13 EVIE
E VIE
Over the years, I could recall only one other time when I’d been asked what Carter was like “in real life.” It was during a conversation with Kate in the kitchen one rainy afternoon when I finally told her about him a decade later.
Otherwise, I’ve said nothing. So it feels odd to be describing him like this.
His mannerisms. The interactions of that day.
I want so much to capture his personality, but at the same time it’s not enough, trying to encapsulate an entire human being with mere words.
Trying to describe the moment you first meet someone.
He was so young at that time. We both were.
Very different, in some ways, from how we ended up.
But it was such a sweet time, and I marvel at it still.
You might have noticed the attention I’ve placed on this first day.
It’s because all stories have a beginning that define them, and ours was no different.
And you have to understand that I had spent nearly an entire life without a family.
The day I’m telling you about is the day that I found the first family I’d ever really known, other than the mother who left me because of a drunk driver and the father who left me because .
.. well, just because he didn’t bother to stay most of the time.
So these things matter, you see. To me. These little details about the people who, for a time, became my whole world.
My work was a solitary experience, mostly freelance, and aside from the musicians I spoke with, few knew my face and even fewer knew my (real) name.
I wondered sometimes if this was the reason why my thoughts tended to crystallize in the moment when I was interviewing someone or observing from the side of a stage, the rest of the world fading away.
I wasn’t part of the party; I was a witness to it.
While deep in conversation on an assignment for Creem magazine, I once had the lead singer of Soggy Feather ask me if I was a witch because of the way he felt eerily compelled to spill all of his secrets to me.
(His words, not mine.) To this day, I still don’t know if he meant it as an insult or a compliment. Probably a mix of both.
Still, while the life suited me fine, the time alone could stretch endlessly in the vacuum of existence that defined my midtwenties. Had defined my entire life, really. Always alone, even in a room full of people. Sometimes I wondered if I should at least get a cat. I’d always wanted a cat.
I also didn’t have a lot of friends at the time, mostly due to the nature of my work, I suppose, and a natural predisposition to introversion.
I had my two best friends from high school, of course, just your dad and Kate, but they were in the periphery of my world at the time, connecting only every few months, if that.
And I had a small cast of characters who inhabited the enclaved world of the music business—tour managers and roadies who became familiar faces along the way.
Other writers. Production people. That sort of thing. But nothing of any real depth.
But I did have Derek. One of my favorite people of all time.
We had initially met in a visual studies workshop at Tisch and then later formed a kind of kinship when we were both covering a dicey show at the Limelight one night.
I hadn’t been sitting long, scribbling notes from my meeting with Carter, when Derek created a long shadow as he loped over and plopped down beside me.
“Hey, stranger,” he said with an easy grin. “Long time no see.”
Derek d’Orsay—yes, by the way, that Derek d’Orsay, the award-winning photographer—existed in either a state of relaxed ease or intense focus.
He ran a hand through his mop of dark dreadlocks and attempted unsuccessfully to tuck them behind his ears.
Wearing a Massive Attack T-shirt, he looked more like a college dropout than an accomplished photographer as he placed his bag alongside mine.
Derek was just a stringer photographer at the time, a freelancer working for the trades like me, and we both worked the East Coast circuit, climbing the ladder to the big leagues at a similar pace.
We were satellites, revolving around the bands that defined our career.
He was talented and slowly making a good name for himself—and he was the closest to what I would call a good friend in the business, alike in that our lives completely revolved around work.
He was often a welcome greeting to the day, and I still miss him sometimes.
“Hey, yourself!” I said. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”
“Yep, I’m here with you know who.”
I groaned. “I heard she was coming to cover The Evolution. Is she here yet?”
“I don’t think so. We were in Jersey last night for Warped Tour, and I think she was out especially late in hopes of finding a good time, or whatever it is she’s looking for.”
“Ew.” I shook the image out of my head. “She still thinks it’s 1972, doesn’t she? She’s determined to relive her Hyatt House dreams.”
“Truth,” he said, lighting a cigarette. It’s absurd how many people still smoked back then. I think he quit a few years later, but I’m not sure.
“And funny how she never seems to act like this at shows like, oh, I don’t know, Lilith Fair?” I said.
“Has she ever heard of boundaries? Makes us look bad, you know?” He stretched backward, putting his hands behind his head. “But hey, if she’s toast, maybe you’ll get more of her stories and live the good life.”
“Yeah, well, here’s hoping.” I raised my paper teacup, now lukewarm, in a mock toast.
“Hey, that piece you wrote last week for the Voice was amazing, by the way. Really good stuff,” he told me.
“Thanks.”
“But you should have stuck around—you missed a good time.” He dug his hand into a bag of cashews, popping a handful into his mouth.
“Did I?” I’d been to enough requisite hotel after-parties with bands and their entourages to last me awhile.
He nodded in agreement, inhaling deeply and blowing out the smoke above us. “You here for Mayluna, I assume?” he asked.
I nodded.
“I’ll get some good shots for you.”
“You’re the best. And most definitely appreciated. Thank you.”
“No prob.”
A moment later, the thumping beats of a sugary pop song, humorously incongruous to Derek’s personality, started pumping through his headphones as he leaned back and closed his eyes.
That night was the first time Derek photographed Mayluna, and the start of what became a longtime professional relationship between them in both photography and video work. Funny how that day impacted his life so much, as well. Must have been something in the air.
There’s a coffee-table book of Derek’s work now, called D’ORSAY 25 .
It includes a few photos taken that evening, alongside images from the next two and a half decades of his photography, covering major celebrities and events.
Vanity Fair , Vogue , Rolling Stone ...
His work made it onto the cover of all of them.
He went on to receive three Grammy nominations for music videos he was a part of, including two for Mayluna, and he repeatedly made it onto lists like “Most Influential Black Photographers” and “Top 10 Greatest Music Photographers,” alongside his heroes like Annie Leibovitz and Danny Clinch.
You can see why we got along. Similar dreams can do that. I was glad when his came true.
Just before the show began that evening, I’d been standing backstage with Derek and the writer we’d been discussing, named Sylvia, glowering as usual and sucking the air out of the space.
The music business was not for the faint of heart.
It sniffed out weakness and ate nice people for breakfast. And yet, despite my tendency toward actual human kindness, it was the place where I felt like I belonged.
Mostly because I knew that I was good at it.
And the writers stuck together, often having each other’s backs.
Sylvia was an exception and universally disliked, partly because when it came to famous people and their entourages, one must always maintain the appearance of cool nonchalance and disinterest. She routinely broke this rule, constantly name-dropping about her days partying with this band or that.
Never a good idea, considering the chances were very good that someone in the room had an even better story but also possessed the aplomb to keep it to themselves.
And she also tended to spend a bit more time than necessary hanging around the tour buses and artists’ dressing rooms, all the while laughing a little too loudly and batting her eyes.
It was a cautionary tale, I suppose, and may be why I was hesitant when Carter and I first met.
But she was also to be avoided because she had a habit of poaching stories from junior writers. Case in point:
“So you’re here to get a profile on Mayluna?” She brushed her inky bangs from her face and dug through the depths of her bag for a lighter. “Good luck with that. What’s your name again?”
“Cameron,” I told her for the umpteenth time. She always pretended to forget.
“I saw them last week. Mayluna,” she told me.
“And?”
“They’re good.” She gave me a sideways glance. “Really good. Prepare for the unusual.”
Damn, that was an annoyingly good line.
“You get anywhere with them yet?” She peered around the corner, toward the stage, as the energy began to build.
“A little.” I knew enough to keep my cards close.
“Miss Vivien in the house.” Just then, I turned to see Tommy strolling down the hall toward me, holding drumsticks, giving me a lazy grin. He was followed closely by Alex and their bass guitarist, Darren Andrews, preparing to take the stage.
Sylvia looked from Tommy, then to me, apparently noticing the familiarity of the exchange with curiosity.
“Vivien?” she asked. “But didn’t you just say—”
I waved it off. “It’s just a joke.”