Avery
T he videos changed everything.
I did my best not to look at comments, but what Evelyn said to me months earlier about how girls would obsess over the guys was cemented in the back of my mind.
Whenever they talked about the comments, I left the room.
Near the end of recording Fools for You, Evelyn did what most teenagers do and lost interest in her hobby of recording them.
The label tried to buy the YouTube passwords off her, but she refused.
But that didn’t matter, people had gotten a taste for Fool’s Gambit and wanted more. Their label started pushing for the album to be finished as fast as possible and were willing to throw as much money as they needed into it.
Martin took the reins of the operation. Before the videos, I’d pitch songs and maybe one in three would be okayed. After that, I was lucky if I could suggest a single verse.
There were weekends when I sat in the driveway in Caper, my legs adhering to the leather seats, wondering if it was even worth it to make the drive if all my ideas were going to get shut down. Then I remembered I’d promised to be there, and I’d start the car and drive to Nashville.
I did have more time to work on my own stuff, though. Wes had mentioned a few times that I could get my own agent and manager, but I didn’t want anyone telling me what I could or couldn’t write. So, I brushed him off.
Garrett seemed to be the only other person who was apprehensive about the shift in direction and tone. He followed Wes’s lead, but after full days in the recording studio, he’d walk out shaking his head. I noticed it for a few weeks before I finally asked what he was thinking.
“I’m here for the music. It’s simple, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad,” he said.
“And you’re satisfied with it?” I prodded.
He shrugged and said unconvincingly, “It gets the job done.”
Still, whenever Martin said something to push them further from their original creative vision, Garrett’s eyes found mine. It was both an acknowledgement and a warning.
Speaking up wasn’t worth the risk of losing everything.
So, I took a step back. I went on coffee runs and hung out with the studio staff.
“Here, let me,” Martin said as he held open the door. My arms were laden with cardboard coffee carriers and it was the least he could do.
“Thanks.”
He fell into step beside me as I headed down the now familiar poster lined corridor to the studio. “I reached out to a few friends and they want to meet with you.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Why, so you can get rid of me?”
“No.” He was a terrible liar. His voice pitched upward and he couldn’t even look at me. “I see how hard you work to help the boys and thought you’d like to have your own chance. People have seen you in the videos. They know you’re good.”
As much as I wanted to say no to his attempt to get rid of me, it would be stupid to turn down an opportunity I wouldn’t be able to get on my own.
Two days later I found myself walking into a new studio to meet strangers who had the potential to shape my future.
I came prepared with my own songs and ideas. I’d learned a bit about production from listening to Martin and was ready to show it off. I wasn’t just some kid, I knew how things worked and wouldn’t be taken advantage of.
“We want you to try this out,” one of the men I was meeting with said before touching a button.
A song I’d never heard before flooded the room.
Everyone else bobbed their heads to the thirty second cut.
“It’s from a great writer, and from the moment we heard your voice we knew you could be the next Amy Winehouse. ”
There were similarities in our rich velvety tones, but her voice had more of a whine than mine did.
“I thought you liked my music?” I grinded my teeth. That’s what I was there for, my music not someone else’s.
“We see potential in you. Humor us. Try it out.” The words beckoned for me to take the first step down the path to utter compliance.
“Sure.”
I got in the booth, and they started the backing track. I sang my own version over it and never heard from them again.
It was one label. One balding white guy with a bad opinion. There had to be someone who wanted what I had to offer.
No. All of Martin’s buddies wanted me to be the next version of someone else. And I always let the men in suits know exactly what I thought about them. Still, there were moments when I questioned if they were right, that no one would ever want Avery Sloane.
That I was hard to want in general.
I was coming off another failed meeting when I got a call from Wes to come over.
“It’s the final cut of the record,” he said, revealing the crystalline case holding a single CD. It was labeled FG #1 in black permanent marker.
That night, everyone else went out, so we had the guys’ place to ourselves. We sat by the pool and dipped our feet in, our jeans rolled up into cuffs around our calves.
“Won’t there be a listening party with state of the art speakers we should wait for?” I asked, though I didn’t mind the privacy of the moment. It was hard to remember the last time it had been just the two of us.
“Yeah, but I thought it would be more fitting to do it the old fashioned way,”
It took me a moment to realize what he was saying before noticing my old Discman next to him. It had been maybe two years since we’d sat down and listened to a new album together, and I’d hardly even noticed. This ritual felt familiar in the way I needed after so many failures.
From the moment he pressed play, his eyes never left my face, cataloging every expression I tried not to make.
It was enjoyable. But was that all he wanted his music to be?
I could easily picture others singing along, but if it was one of the albums we listened to together it would be the type where we shared a secret smile while listening because we knew we’d have plenty of critiques.
“So?”
“It was fun,” I managed, wincing at the sound of my words as I pulled out my earbud.
“Say what you actually want to. Talk to me like I wasn’t the one who made it.”
I shouldn’t have listened, not after the day I had, but his open expression was so inviting. “I expected more. It’s the type of stuff you put on because you want to turn off your brain, not the stuff you engage with. It’s junk food, Wes.”
At that moment, I wanted him to see it. Agree with me. Promise me the next one would be different. Be the boy in the garage that day who defended me against Garrett. Show me that we could still talk about music the way we used to, striving to be the best.
“You don’t get it.” He shook his head, and my heart plummeted. “This is what’s going to sell.”
“So, if they ask you to make the next album just like this, will you?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” he bristled.
I pulled my legs out of the water and stood up. “I thought you wanted to make a no-skip album. We were supposed to make art together.”
“We?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you might not like it, but at least I’m doing something. You’ve spent the last few months acting like one of our assistants getting coffee and taking messages.”
“I’m being careful. If the right opportunity comes with someone who won’t ask me to compromise my music, I’ll take it.
” It would happen eventually. It had to.
All this work was going to pay off and I’d make music my way while he was still being told what to do by a rock star who hasn’t been relevant for a decade.
He scoffed, his features settling into a pinched sneer. “You’re not careful. You’re scared. You’ve spent so much time helping us. But when was the last time you took a risk? We failed over and over again. What about you?”
“Fine. If that’s what you think of me, then I don’t know why I’m still here.”
I stomped through the house, leaving damp footprints in my wake. My bag and shoes were by the door, and I grabbed them, not bothering to stop and pull on my sandals. I could hear him behind me, calling my name, but I was in the Jeep, jamming the keys in the ignition, before he could reach me.
As I pulled away, his form was caught in the headlight beams, and for a moment I almost stayed and explained everything, but I felt righteous in my anger and wasn’t ready to back down.