Might just be my imagination, but whatever it is, I’m in my head about it. Which is probably why I couldn’t keep my cool onPlay By Hear. A lot of guys say women exaggerate about the scrutiny they face, but from what I can see—especially since I was questioned about Harmony’s appearance like it has anything to do with me—where’s the lie?
When Spotify autoplays some of Harmony’s other songs, I let it. For now, I just want to live inside her brain for a minute, to figure out how it works.
“You’re different between us and them, it’s waking me at 3 a.m.,” she sings, and I wonder which man warrants this line. Someone who changes behavior based on his audience, I’d imagine. Luke Onstenk? Kelton Roth? Suddenly I’m reminded of what Harmony said to me at the Glo Radio event: “You’re going to be different depending on where you are and who you’re with. That’s not something I’m interested in.”
Her next few songs are slower, more pensive, but I listen to them anyway, slowing to a jog.
“You wished I would tell you, ’Love me when you can,’ but I don’t want a fairytale with castles made of sand,” she says in oneof them. “There’s holes in the soles of my shoes, from running in circles,” she says in another. “I’m callused, I’m bruised, and I am scarred, stretched like the strings of your guitar." And, “Let me, let me, get a little overcast. You don’t get me, get me, if you’re getting over me that fast.” Or, “I am incapable, and you, you're inescapable.”
The one after that is particularly haunting.
The lamps on the sidewalk are all dim,
The cold air just makes me think of him,
My breath is like a ghost in the wind,
I’d start if I knew where to begin
When I pay attention to what she’s saying—when I really listen—so much of her work is wrought with pain. It’s not a gimmicky track list that shames men for existing; it’s a diary of her life (yes, often her love life) and what she’s left with in the aftermath of each encounter. Some are angrier, like “If Your Car Could Talk” or “Nice Try,” but many have a melancholy tone. Meanwhile, her upbeat pop songs tend to have nothing to do with her dating life at all, despite her reputation.
Next thing I know, I’m sitting on a big rock, trying to catch my breath, and typing Harmony’s name into Google on my phone. My data signal is weak and I’ve got sweat dripping down my temples, but I scan fan forums and all the speculations as to which of her songs are about which of her exes, and I find out through a few super fans that Andy Gaccione has a history of cheating (links supplied to several articles that discuss allegations from multiple partners of his) and that Luke Onstenk is known in Hollywood for continuing to date women in the early twenties range, despite being thirty-eight himself now, and most of his relationships don’t last more than a month or two (while anecdotes say he “likes to string girls along until he’s bored ofthem” and “uses his acting skills to get what he wants from women offscreen”).
Other things Harmony has said to me stand out: “You seem to be pretty familiar with playing a part,” and “We’ll just pretend. I know that’s your favorite.”
I hadn’t really thought about what she might have been going through when she wrote all her “man-hater” songs. I’d convinced myself it was just kind of her schtick, a gimmick she used to rally her troops. And I didn’t mind it before because I had no idea what it was like to be the “subject of the sentence.” Once I felt it, I have to admit, it didn’t feel good. But so much of her reaction makes sense now.
Putting myself in her position the night we met, a new picture starts to form in my mind—one in which I am kind of the bad guy.
Well I Don't Mind If You Don't Mind
HARMONY
Riffstepsoutofthe limo and re-buttons a gold-sequined tux jacket with black lapels. I glance down at my likewise gold-sequined Oscar de la Renta dress—long-sleeved, deep neckline, short skirt—then back up at him.
Is this some kind of joke? Even for a Vegas-themed party, matching sequins is a little tacky. The DJ and producer professionally known as daXx (donotforget to capitalize the first X) has invited us, along with a great number of other celebrities, to his fortieth birthday at his Hollywood Hills mansion.
“Too much?” Riff asks, although he’s not bothered in the slightest by the possibility that it might be.
“Are you saying this was your idea?”
“I may have suggested it.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “My stylist showed me a range of options. This one”—he runs his fingers down one panel of his jacket, making the sequins shimmer—“reminded me of your time onLucky Stars.”
My own stylist must have quietly coordinated with his.
I frown. “The bomber jacket?” I might have forgotten about it entirely except that theLucky Starsproducers had me do a photo shoot wearing it right after I left (for thePopulusarticle that comes out each week featuring eliminated contestants). My mom still keeps the magazine clipping in her office at the school where she teaches choir.
Sonora was hailed by the judges as a pop star in the making. Her unique performances were a trademark dating back to her audition when she sang an original song called “Let's Coast” and accompanied herself on the ukulele. She used her new platform to highlight immigration issues after her television appearances gained her tens of thousands of additional followers on social media. On elimination night, she bid audiences farewell with another original song “Brightly Burning,” which hinted at her aspirations to honor her family (particularly her paternal grandparents who immigrated to the United States as young adults) by pursuing her artistic career goals, but which continues to serve as an anthem for overcoming adversity in any capacity.
I still can’t believe I auditioned with a ukulele. Thanks, propranolol, for keeping me delusionally confident. At the time, I had barely been playing for six months. After I got signed to FM Sound, I mostly stopped. Same as now, I used my basic piano and guitar skills to get the bones of my songs written, and then let the label’s people take it from there so I could focus on vocals.
I wonder if I still have that jacket somewhere. I’m sure I do.
“You remember that?” I ask Riff.
