Instead, he paused again, thinking, then continued. “The main problem is that when I was sixteen, I wasn’t sure who I was as an artist yet, so the industry decided for me. I did what the show producers told me and later, the record label. I became a product. A very slick, packaged product. It meant singing the songs they bought from other songwriters. It meant dressing and acting the way they told me to.”
He shifted in his seat, and it felt like his mind was a world away. “I started figuring myself out in my early twenties like I think most people do. And I realized that at my core, I wasn’t who the label was trying to tell the world I was. I wanted to explore different kinds of music, do my own thing. They weren’t happy about it, and I acted out. Trashed hotel rooms. Took the stage late. Bailed on PR events. It got harder to get bookings. I didn’t care. I wanted out. So once I did the final album on my contract, I didn’t renew with them. Did my own thing for a while, but...” His expression darkened.
“Did your fans follow you?”
He shook his head. “No, not really. I got pigeon-holed early on by forces outside of my control, and I don’t think anyone was ready to see me differently.” He picked up another beignet and downed it, brushing absently at the sugar and making a bigger mess than I had at the office. “It’s okay. I’ve had lots of therapy in the last two years. I can make my music for myself, and it doesn’t matter if only a handful of people like it. Or even find it. My dad is an accountant, and he still helps me manage my finances. I did a rock star job and I got rock star paychecks. I live kind of low-key, so I’ll never spend what I’ve earned. I don’t have to chase money.”
He blinked and turned his head to focus on me. “Sorry. I only mean that I can afford for this to be a passion project. I don’t need to make money from it, but it would be nice not to lose money on it either. The most important thing is to create a place where musicians can come and be themselves, whether they’re starting out or reinventing their sound. I wish I’d had a space like that for me. New Orleans shaped me as an artist, and I want to give back.”
A self-conscious smile appeared. “Sorry again,” he said.
“For what?”
“I monologued. Didn’t mean to take you hostage with my angst.”
“It’s okay.” I meant it. I hadn’t expected anything that he’d said, and I didn’t know what he meant about wishing he could be a different kind of artist. After so many years of avoiding his name and music, I’d be doing a deep dive on the internet to find out what he’d been up to for the last several years.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I’m pretty allergic to a corporate vibe, and we probably feel the same about the French Quarter.”
That had me blinking. “What do you mean?” I’d gone pretty far out of my way not to show my distaste for Bourbon Street.
“Not to make it weird, but you’ve got a lot of tells. You should never play poker.”
The idea of him paying such close attention to me made me want to squirm in my chair. “I liked all the properties I showed you.”
He took off his sunglasses and studied me for a few seconds, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. His eyelashes were longer than I would expect on a guy, and I wondered if they were why his eyes looked so blue. “If you were opening a club yourself, would you want any of those spots?”
“Most people would,” I said.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I was well aware of that. “What didn’t you like about them?”
“I love the history of the Quarter. I do. But Bourbon Street in particular has become kind of Vegas-fied. It’s packed with party crowds and neon lights and hustlers. And it’s beginning to feel more and more corporate, which triggers my allergy. People go to Bourbon Street for the experience; they want their music fast and brassy, but it’s not the space for people who have quieter things to say. I want a place that does both.”
I didn’t even know what to say to that because he’d echoed my feelings for Bourbon Street so closely. He