Chapter 4 #4
“So that’s it, then? You’re killing my favorite band.”
“Didn’t you notice that there are more people here for the Monas than for me?”
She hadn’t.
“But they were just the opener.”
“Right. And now it’s their time. Besides, there’s no competing with people who have money.
Maybe if I didn’t have to work, I’d be more successful.
But we’ll never know. This is an industry for rich girls who want to feel special.
I’m ready to move out of the way. Don’t cry for me, Argentina.
I’ve made my peace with it. Indie rock is dead. ”
“Long live indie rock,” Susan whispers, her words drowned out by the wail of a passing ambulance.
There’s an after-party, but Susan decides to just go home.
She’s tired. She’s sad, too: sad that Katie didn’t come, sad that she’ll never see?
? play again, sad that she left without getting her warmest coat from Angie so that she wouldn’t have to have a stilted goodbye.
Sad that she felt so awkward, even though Angie was so nice.
Sad that she’ll never be a teenager again, even while it’s a relief.
When she gets home, Mia’s bedroom door is closed and Susan can hear the whir of her white-noise machine.
Susan gets into bed with her computer, scanning Twitter and the blogs to see what people are saying about Jonny’s retirement.
There’s not much chatter yet. He was never as famous as she imagined he was.
That’s what happens when you idolize someone, she realizes.
You don’t understand that not everybody else does, too.
As she often does, before she falls asleep, she googles Eliza Klein.
And as always, none of the Eliza Kleins who populate the search results are the one she’s looking for.
Early the next morning, there are only a few other people at their desks when Susan knocks on Tamara’s office door.
“Come on in, Susan,” Tamara calls. “Close the door behind you.”
Susan sits on the couch that faces Tamara’s desk, crossing and then uncrossing her legs, unsure how to act, what version of herself to present.
“I want to talk to you about our content strategy,” Tamara says. “I think it’s time we join the competition and start prioritizing video.”
Since Tamara comes from tech, Susan has been anticipating something like this. Pivot to video. The bitter phrase on everyone’s lips.
“It’s what the Facebook algorithm is prioritizing,” Tamara continues. “Though I’m sure as our social media director, you already knew that.”
“Director?” Susan is the social media manager, not the director.
Tamara nods. “Director. I put in your promotion this morning, with a fifteen percent raise.”
“Wow, thank you.”
The money will be helpful. She tries to feel excited about the new title, though, and comes up empty. She doesn’t really feel anything at all.
After all, it’s still less than Drew makes.
“So, as I was saying, as our social media director, surely you have heard about the changes to the algorithm.”
Susan nods. “I’ve read about it,” she says. “But I haven’t really seen any evidence that it improves views. Just because a platform is pushing a tool doesn’t mean people want it.”
“Mmm,” Tamara says. “I don’t know if I agree with that. The algorithms know better than we do what people want.”
“People come to us for written words,” Susan says.
“And our traffic is flat,” Tamara says. “We need to start growing, and this is how we’re going to do it. We need to figure out what our version of a Tiny Desk Concert is. I’m putting you in charge of this. Please tell me you’ll get on board.”
“Okay,” Susan says, admitting defeat to herself. There’s no point in fighting Tamara. Besides, this is the first thing she’s been put in charge of in a long time. “I’m on board. Let’s grow.” She takes out her phone. “I’m just going to take a few notes.”
But instead of taking notes, she texts Drew. “piv to vid???”
He replies: “lmao kill me.”
Her first director-level paycheck lands in her bank account on Friday morning while she gets ready for work.
Suddenly, it all seems real: the title, the pay.
For a few days she doubted if Tamara really meant it.
It’s so hard to trust authority figures, especially after Ben, who used to just promise her things and then never follow through.
But she can’t argue with the numbers on the deposit.
She rushes into the kitchen half-dressed, showing her bank statement to Mia, who is chugging coffee standing up.
“Fuck yes,” Mia cries. “I’m so happy for you. This is almost what you deserve to get paid.”
Susan laughs, delighted and a little bit bewildered. It just feels like so much cash.
As she finishes getting dressed, she calls her mom and tells her about the promotion, adding, “I can start sending you money, if you want.”
She hits speakerphone while she tugs a crew neck sweater over her head and starts digging around in her closet for her boots.
To her surprise, her mother says, “Oh, honey, don’t.”
“What? Why?”
“We’re doing good these days. Keep it for yourself.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.” And then she adds: “We’re so proud of you.”
It feels strange, but Susan doesn’t press it. It’s like getting a double raise.
For the first time in her adult life, she has enough cash to do everything she wants. The bar is very low, however, since she’s so used to being broke. The most she dreams of is taking a taxi home if it’s past 10 PM, instead of riding the subway alone at night.
She’s pulling a lot of late nights in the office now. And while pivoting to video is annoying in theory, Susan is glad to be busy with work.
She starts organizing live sessions in the office.
Musicians come in and play short sets while Susan films on her iPhone, streaming into the ether of Facebook or Instagram.
Tamara says the more they use the new social media tools, the more views they’ll get, which means more eyeballs that they can promise to advertisers.
Susan has never been more keenly aware of how her work impacts the company’s bottom line.
It’s a pressure she’s not sure she wants, but she’s learning a lot.
Everything becomes a video. Instead of writing profiles of artists, they start filming Q she eavesdrops on their conversations and then googles Muna, Hayley Kiyoko, Troye Sivan.
It’s amazing to her how many of the artists the kids are listening to are queer.
It would have been unfathomable a decade ago.
She wonders how Jonny’s life would have been different if he’d been ten, fifteen years younger.
If he’d had the opportunity to go to a bigger label, be given a bigger budget, have more marketing and publicity support from whole teams of pros. She bet he wouldn’t have quit.
In the spring, Susan is sitting at her desk gazing out the window at the water, ignoring the full inbox and Slack messages pinging endlessly on her computer, when Heather calls her cell phone.
“Listen, babe,” Heather says. It sounds like she’s rushing off somewhere. “I’m doing a Pride event for Fender, and I’d love to get you involved.”
“You don’t know any other lesbians?”
“On the contrary, I feel like I only know lesbians. But you’re my favorite one.”
Susan grins into the phone. “Thank you. My love language is being your favorite lesbian.” Heather laughs and Susan says, “So what’s up? Wait, let me guess. Fender wants to spotlight ten queer people in music?” She taps her pen on her notebook and then begins to draw a spiral.
“Five,” Heather says. “And it’s a panel. I was hoping you could moderate it.”
“Me?” Susan is surprised. She’s never moderated anything in her life. “I mean, I’d love to. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“I can pay you six hundred dollars. I know it’s not a lot, but they want the rest of the panel to be musicians, and frankly they are more expensive than you.”
“Six hundred is a lot,” Susan says, wondering if she should finally give in to the beautiful black clogs that have been haunting her. She pulls up the Opening Ceremony website and begins scrolling through shoes. “Do you want Jonny for the panel?”
“You know I love Jonny,” Heather says. “But he’s not big enough. They want this to be a little more A-list.”
“A-list indie?” She’s doubtful that exists.
“No, A-list period. This is the big leagues, girlfriend. Maybe not Gaga, but we do have an ask out to someone in her band.”
“Wow. Send me the details.”
The panel takes place in June, in a loft space in Dumbo.
Susan wears a Rider Die T-shirt with a black blazer and ripped black jeans.
She’s reserved seats for Katie, Jake, and Jonny, and when she walks onto the small stage, she sees them in the front row.
They cheer as though she’s a child having a recital, and it’s a little embarrassing but she loves it. Her face turns bright pink.
There are four empty chairs next to hers on the stage, and as though in a dream, a microphone is handed to her and she reads the names of the very famous musicians who enter in a line and take their seats.
It’s one man, two women, and one nonbinary person.
They look at her expectantly, faces professionally contoured and outfits expertly styled.