RIFF
ONEMONTHLATER
“Griffin,”Mindythe realtor tells me with a gentle hand on my shoulder, “I really think you’re going to like this area.”
I stare out at the mountainous California landscape from the balcony of my new Topanga Canyon home.
At least it’s green out here. There are trees everywhere, and good hiking trails.
This house is some vague contemporary style, tucked high above the canyon floor at the end of a private road lined with oaks. Mindy’s been talking nonstop about the vaulted ceilings and wooden beams, the “impressive” stone fireplace, the “open concept” layout, the big windows and all the natural light they let in, plus all the decks that offer different views. Not sure what she thinks I’m going to do with five bedrooms, but at least it has a good studio space. All for a “modest” three million dollars. And it’s still tiny compared to what other celebrities own. This is already so much; I can’t fathom living anywhere bigger or more expensive than this.
The only thing about this lifestyle I’m particularly excited about is the Ford Bronco Raptor in the driveway.
Braden—my manager—pokes his head out the French doors that lead to my balcony and says, “What do you think?”
“It’s very nice.”
Movers are visible through the glass, setting up my things in the living room. Everything is all white walls and light-wood accents and gray floors made of (according to Mindy) luxury vinyl. Except the kitchen; that’s mainly black marble and copper.
“You sure you wouldn’t rather a place in Nashville?” Braden asks.
Honestly, I thinkhewants to live in Nashville, and he has to go where I go.
“Of course not.”
No way will I give up being within an hour of most of my family and less than fifteen minutes from the beach.
He comes over and stands next to me and leans on the railing. “It’s just as well I guess. As much as it would do you well to be closer to the country music scene, it’d probably be the quickest way to show everyone just how ‘country’ you’renot. You know—by comparison.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I can’t imagine trying to keep that up twenty-four seven.”
Sometimes it takes me hours to get the drawl out of my voice after a performance. I don’t even try to fake it, it just comes naturally with the music. You can’t sing about tractors and southern highways and Carolina girls (to the twangy melody of a steel guitar) without developing an accent. Not that I asked to sing about tractors and southern highways and Carolina girls.
I’m not enthusiastic about fitted jeans and cowboy hats either, but sometimes that’s the way it goes when you’re not the one calling the shots. The ones whoarecalling the shots are the ones that allow me to sing for people and get paid for it (andsubsequently afford a three-million-dollar home, with privacy and security that I’m starting to need pretty badly as my fame grows) so, for now, I do what they say.
Braden follows me inside past the studio where the movers have already set up my mics and guitars. We end up in the rec room where my vinyl records are half-unpacked in stacks on the endless shelves. He flips through a few of them.
“Jim Croce?” he mutters. “Joni Mitchell? Crosby, Stills, and Nash? Where’s your Willie Nelson, Kenny Rogers, Patsy Cline?”
“You said yourself I’m not country,” I remind him, wondering how appalled he’d be to go through the more modern records in my collection, which contains less Keith Urban and Jason Aldean, and more Bon Iver, The Lumineers, and Mumford & Sons.
“Right, right,” he says with a wave of his hand to dismiss my indie-folk background.
I was upfront with him when he got assigned to manage me; I let him know my goals, how I got started, the fact that country music is a means to an end. He said that was all well and good but he has to do what the label says, so for the time being we keep all that swept under the rug, the “same old devil” of a situation as always.
I snatch a stray copy of The Avett Brothers’I And Love And Youalbum and slide it behind the cushions of one of the lounge chairs.
The lyrics “decide what to be and go be it” flick through my mind, and I hate to admit how poorly I’ve followed that advice. I know I should be more than content with my wealth and fame, but I can’t help feeling like it belongs to someone who’s … not me.
“Great sound system.” Braden squats to observe the Wharfdale speakers that sit on the floor. “Mind if I have a listen?”
I shake my head.
He fidgets with a few knobs on the stereo until the radio comes on.
The pop version of Daisy Malloy’s “Boy Toy” fills the room now, with all the twangs toned down and an added electronic beat. As far as I’m aware, Daisy doesn’t have any aspirations to cross genres, but her expanding fanbase sure seems to want her to.
“Not exactly the way I wanted to christen the new place,” I say as Daisy sings the phrase “I’ll tug your string, I’ll get you goin’, you know I’ll play with you, but wait—there’s more, in my nightstand drawer …”
