“There are lots of factors to consider. That’s precisely what I’m trying to teach you, Music Scout. In the end, it all hinges on talent.” He smiles. “Unless, of course, the wannabe happens to look like you. I swear, I could Auto-Tune the shit out of you and make a mint. In fact, I think that’d be a fun experiment. You wanna try it?”
I laugh. “No, thanks.”
“Worth a shot.”
I bite my lip, trying to decide how far to push my luck. “So, um, a nineteen-year-old with a small social media following, but amazing talent, would still have a chance?”
Reed’s smile fades. He turns away from the road and looks at me for a long beat with hard eyes, like he can read my damned mind. And Iknow I’ve messed up. Pushed too hard. Made him suspicious of me. But just as I’m about to throw my palms over my face and confess my sins, Reed returns his attention to the road and says, “That’s exactly right, Music Scout. Nothing’s impossible, if the artist’s talent is mind-blowing enough. Now, to be clear, I’d strongly prefer a potential artist have a shit-ton more followers than a thousand. I mean, in this day and age, if they don’t have at least 5k, then what the fuck is wrong with them? Are they stupid? Addled with crippling anxiety? See, the thing to understand is that the music industry is abusiness.You can’t sit alone in your room, writing songs for yourself, and not sharing them with the world. I mean, you can, but that’s what’s called ahobby.Thebusinessside of music is aboutsellingthat music. Which means you have toplayyour songs for other people and get them to connect with the music and you—which then makes them want tobuythe songs, or a ticket to your show. Thebusinessside of music is aboutmovingpeople with yourart—or, at least, yourcharisma.One way or another, it’s about making peoplefeelandconnect.But not for art’s sake. But because, in the end, you want them tobuy.And that means every artist today, whether they’re at the top of the game, or just getting started, is a salesperson, in addition to being an artist. If they can’t hang with that, then they’re not going to succeed. Not with me, or anyone else, and I don’t want them—unless, of course, they look like you and/or hit me like a ton of bricks like Laila or 2Real or Red Card Riot or 22 Goats.”
Fuck! This issonot good. Alessandra’s voice is sensational. Her songs incredible. But she’d be the last person in the world to try to convince anyone of either. In fact, I think it’s safe to say Alessandra is the worst salesperson who ever lived, when it comes to selling herself. Hence, the reason I’m such a vocal cheerleader for her. If I don’t scream from the top of every rooftop about my stepsister, then who will?
“As an example,” Reed says, apparently unaware I’m on the verge of having a panic attack mere inches away. “Let’s say an artist has strong content, but for whatever reason, I’m on the fence about them. Maybe I love their sound, but I’m concerned they’re too niche for the mainstream market. Or, maybe, I’m concerned they lack X factor as a performer. Well, in a case like that, a strong social media presence with diehard fans, even if their following is relatively small, like Bryce’s sister’s, might tip me over the edge to sign them, because that will convince me they’vegot what it takes to attract an audience. Plus, I can use their current fans as a test group. I can tailor marketing and branding to include whatever’s been working for them, and expand on it.” He shrugs. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business—in life,really—it’s that the cult of personality—the ‘cool kid industrial complex’—is very real and very powerful and should be exploited at every turn. The influencer culture is exactly what made the fiasco of the Fyre Festival possible. Did you see either of those documentaries, by the way? On the Fyre Festival? I was totally obsessed.”
“Yeah, I watched them both. I was obsessed, too. I watched them back to back.”
“Me, too,” he says. “Which one did you like better?”
“The Netflix one, I think?”
He opens his mouth to respond, but I speak first.
“One more question, though. If that’s okay.”
Reed’s jaw tightens. Ever so briefly. But he looks away from the road and smiles at me. “Sure thing.Investigateto your heart’s content, Madame Journalist.”
My stomach clenches. My gut is telling me to drop this topic and loop back to it later, maybe after we’ve talked about the Fyre Festival at length—but I’m so close now to gathering the courage needed to mention Alessandra, I simply can’t leave it alone. “What if an artist is wildly talented, but super shy?” I ask. “What if she, or he, has virtually no social media presence, but their talent is out of this world? Would you still consider signing them?”
Reed shifts his hands on his steering wheel. “That’s an exceptionally rare scenario. But, yes, on the rare occasion when I’ve been struck by lightning, I’ve signed the person, or band, on the spot, with no consideration whatsoever of their following.” His jaw muscles pulsing, Reed shifts his car into high gear as we race down a long straightaway on Wilshire Boulevard. “Any other questions, Music Scout, or are you ready to play me something from Bryce’s sister now?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” I fumble with my phone. I wish Reed could see Alessandra perform in person, so he could experience the way her live vocals burrow into a person’s soul. The way she evokes emotion with the subtlest of inflections. “Okay, I’ve found a video of Bryce’s sister at a piano.”
“Play it. I want to get this over with already.”
My hand trembling, I cue the video, and two seconds later, the sounds of simple piano chords fill Reed’s car, followed by... a beautiful voice. A breathtaking, soulful one that instantly sends shivers racing across my flesh. Oh, God. This girl is amazing!
“Okay, turn it off,” Reed says, even before the girl has reached her first chorus. “I’ve heard enough.”
My heart is galloping. “Enough to know you want to sign her?”
“Enough to know I don’t. Turn it off, please. I’d prefer silence, so we can talk.”
My lips smashed tightly together, I comply with his request, and the car becomes silent, except for the sounds made by Reed’s fancy car.
“You barely listened to her,” I finally say.
“I listened twice as long as I normally would, to give my new music scout plenty of time to make her assessment.”
“Well, my assessment is she’samazingand you should have listened some more.”
“She’s got talent. No doubt about that. But she’s not a fit for River Records. Best of luck to her.Next.”
I can’t believe it. Is he crazy? Deaf? She was soulful and moving. Lovely. Granted, the song she was singing might not be the stuff of global smashdom, but, surely, Reed heard enough to want to listen to another song.
“You thought she was lightning in a bottle?” Reed asks.
“I thought she waspossiblylightning in a bottle. Enough to keep listening, to find out for sure.”
He shifts his car. “And that’s why you’re a journalism major, and I’m me.”
