sleek pantsuit, right alongside Mr. Hottie himself, Reed Rivers. Who, by the way, looks even more tantalizing in person than in his hunky photos. Wow.
CeeCee and Reed and the other panelists take seats onstage as a woman with a lovely smile approaches a lectern. Our host for the event welcomes the audience, introduces herself as the head of UCLA’s music department, and proceeds to introduce each panelist. We meet a renowned songwriter, a composer for movies, a singer who apparently had a huge hit in the ‘90s, and a music supervisor who selects songs for TV and film. Finally, the moderator introduces CeeCee, and I whoop and clap far more vigorously than anyone around me.
“Maybe some of you have heard of CeeCee’s little magazine?” the moderator says with a sly smile. “It’s called... Rock ‘n’ Roll?” Everyone, including me, laughs and applauds. “And last but not least,” the moderator says, beaming a huge smile at Mr. Panty-Melter on the far end. “Help me welcome a gentleman known in the music industry as ‘The Man with the Midas Touch.’ He’s one of this university’s most esteemed alums. The founder of River Records. Reed Rivers.”
The crowd cheers wildly, much more enthusiastically than they did for anyone else. And, in a flash, I know Alessandra was right: everyone here has a music demo in their pockets they’re hoping to slip to Reed after the event.
The moderator says, “Reed founded his label eleven years ago, at the age of twenty-three, right after he’d obtained both a BA in business and an MBA from this fine university.”
The crowd cheers at the mention of our beloved school.
“In an early interview, Reed said he founded River Records with two goals in mind: one, bringing ‘stellar’ music into the world, and, two, making a ‘shit-ton of money’ while accomplishing goal number one.”
The room explodes with laughter and applause.
Chuckling with the crowd, the moderator adds, “I think it’s fair to say ‘mission accomplished’ on both counts. Would you agree, Reed?”
Reed smiles. “So far, so good. But, to be clear, I’m not even close to done with either of my stated goals yet.”
The moderator looks like she’s swooning at that response, but after taking a few deep breaths, she manages to return to the audience with a professional demeanor. “Let’s get started. I’ll begin with you, Reed. Your label is known for being particularly selective about the artists you sign. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Why is that?”
“Because we don’t stockpile our artists, the way other labels do. If River Records signs you, it means we’re committed to putting our full faith and resources behind you. Most labels sign a hundred acts, hoping one will have a hit, almost by chance. But while they play the odds like bean counters, we shoot for the stars, each and every time. But, of course, the flipside of that philosophy is that we need to be highly selective at the front end.”
“Have you ever experienced a miss, despite your best efforts?”
“We’ve had disappointments, sure. But a complete miss? No, not yet. Knock on wood.”
He raps his knuckles against the side of his head, a move he’s obviously not inventing—and, yet, every student in the audience laughs and swoons like they’re seeing the maneuver for the first time. And I can’t help thinking, Poor Isabel didn’t stand a chance.
As the moderator asks Reed some follow-up questions, I take a surreptitious photo of him, and quickly shoot it off to Alessandra. And, of course, within seconds, my stepsister sends me a gif of a nuclear explosion, with the caption: “MY OVARIES,” making me chuckle out loud.
After putting my phone in my lap again, I return to the discussion, just in time to hear the moderator say, “Thank you so much, Reed. I think you’ve shown us all why every aspiring artist I know would give their left kidney to get signed by your label.”
Reed leans back in his chair, the king of all he surveys. “Actually, our contracts require new artists to give their right kidney. I keep them in mason jars in my office and nibble on them whenever I’m low on protein bars.”
Again, everyone in the room, including me, laughs and swoons at Reed’s wit and charm.
“I stand corrected,” the moderator says, her face aglow. She clears her throat. “Moving on.”
And away we go. Question. Answer. Rinse and repeat. Sometimes, the moderator addresses the full panel. Other times, she talks to a specific panelist, like she did with Reed. But, through it all, nobody holds my attention like