2
Earlier that night, we arrived late to the Clive Davis pre-Grammy gala, which was set to honor John’s father with an award for lifetime achievement.
For years I’d heard stories of the lavish, star-studded event, though failed to secure an invite until I was signed to a preeminent American label.
It would be my first major event in the two years since the band split, and already I was queasy.
Reentering the industry on my own terms signaled a seismic shift in my otherwise carefully considered path.
One vital to any hopes of reinvention in other areas of my life.
I took it seriously. If I was to forget him, if I was to forfeit what we’d built—to move on from the past both onstage and off, then drumming up new insight was key.
For me, music was all-pervading. The nexus that defined everything I was and had the potential to be.
There’d be no forgiving or forgetting without its arbitration.
In many ways, Edgar Stern, the man of the hour, made turning the page possible.
He and John had helped me negotiate a substantial new record deal the moment Invicta was dissolved.
That deal would span three years and ideally generate three albums. To be listed among the names in their shared roster was itself a career-defining honor, so I was eternally indebted to this man and stoked to see him recognized that night as the backbone of the industry.
That he’d introduced the world to some of the greatest music acts of all time was not lost on me.
With their help I’d entered the big leagues, and I was determined to spend the next decade proving I belonged there.
After the permanent move to Hollywood, I found myself rubbing elbows with all the right people to ensure my status as a major player when the time arrived.
It was scary how easily it came to me. Ralph Rawlings, networker.
Solo star on the rise. The latest and greatest British export.
Good fortune had little to do with it. It’d all been tactical forethought.
I’d set the groundwork in motion long ago, under the instruction of my father.
Meeting the Sterns in 2011 had been like a cheat-code for stratospheric success, the pot of which only sweetened over time.
They were at the forefront of everything happening in culture and entertainment and provided an ideal offramp as I ventured off on my own, away from the crutch of my ex-bandmates and the dictates of the old label.
2018 would be the year I shed my former self like a desiccated second skin.
Even so, every aspect of music as a solo artist was intimidating; be it the production, the distribution, the marketing, the consumers.
I was petrified of getting it wrong. There’d only be me to blame.
There’d only be the one shot. Still, the risk proved far more seductive than spending another year in the old establishment, nothing more than a shiny spoke in a wheel that kept rolling no matter how badly I wanted it to slow or stop.
And I suppose I also had Roman to thank.
His hellraising the years prior had opened a window for us all to be free.
I’d leapt without thought. Plunging after him, as had been my nature since I was 15.
But by the time I’d landed, he was gone.
Hadn’t bothered to look back and see if I’d made it out in one piece.
Abandonment later evolved into disconnected phonelines and an abrupt move overseas.
Effectively kneecapping the band and altering my life in ways I still failed to identify.
Since the gala was my first major event as a solo artist, I felt like an awkward debutante desperate to make my mark on the world.
People needed to take me seriously. To see me as an autonomous force primed to take the game by storm, not some soulless byproduct of another manufactured group.
One destined to fade into oblivion after a banal solo flop.
John and Jen, newly engaged, had picked me up in their pristine Balenciaga and informed me we were already late.
John's doing, since he still subscribed to the dated notion that being late was fashionable. He lectured me about the importance of mystique as a soloist. Apparently I’d been far too accessible growing up on the world stage in what he disparaged as a glorified boyband.
He was determined to reinvent me as the fearless leader of the hottest new manband, whatever the hell that was.
And although being unapproachable was not my style, he was too damn good at what he did for me to fight him on the bigger picture.
He was a shot-caller. Big on results, and expensive as all hell.
I dutifully conformed for now, knowing that once I got onstage, nothing could keep me from reconnecting with my fanbase.
"Carpet?" he asked, peering into the backseat after climbing out to assess the crowd.
"I told you, mate: no," I spat. "I'm done with that. All that performative shit."
"C’mon now, Ralph. It’s a little early in the year to be putting the kibosh on red carpets, huh?"
He backed away as I charged from the truck.
The second I hit the ground, a shitstorm of flashes surrounded us.
Sizzling, knocking against my skull. When I opened my eyes, I saw spots.
Shutters fired incessantly from all sides.
Darkly clad figures encroached, pinning me in place because I was notorious for ducking carpets.
Lenses lunged to keep me in frame as I broke through the milling figures.
My name was shouted fifty times in the first thirty seconds.
I passed through a cloud of cigar smoke and was temporarily blinded.
The heat stung my eyes. Someone stepped on the toe of my boot, twice.
I knew it was scuffed, but refrained from looking down to avoid flipping the fuck out.
"Alright!” someone barked. “Get what you need! Make room! Give 'em space!"
"This way, Ralph!" another called.
"Straight ahead!"
"Ralph, on your left! On your left!"
“Look here, Ralph!”
“Ralph!”
“Rafe!”
There was the usual shuffle, too many hands grabbing my coattails or urging me on by the small of my back. Someone shouted so near my ear I snapped: "Fuck’s sake! Piss off!"
Once we made it through the metal detectors and past the black portiere, we ran into James Corden. I knew he’d keep me drunk or laughing the entire evening. And it was nice to have a fellow Brit on standby.
"Ralph?!”
“James!”
“Is that you, darling? Long time!" he shuffled towards me, tie gaping around his pudgy neck. Champagne sloshed from the flute and onto the whizzing marble at his feet.
"How long's it been?" he grinned.
"Wednesday, mate. I saw you Wednesday."
"Which is a long bloody time if you ask me!”
“Sure,” I laughed.
“What the devil do we have here?" he thumped my Ray-Bans and nearly knocked them from the top of my head. "Pull it together, lad. Have some dignity, will you? And what's this?" He surveyed my suit with an inquisitive leer. "St. Laurent?"
"Try again," I chuckled. "Lanvin." There was a suspenseful pause in which he squinted up at me.
"A triumph." The poncey bastard sipped his drink. “What’re you having?”
Patron, I wanted to say; but I'd sworn off tequila because last year was a massive tequila year for me.
"Water.”
Later I caught up to him and told him to make that water vodka.
Within seconds he ushered me to a bar outside the dining hall and a small redhead pressed a chilled glass into my hand.
Dozens of familiar faces beamed at me every two steps.
The halls were teeming with bodies. Streams of inane conversation entangled me.
Big laughing mouths, revealing so many radiating veneers I felt like I was being papped all over again.
Live music and disembodied voices led us to the ballroom. On the way in I kissed more cheeks than I could count, regretting that I always tried to act so European in LA—two kisses per person. Any less and I cursed myself for being vulgar.
At our table I spent a while catching up with the man of the hour.
Edgar Stern, father of my manager John Stern.
Right away I clocked he was wearing an insanely rare Rolex Daytona from the 60s, valued at more than the cost of a moderately sized house, putting my little vintage Submariner to shame.
We discussed my golf game and the merits of Napa Valley wine.
He insisted Napa had produced one of its best Cabernet vintages last year, and that it ought to go down in the history books as far as he was concerned.
He told me he’d been closely appraising the region longer than I’d been alive.
I told him I’d like to learn more about it.
Told him I’d only recently discovered an obsession with Moscato and was looking to learn more about wine of all regions and forms. Following which, he promptly invited me to his summer home in Sologne for a crash course in June.
I accepted with profuse thanks before rising and schmoozing with attendees at the surrounding tables.
People it’d be too awkward to sit by without greeting.
Meghan Trainor was the first target. She embraced me with a squeal.
Later I weaved a path among the galaxy of round tables, astounded by the megawattage gracing the building.
Half expecting the place to spontaneously combust with the star power on display.
And they’d pulled out all the stops. Idle live music between scheduled events.
Bottomless champagne. Expensive party favors. Extraordinary cuisine.
The room was dimly lit until the speeches began, but I made out a purple ambiance round the stage and loads of ornate flower arrangements.
The heavy fragrance wafted across the room anytime the doors opened or closed.
The rest of the space was lost in a haze, peppered with tiny blue lights like radioactive fireflies.
I met Ringo Starr as he arrived, since I'd slipped back into the entry hall for a breath of fresh air.
He proved to be a man of few words who graciously took his leave before I could interrogate him further.
Then there was Peyton Smith, the plastic pop princess, who was dressed tremendously and on an inadvertent collision course with yours truly.
Through sheer willpower and maybe a little muscle memory, my body found a split-second means by which to evade her.
Since our 2011 split, she’d gone scorched earth, writing countless scathing tunes about the perils of our botched relationship and what an impotent dick I was— pun intended.
Just my luck, they’d all invariably gone on to be smash hits.
Although, the hype around her music seemed about as authentic as the synth overpowering her tepid vocals.
And the humiliation I’d suffered at ceremony after ceremony as she racked up awards and tossed artfully veiled shade my way during speeches was unaccountable.
Granted, it’d given me far more exposure than I could’ve otherwise dreamt of, but for all the wrong reasons.
Infamy was not a place I desired to make home.
The lonesome, inhospitable alleyways of villainy were not for me.
I was not a heel. I wasn’t the sort of bloke who could cunningly spin negative publicity to his advantage, making the most of being detested or gossiped about.
I was too forthcoming for PR games. My whole life, I’d prided myself on being benevolent and authentic like my mother.
A vocal ally for women and other marginalized groups, both public facing and behind closed doors.
Above all, I genuinely meant no harm, so couldn’t stand to be painted the philandering dickhead—no matter how much crisis management for Invicta insisted womanizers were hot.
Undoing the damage Peyton had inflicted on my reputation was the first tall order of my solo discography, and I suspected it wouldn’t be the last. In any case, I mostly avoided her because it was tacitly understood we were to remain no-contact. It was better for her brand.
Later I noticed everyone was wearing red, and it took longer still for it to dawn on me that it was Valentine's Day. I’d clocked the date earlier that morning and forgotten almost as quickly.
The last V-day I’d ever give a fuck about had come and gone and preceded a massive blow to my life in 2016.
That night he and I had made love like dogs, which always led to us fighting the morning after.
Then came weeks of remorse—for the mortifying gay sex, not the fighting—bickering over culpability.
Who wanted it more. Who’d manipulated whom.
It eventually progressed into a chilling silence until someone dared break.
He never broke first, so I was always the one to grovel.
And it sickened me how rewarded I felt whenever he warmed to me.
Halfway into my third drink and my second go around the room, I was laughing at everything that came out of Corden's mouth no matter how insipid or vile.
No matter the spittle that accompanied it, nor the perspiration beading at his temples.
Later I greeted Chrissy and John, Miley and Patrick, before running into Sam Smith and spending a few moments at his table.
His performances of “My Funny Valentine” and the soul-stirring “Stay With Me” were my favorite of the evening so far.
"There you are!" Jen said, as I made my way back to our table for the fourth time, and to gather my fourth drink. For some reason, I couldn’t sit still. "We were getting worried. Your drink’s getting stale," she winked.
"Had to make the rounds."
"By all means," Stern Sr. said, inclining his head, then resuming a conversation with a couple of bigwigs seated at an adjacent table.
"All play, no work..." John muttered, staring down into his glass like he’d found something revolting in it.
Later we sat through a few hollow speeches, the first by the President of the Academy, and later a few drawn-out performances.
I couldn't keep my eyes off my phone. Jen tapped my screen to let me know I was missing something.
I looked up to see Corden take the stage.
He was ace at extempore speeches, so I didn't worry too much that he'd drank half his weight in champagne and might abandon his train of thought.
He talked about the new late-night show and how his idea for a segment called Carpool Karaoke was initially ill-received.
He then ended with a light roast of the guests in the front row. Stallone was not a happy camper.
Finally, John’s father was honored with the Merit Award presented by the President of the Academy himself. His nose dripped as he gave a heartfelt speech from a few sheets of creased paper. Tonight, he wasn’t the formidable kingmaker I knew him to be. He was unequivocally human.