twenty songs, by other artists, that expressed their own musical “blood, guts and soul.” Summer Sorensen, their keys/synth player, came up with the idea when they formed the band, sort of a musical getting to know you.
After they’d contracted me to produce their debut album, she sent me their vortex playlists and I listened through each one.
Then I took it a step further. I asked each member of the Players to tell me their three all-time favorite bands. Like the bands they would’ve literally joined themselves if they could’ve. And I listened through each of those bands’ complete studio discographies.
Today, I was on the top three from Matt Brohmer, the Players’ bassist. For the last few hours I’d had Soundgarden pouring through the speakers in the walls all over my house, so I could hear the music in whatever room I was in. I was now on Superunknown, their most popular album and arguably their best, though I was partial to Badmotorfinger myself, for personal reasons.
If you asked me, music was always personal.
I’d finish Soundgarden tomorrow morning, then get listening to the top three bands chosen by Ashley Player, the Players’ lead singer and guitarist, starting with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. It would probably take me the rest of the day and part of the night just to get through the Chili Peppers’ discography alone, but that was fine with me.
Without music, my house was too quiet anyway.
I had to keep myself occupied with something to fill the void. It felt strange to have this much free time on my hands. It was only two days. A matter of hours. But to me, it felt like a long damn time. I was used to being busy, consumed with my work, with music. Every moment of every day.
The last album I’d produced, the Static Ice Diva’s latest, had taken nearly eight months of my life. Way longer than it should’ve. I was glad it was finished, but I also hated finishing an album—unless I was plunging myself fucking immediately into something else.
My work on the album had officially wrapped up yesterday, including final talks with the record company, publicists, issuing a statement that could be used in place of an actual interview with me. I never did interviews anymore. I hadn’t done one in five years. I really didn’t have anything to say.
Everything I had to say was already in the music.
If you knew how to listen, you’d figure it out.
When I finished shaving, I walked into my bedroom. Felt strange; I hadn’t slept up here in years. Everything was neat and clean and cold. I slept in my music studio downstairs, and most of the time I showered there, too. I did pretty much everything down there. I only bothered coming up here now because I needed some nice clothes from the walk-in.
I chose a simple, black dress shirt and gray dress pants. I never wore shit like this; I was a jeans and T-shirt guy. The crisp fabric and collar, the buttons, the creases in the pants all made me feel less like myself, which was maybe the point. Helped me to detach. Depersonalize the whole event as much as I could. I didn’t have to dress up to visit the mansion, but I always did. Just seemed wrong not to.
Obviously, Nicolette would.
And since I expected her to play by my rules, it was the least I could do.
The thing was, not many people understood my rules. Fair enough. But I wasn’t about to spend my life having to explain them to everyone. It was so much easier to just shut a door and tell people to stay the fuck out.
Choose who I let into my world.
Out. In.
Most people were out.
This was my life. My rules.
When I walked back into the bathroom, my phone was vibrating again. I ran my hands through my hair in front of the mirror. It was half-damp, and I didn’t bother styling it.
I glanced at the screen.
Courteney.
Shit. I’d been hoping to avoid her this weekend, but this had to be the seventh time she’d called. Either there was an actual emergency, or I should’ve maybe just stopped being an asshole and actually picked up the phone to talk to my sister.
I picked up the phone. “Hey, cupcake.” That’s what I called her; cupcake, or CC for short, which was also her initials and mine. Cupcake was usually reserved for private conversations, though. When she was like thirteen she’d started complaining about it, but