you, but if we touch them in any way, even their cameras, bam, assault accusations.
Brix is good at getting them to back off.
The first time he put his arm around me to shield me from them, I got worried thinking they would read into it, but it’s a bodyguard loophole it seems. And it’s true it is his job. If Iris had done it, I wouldn’t have blinked.
We get into the studio, and I hold my breath the whole time Gideon listens to my new tracks.
His lips remain pursed through all of them, his arms folded, and he gives away nothing.
After the first listen, he asks to rehear the one I wrote about the military. It’s political and will have both haters and those who defend it to the ends of the earth. The lyrics are generic enough, a basic support the troops kind of theme, but it has queer undertones like mentioning fitting in to serve and sacrificing lives for the promise of support when you’re not completely accepted.
“You should sell this one,” Gideon says. “It’s a great song.”
“I don’t want to sell it.”
Gideon leans against the counter. “The label will never let you put it on your next album. Not if you want the other two.”
“Then I’ll sell one of the other two. The sex one.”
Gideon shakes his head. “That’s your most marketable one so far. It could be your ‘SexyBack.’ That song took Justin Timberlake to the next level.”
The other one is Brix’s song. His destiny is bullshit theory. I want to keep that, but the message of the political song is one I want to produce and release myself.
“I want to keep all of them.”
“Not going to happen,” Gideon says. “Pick your battles. The other two I can convince the label. They’re peppy and bouncy, and the one about fate being bullshit will be the breakup song of the year. It’s not exactly on brand for you, but it’s still a decent anthem for your demographic. This one about the military is too political. It’ll alienate too many fans.”
“Pitch it to them anyway.”
“And if they still say no—which they will—I think you should see if Radioactive wants it. Jay’s known for not giving a shit about spreading his political beliefs. He has a cause for a song like this.”
I chew on my bottom lip. Not only did Jay and I write “Confusion” together, Eleven had a song he wrote, and when we were together, we’d write and help each other out all the time. If anyone else is going to sing this song and hit it out of the park, it would be him, but … I don’t know.
“Isn’t the point of me going solo to gain new fans and a new demographic? I can’t produce the same song over and over again. The lyrics might be different, the melody slightly changed, but you know and I know, put nearly all my songs on the same backing track and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. I want to branch out. I want to—”
“It’s a risk you know the label won’t go for.”
I grunt in frustration.
“Leave me with it,” Gideon says, “but keep Jay in mind.”
I’d rather not, but I agree. “Fine. Just promise me you’ll fight for it and show one hundred percent commitment to it or they’ll know they can say no.”
“I promise.”
Gideon takes the rough tracks with him and goes to meet with the label, which means I can’t concentrate during my session. I keep stumbling over my own words because I’m distracted and forcing this song out. It’s the type of song the label will get excited about—something that is guaranteed to hit the charts—but my heart’s not in it. It’s not the type of song I want to be doing anymore.
But I understand it’s a necessary evil if I want to keep selling albums.
A slight change in tone or mood can turn off even the most loyal fans.
Balance.
I need to find a balance.
I throw my head in my hands and rest my elbows on the piano in front of me.
“Want to take a break?” the producer says from the sound booth.
I lift my head to see him looking at me through the glass. I worked with Randall before when I was with Eleven, and the reason I like working with him is because he doesn’t push. He never pressured us like some others did to get it done. He believes in quality over quantity and timeline.