mind’s eye… Voicing what you want is the only place to start . So I might as well start there.