I shrug as the doors close on us, and press the L button. “Businesses are made up of people. Human beings. FM Sound, for example, treats its artists like parts in a machine—to be bent and greased at will. No one works well like that, and they definitely don’t feel loyal to some evil overlord who wants towring out every last drop of their usefulness. You know when peopledowork well? When they’re happy. When they’re not under constant pressure to operate like they don’t have feelings.”
“Are you not happy?”
Looking at my distorted reflection in the metal wall, I say, “I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given, but … I do want more. You’re already aware of that.”
“I am.”
“So … are you actually going to give me the creative freedom I’ve been asking for, if I get those sales numbers we talked about?”
“I’m a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them. We said we’d explore new avenues for you, and your numbers are on the right track, so I have no doubt we’ll be doing just that.”
“‘Explore,’” I repeat pointedly.
“Yes.”
“As in, ‘we’ll see.’ As in, maybe I get to do a little crossover or soften the country twang, maybe I get to go less bro-country and more grassroots. Maybe in five or six years, I’ll be able to fully transition away from the genre. Right?”
The doors open again to let us out.
Charles stares at me for a second, then steps out into the lobby but turns to face me. “You can’t do a complete one-eighty in music, Griffin, it’s too risky. That would be like an epic fantasy author turning around and writing contemporary romance; the fanbase is totally different. You’d be starting from scratch.”
I follow him as he makes his way across the marble floor, his dress shoes tapping with each step.
“I really don’t think I would be,” I argue, “but I know I’d rather start from scratch now than several years down the road.” I stop before we reach the lobby’s fountain, thinking he’ll go on without me, but he stops too. So I gather my courage. “Behonest: You were still going to try and get me to do another country album, weren’t you?”
Charles sighs. “It makes sense to ride your current wave.”
I scoff. “As an amateur surfer, I can tell you with confidence that there will always be another wave to ride.”
“And as a professional musician?”
“I can tell you that if you trust me, I won’t let you down. There’s already plenty of buzz about my old videos, and about the songs I’ve done with Harmony, both of which push my genre limits.”
“Still …” He shakes his head.
“Country music will always have a place in my heart, but it’s not what I set out to do, and it’s not who I am. Sure, legally you could make me do another country album—if you want to be like FM Sound, if you want to isolate me and make me a cog in your music machine, if you want a catalog full of artists who only tolerate your label but don’t feel at home there. Or you could treat me with the respect I deserve and let me show you what I’m capable of when I’m in my real element. Then maybe we can thrivetogether.”
He clears his throat and seems to study me for a moment, like he didn’t expect all this from me. Riff Hurley had a reputation for being easy to work with, for being a good investment, not for making demands with unbridled audacity.
“You’re not the same guy I signed last year,” he says. “Something’s changed.”
“Yes. Becausepeoplechange. The question is, are you willing to adapt to a changing tide? Are you willing to let your artists grow, and not stifle them? Art is a business, on one hand, but on the other it’s meant to be fluid, evolutionary, open to interpretation. If it or its makers are forced to exist in tight little frames, what’s even the point? That’s not art, it’s a prefabricated product with no heart or soul—and without those, it doesn’tspeak to anyone. People buy with their emotions; every business class will tell you that.”
“You’ve made some fair points,” he admits, almost cracking a smile but not quite. “Truthfully … I’m not sure you have a bad side, but if you do, I don’t want to be on it.”
“It’s not about malice. I fight for what I care about, and it just so happens that I finally care about myself now too. Enough to say what I think.”
“Well,” he says, “I can’t argue with that. If you’re this adamant, let’s have a real discussion.”
I frown because I’ve heard similar phrases from him before. “As in ‘We’ll see what we can do’?”
“As in, ‘We have to draft a formal agreement,’ but, ‘Let’s discuss your nextnot-country album.’”
I gape at him. “Are you … serious?”
“Sure. Why the hell not?” He says it with the causal air of someone who takes their power for granted. “You’ve shown you’re committed. You’ve done everything I’ve asked, despite your better judgment. And you’ve built a solid career doing something you don’t even like; I’m curious how you’ll fare doing things on your own terms. Curiosity—another driving emotion, as you mentioned.”
My heart races. I was prepared for him to keep making excuses, to reject me again. Standing up to him was more for my own sanity than to get him to do anything—because his type so often won’t. Now he’s ready to take action?
