“I’m not joining a boy band.” The thought makes me chuckle as I envision myself dancing in sync with four other guys in matching denim overalls with no shirt or some shit.
“I wouldn’t even dream of suggesting it,” Matt says with a laugh of his own. “All I’m saying is… Maybe consider going the pop route.”
Why is everyone trying to turn me into a goddamn pop star?
“I’m not a pop artist.”
“But you could be,” he says.
“But I don’t want to be.”
“Wyatt.”
His tone tells me I’m about to be lectured about “the reality of the music biz.”
“The reality of the music biz,” he continues, “is that those who don’t adapt die. So you can toil away for years, chasing your artistic vision and trying to stay pure to it, or you can make a sacrifice to get your foot in the door. Write a song you know will be popular, something that appeals to the masses, and then for your second album? Do whatever tickles your creative fancy.”
“Or I get pigeonholed into whatever sellout nonsense I put in the first album,” I counter. “Thenthatbecomes my style, and I blow up and get stuck churning out pop songs for the rest of my life.”
“Oh no,” he says sarcastically. “You blow up and become a big star.”
Frustration tightens my throat. He doesn’t get it. Nobody does. They think I’m just being a fucking diva. That I’m too stubborn to “adapt” or too pretentious to write pop music.
But that isn’t it. It’s not that I don’twantto write it—it’s that Ican’twrite it. The last time I tried writing a bubblegum pop song, I stared at a blank page for days. Sure, I know a few songwriters in Nashville who could probably write me some killer pop tracks, but… I guess this is where my diva side crops up. Because I don’t want to sing prepackaged songs that someone else hands me. I want to compose my own music.
“Look, Wyatt, I love the whole angsty, folksy-rock, singer-songwriter vibe you’ve got going on. But it’s clearly not working for us. If you consider singing something more mainstream, there’d be no shortage of producers willing to team up with you. Tobey Dodson, to name one. He’d work with you in a heartbeat—”
“Why in a heartbeat?” I cut in suspiciously.
“Well, he was talking to your mother—”
“No.”
“Wyatt—”
“I said no.”
“Why not, damn it? Christ, kid. I’ve never seen anybody fight the nepo baby label as hard as you.”
Aggravation sizzles through me. “Because I’m not a nepo baby. I want to create my own opportunities and make it on my own. Otherwise it just feels like it’s been handed to me.”
“Let it get handed to you. Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I’ll talk to you later, okay? I’ll think on it.”
I hit End before he can argue. I stare at the phone for a second, then grit my teeth and call my mom.
“Hey, honey!” Mom says, sounding happy to hear from me. “How’s Tahoe?”
“It’s good. How’s Boston?”
“Wonderful. Your sister and Luke just got here. They’re spending the weekend.”
“BIL’s there? Nice.” I love my brother-in-law, even if I still can’t get over the fact that I actually have one of those.
My twin sister getting married at twenty-one wasn’t exactly on my bingo card for that year, yet somehow, their marriage has lasted way longer than I thought it would. I assumed the quickie marriage in Vegas would result in a quickie divorce wherever you get quickie divorces. But three years later, they still act like newlyweds, and now I can’t imagine our lives without my grumpy, allergic-to-talking, stupidly talented BIL.
“So to what do I owe this call?” Mom’s tone is wry. I’m not a big caller, as my family can attest. I try to check in with my folks once a week, but I’m not great at sticking to that schedule, and it’s usuallymuch longer stretches between calls.
