Chapter 25
LARK
It doesn’t sound right at all.
My laptop sits balanced on my knees, headphones on, listening to the demos I recorded in Seattle this past week. Maya set the whole thing up—three days in a studio with a producer Tidal Records works with sometimes, recording new versions of my songs in the pop sound they’re going for.
They sent me the final recordings this morning. The tracks are supposed to show the label what I can do with their production style, and prove I can adapt my music to fit what they’re looking for.
Except they don’t sound like me. At all.
I hit pause on the third track and just sit there staring at the audio waveform on my screen.
This is “Wildfire,” the song I wrote right after the divorce when I was so angry I could barely see straight.
I recorded the original demo myself earlier this year in a small Seattle studio with just my guitar.
This new version sounds like it was designed by an algorithm. They’ve smoothed out every edge, added these electronic beats that don’t mesh with the lyrics, and Auto-Tuned my voice until I sound like any other pop singer on Spotify’s Top 50.
And then there’s the lyrics. Maya sent over the changes early this week and we went back and forth, and I agreed to most of them even though I hated every single one.
They took out anything too specific, anything too raw, anything that actually meant something to me. Polished to the point of being sterile.
I pull off my headphones and toss them onto the coffee table, then immediately wince because they’re expensive and I can’t afford to replace them if they break.
Jack’s been in Brazil all week for the S?o Paulo Grand Prix.
The race is tomorrow, then he flies home.
We’ve been texting, but my apartment feels too quiet without him.
I keep catching myself looking at the couch expecting to see him there.
I wish he was here. He has this knack for cutting through my spiraling, for making things seem less overwhelming. Which I could use right about now.
I hit play again on the demo and immediately regret it. That’s not my voice. That’s not my song. What am I doing? What if I sign with them and hate every single thing I put out? What if I compromise everything that makes my music mine and it doesn’t even work? What if—
A knock at the door startles me out of my spiral.
“It’s me!” Maren calls from the other side.
I jump up from the couch and yank the door open. She’s standing there with a white bakery box in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
“I brought cookies and wine, as requested.”
“Thank the universe you’re here.” I pull her inside. “I need your opinion on these demos before I completely lose it.”
“That bad?” she asks, heading toward the kitchen. I follow her and grab two wine glasses from the cabinet while she sets the bakery box on the counter.
“I think so. But I need you to tell me if I’m crazy,” I say, setting the glasses down.
“Gladly. I’ve been curious all day about what you recorded.” She opens the wine and starts pouring while I peek into the bakery box. Chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, snickerdoodles, and what looks like some kind of fancy lemon thing with white chocolate.
“Perfect,” I say. “If there was ever a time for a sugar and wine pairing, it’s right now. Ugh, I love you.”
“I know you do,” she grins, handing me a glass. We head back to the couch and settle in with the cookies within easy reach. “Now let me hear what’s got you spiraling.”
I had texted her this morning right after listening to the tracks for the first time, just a rambling stream of consciousness about the demos and the label.
She’d responded immediately with “Coming over after work with cookies and wine. Let’s figure this out,” which is exactly the kind of friend response I needed.
I grab my laptop from the coffee table, pulling up the tracks from the Seattle sessions. “Okay, so these are the demos from this week. They want to see what I sound like with their production style. But I need you to listen and tell me if I’m being crazy or if these are actually as bad as I think.”
“Bad how?” Maren accepts the earbud I hold out.
“Just listen,” I say, hitting play on “Wildfire.”
I watch her face while the song plays. She nods along but I can’t read anything from her expression, which is both comforting and terrifying.
“Well?” I ask when it ends.
“Hmmm. Play me the original.”
I pull up my demo from earlier this year. We listen and the difference is stark. Mine has all this urgency and anger and pain coming through in every note. The new version sounds like it could be anyone singing about anything.
It ends and Maren taps her fingers on her knee, thinking.
“Give it to me straight. Be brutal. I need it,” I say, taking a sip of wine.
Please tell me I’m wrong. Please tell me it sounds amazing and I’m just being difficult and precious about my art or whatever.
She grins. “Well I don’t know about brutal. But I think the new one… okay, it kinda sounds like generic reality TV show music. Like those songs they play that always sound exactly the same. Your original always gave me goosebumps.”
I groan, dropping my head back against the couch. “Ugh, that’s what I was thinking too. Dammit. I was hoping you were going to say it was all in my head and I’m going to be the next big thing.”
She laughs. “Well I still think you’re going to be the next something amazing, but this isn’t it. But then again what do I know about music?”
“Giving yourself an out?”
She nods, sipping her wine. “Yes. Very important that when you give people advice you state you don’t really know what you’re doing so if they follow it and it goes bad, you aren’t responsible.”
I laugh despite everything. “Smart strategy.”
“I learned from the best.” She grabs a chocolate chip cookie. “So what are you thinking?”
“Ugh, I don’t know. I feel like maybe I’m being unrealistic about how the industry works.
Like what if this is my only shot, you know?
And even if it’s not perfect I throw it away and then lose out on my chances.
Maya keeps saying trust the process, that I need to prove I can adapt before they’ll give me creative control.
And maybe she’s right? Maybe this is just how it works and I’m being difficult. ”
Maren’s brow furrows. “It’s a tough call.
I’m not going to lie and say everything will work out perfectly if you follow your gut.
Sometimes following your instincts means taking the harder road with no guarantees.
But you also have to live with whatever decision you make.
If you sign with Tidal and put out music that doesn’t feel like yours, will you be okay with that? I guess that’s the real question.”
I don’t have an answer. I take another bite of cookie to fill the void.
“What does Jack think?” Maren asks.
“I haven’t really talked to him about it in detail. We’ve texted about it a little, but he’s been so busy with the race weekend.”
“Makes sense.” Maren pauses. “I should have brought Calvin over. Get a third opinion.”
“Yes, I’m so torn I need all the perspectives.” I kick my feet up onto the coffee table. “Maybe I should pull up those articles about label deals again. Refresh my memory on what’s actually standard versus what’s a red flag.”
We order pizza and spend the next few hours eating and dissecting every angle.
I show Maren some of the industry articles I’d bookmarked months ago when this first started, the ones about contract clauses and creative control timelines.
She asks good questions, plays devil’s advocate when I need it.
We debate back and forth so much that my brain feels like it might actually explode, so we veer to less stressful topics.
Maren tells me about how her second book is going, and then she gets into the latest project at their Victorian. They’ve been working on the house for the past year and it’s pretty much done, but they both love house projects so they’re always finding another room to improve.
After both of us start fighting yawns, Maren glances at her phone and groans. “Shit, it’s almost eleven. Calvin’s probably wondering if I got kidnapped.”
I nod. “Thanks for spiraling with me tonight.”
“Anytime. That’s what I’m here for.” She stands and stretches. “Call me tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. We’ll see if I actually make a decision about any of this.” I walk her to the door.
“You will when you’re ready.” She hugs me tight. “You’ll figure this out. I know you will.”
“Love you,” I say into her shoulder.
“Love you too,” she says, pulling back to look at me. “And seriously, text me. Even if it’s just to freak out more.”
“I will.”
The door closes behind her and suddenly the apartment feels too quiet. I’m back to being alone with my thoughts and my laptop and the tracks that sound nothing like me.
I spend the rest of the evening trying to work on the songs, practicing them, seeing if maybe I can find some way to make them feel more authentic. But every time I sing along, every time I try to connect with the lyrics the way I used to, it feels off.
By the time I finally give up and close my laptop, it’s after midnight and I’m no closer to feeling confident about this decision than I was this morning.
Ugh. I need to sleep. Stop thinking about this for five minutes.
I drag myself to the bathroom to brush my teeth. My phone buzzes on the counter and I glance down, hoping it’s Jack since I’ve barely heard from him today. His texts have been weirdly short all week, just quick replies between whatever Grand Prix obligations he’s got going on.
It’s a local number I don’t recognize, but my stomach drops when I see the name.
It’s Brandon. New local cell. Saw this. Thought you should know what kind of guy you’re dating now. Hope you’re very happy!
There’s a link to a video.