la la land

the difference between you and me is I’m not crazy
The invisible girl that was my name
she walks in and walks out. . .
- “I Miss You” (Nicks)


If she deigned to have sex with him at all, the lowly producer, it had to be while the song was playing. The song he wrote for her, heavy with bass and an odd percussion track. He actually had Mel shake baking soda cans full of pennies to get the chiming, galloping accents that floated on top of the sampled shuffle of high-hat and muted snare, set to a unusual meter: slower than 4/4 but simpler than it seemed. When the chorus kicked in for the big payoff with a riff that was all amped acoustic strumming and layered voices, it felt good. Though the only thing he really paid attention to was the bass: beginning with a sexy slide that repeated itself before each verse and the bridge, he was convinced that if the song became a hit it was all due to that slinky bass. Notes that drove the melody during every part, a call-and-response to her own near-alto voice. A good bass slide hit you right in the balls, or the pussy; unconscious aural clues to pay attention.

She did think he was sexy when he played bass, because he had long fingers. She watched his hands play over the mixing desk: he was an analog purist, a rarity in the days when everyone was addicted to the cut-and-paste aesthetic of Pro Tools. And these same fingers dug into her flesh until she hissed at him about bruises and he resorted to a lighter touch, a more reverent attention to her delicacy.

She was the only one who had ever considered him beneath her, and despite all logic to the contrary, the reason that drove his desire. And she was going to be a star. Maybe not for long, but he had his hands on her first, and his antecedent attentions were all that mattered. There was something to be said for writing a song that caused a female to offer you sexual favors in exchange for recording it; the message being you're the best.

“Jon,” Leanna said, her voice hoarse from two days straight of singing numerous takes, “how much longer are you going to listen to this?”

“It's still missing something,” he commented, staring through the glass into the live room, but the focus remained on the images in his mind.

“It's filler, it doesn't matter.”

“Of course it does. If I start delivering anything less than perfection people will stop paying me.”

She sighed, and tossed her head with its' shining brunette mane back, staring at the ceiling. He knew everyone her age had little patience and even less tact, but he excused it all, in the throes of his sexual obsession.

“You can call the car and go home, princess.”

“You said you'd take me to Houston's. I'm hungry!”

There it was again, complete disregard for the fact that he was Jon Sabbron: a man who had just won a Grammy for Producer of the Year, with clients willing to wait up to two years to work with him, and four hit singles currently residing in different sections of the Billboard Hot 100.

“Give me ten more minutes, okay?”

She left the room and he played the song back again. Technically, yes, it was filler, assigned to the bottom six of the playing order, but he thought it had potential. The part that bothered him was the chorus, they sang it together and he felt the pitch was off, somehow. He couldn't decide if he wanted it to be clean or dirty. When they sang it all their subterfuge kicked in: husky, breathy. Anger merely disguising a residue of desire. Or maybe it was all desire, with a veneer of anger. The delivery was key, and it was making him crazy that the audiophile within was distracted by ambivalence. He wasn't the first guy to fall under the spell of the talent, though he should have known better. He had worked with women all of his professional life and had yet to be tempted by any of them, despite numerous would-be seductions. He wanted to be trusted, trust was an easy method of gaining control. By the time the diva of the moment realized just what had transpired, the record was done and his signature sound once again defined yet another darling of the Top Twenty. But from the moment Leanna first threw a tantrum at his insistence that she attend every session, on time and ready to work no matter what was going on that particular day, he was enthralled. Instead of being repelled by her brattiness he had never wanted anyone so badly in his life. Being captivated by repugnance was shameful, but the kind of shame that felt more like felicity.

Of course, the fact that he was more than twice her age and yet she threw herself at him with a seemingly feral disregard for conventional attraction factors didn't hurt. It was time for a mid-life crisis, after all, and why not this? He already had a sports car, he looked at least ten years younger than he was, and his career was completely out of sight of the nadir for the moment. It was clichéd, true, but sanctioned by Hollywood tradition.

All of these thoughts were merely an undercurrent in the tide of the song upon which he floated. Having listened to the same sequence twice, Jon suddenly snapped his fingers and sat up, grabbing a pen from a nearby table. He took the sheet which detailed the level positions for the song and filled in other lines.

Track: Different Now
Length: 4:41
Comments: B – I need a “horsehooves” sound for the chorus, some kind of wooden block (?), put it on top of the other, not obvious but integral. Sample punch okay for this. Bass is maxed out on eQ needs filtering or reverb (?), I want depth even on shitty car stereos not buzz. Too obviously behind the beat. Melody line of guitar needs tightening, vocal is fighting it for dominance, make it less obvious during the vocal, or cut it and replace with minor chording. Chorus is good otherwise, but give me your otherwise unsolicited opinion as to whether you think the harmonies are off in a good way or a bad way.

Leanna buzzed the intercom from the lounge.

“I’m coming, princess,” he said as he pressed the “talk” button, then left the sheet in Brendan’s working file folder, placed it in his inbox, and exited the control room, remembering to turn off the lights. At least once a month all the regular clients received nasty emails from Western Recorders’ management reminding them that their rates would triple if people continued to spurn even the vague notion of energy conversation.

The lust of his life was sprawled on one of the couches, reading the latest issue of Teen People. She wore a Juicy Couture sweatsuit in some shade of pastel green and a Doe/Vintage t-shirt in pink with a picture of the Sanrio cartoon character Hello Kitty sporting an afro. The gold lame text read CanYouDigIt? Jon imagined this was one of their attempts at irony, rather than an actual reprisal of nostalgia.

“Were you still asleep when you dressed yourself this morning?” he asked her.

“What?” Leanna replied, petulantly. “I’ve been wearing this all day, you’ve just now noticed?”

“I thought everybody knew you weren’t supposed to wear pink and green together.”

“Maybe in the fifth century, but you can do anything you want now.”

He rolled his eyes, smug in his stance that the classics were all he required. He had even worn jeans to the Grammys, beautifully faded skin-tight Levis that came from a supplier who still specialized in the handmade distressed look. He had considered the leather pants he liked to wear for photo shoots but decided they were too obvious.

“What makes you think I want to be seen with you?” she continued. “You always look like you think you’re still cool.”

He looked at his jeans, his long-sleeved tee and another short-sleeved one on top (which Brendan always referred to as Seattle formal), that he mostly wore out of necessity because the air conditioning was set high for ever-running equipment in control rooms. The shirt on top was one of the less objectionable designs Dharma had devised for their merchandising, a woman draped in her own intestines.

“I am cool.”

“No you’re not, you’re just popular. There’s a difference.”

“All of a sudden I’m not so hungry.”

She pouted at him, putting down the magazine.

“Don’t be a jerk, Jon.”

As they walked down the hall to the Artists’ Entrance, which let out into the alleyway, Jon swiped his badge on the reader and flipped off the camera which monitored the door. It waggled at him with an electronic whirr and Leanna waved to the guard on the other end. A navy blue Lincoln Navigator waited on their whim in the alley, motor running. They climbed in and Jon smiled to notice that the driver was playing his last project, the latest Sonja Jones record.

“Houston’s,” he directed the driver. Sitting back on the leather seat he sighed and looked over at Leanna. She had tuned him out by plugging into her iPod. He took it out of her hand and looked at the display. She was listening to Tammy Wynette, which she always did when she was homesick. He put the player back in her hands and stroked her hair. She put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. He did the same, as the song played over and over in his mind, and it would only leave once he had figured out how to make it perfect. People didn’t understand how difficult it was to have music in your head all the time – there was no peace – and the drive for perfection was only the logical outcome of ordering an artform that was based on the perfect science to begin with. Jon never heard notes so much as he envisioned sequences of numbers and when all the numbers made sense, then the song was complete.

The Houston’s in Century City was filled with the usual industry crowd, all doing their best to avoid looking at one another. No one wanted to appear less than completely uninterested in the celebrity parade. Jon could tell that a few people recognized him by their raised eyebrows as he passed with the new wunderkind. Even the waitress looked completely bored as she took their orders: chicken fingers and potato skins for Leanna, grilled fish and vegetables for him. When their food arrived, Leanna asked if she could get a BLT on white toast, extra mayo, boxed up to go. Jon gave her a pained look as he started in on his fish.

“They’re going to weigh you in two weeks. I guess you’d better live it up now, because you’ll be starving for the next six months.”

“How do you know?”

“They do it with every new artist: you get a stylist and a nutritionist and a vocal coach and a choreographer and they make you into someone appealing. C’mon now, you know the game. Weren’t you the beauty pageant queen of your hometown?”

“I’m not a fucking show pony anymore.”

He laughed, he couldn’t help it. He laughed so loud that all those people who were too busy ignoring everyone to eat anything they ordered looked at him out of the corners of their eyes, annoyed frowns spoiling the effect of thousands of dollars worth of plastic surgery.

“Baby, it’s only beginning. If you thought your non-existent childhood was bad, that’s nothing compared to what’s coming.”

“I’m not going to burn out, I won’t let them manipulate me,” she declared with a certain finality, and chewed on a chicken strip covered in Buffalo wing sauce. Her gaze was a blank hostility which was the harbinger of bad emotional weather.

“You signed a contract that states they not only have the right to manipulate you, but they have the authority to make you their all-singing, all-dancing little slave.”

“No, I’m not going to be marketed like Britney or Christina. Michelle Branch doesn’t have to dance around.”

“But you don’t play an instrument. And you’re not going to be marketed as a sensitive singer-songwriter. You’re just another girl whom the target demographic is supposed to relate to completely, minus the pop stardom, that is. And what, all those tap and jazz lessons are just going to go to waste now?”

“Shut up.” Leanna’s scowl deepens as she shoves a potato wedge into her mouth. Jon idly wonders if she’ll have a nervous breakdown within the next two months. With the record completed, the real demands will begin. He’s always insisted on complete autonomy during the recording process, meaning that managers and publicists and A&R assholes need to keep away. He always says the producer and the artist have to “commune creatively” if they want marketable results. But his desire quickens the more petulant she becomes. Perhaps he’ll figure out what the song needs while they’re fucking.

When they enter the womb of the SUV once again, she shifts away from him, pouty and peevish. Her hazel eyes, a pretty amalgam of brown and green, flash a warning at him and her perfect mouth is set in a straight line. He sits back, unbuttoning his jeans.

“You owe me, princess.”

She taps on the darkened glass separating the front seat from the rest of the car, and it retracts slightly. She hands the driver an unmarked compact disc. The window closes again and a moment later that beat plays, galloping through the air as if it possessed actual physicality, a being made of music. Her sullen resignation is all the stimulation he requires and she straddles his lap, sliding onto him as the driver takes the scenic route back to the studio, going slow. He holds her hips as she undulates around him, her hands on his shoulders. They do not engage in any gestures of affection, only the focused grinding of mutual rapacity.

Dreams, caught in the web of my mind
dreams of you help to pass the time
of all of the things that I thought were true
I knew, it was you.

An awkward phrase, but she had insisted on keeping it, given it was one of the few lyrics she’d actually written. He breathes and concentrates on the sounds, wishing he had a way to linguistically disengage himself from the process of comprehension. The bass captures his attention and he delights in all the melodic wonder he was able to produce in his performance. He knows she feels it too, as her rhythm follows his playing. The chorus comes in and his voice rides the higher register over her deeper nuances. They are multi-tracked and echoing, more declarative when the sound is big, impossible to ignore the payoff.

Everything at this moment is fine
I am different now
though it all looks the same
someone else is wearing my face
but not my name.

Brendan laughed at him when he first played the demo.

“What the fuck kind of chorus is that?”

“I’m bucking the trend. It sounds good, it doesn’t have to make sense.”

His contemplation is such that he doesn’t notice his orgasm until it hits him. She was rushing things to be rid of him, but he doesn’t mind. They do not speak or look at one another again until they part, murmuring “good night,” strictly polite.


His Porsche Turbo is more like home than his Silverlake condo, cluttered with the detritus of work and leisure. He plays the rough mix again, musing over every song as he drives east on Sunset, encountering a few pockets of club traffic here and there, but it is mostly clear. Everyone goes to bed early in the company town. In a confessional mood, he decided to call the only person he trusted, his engineer. Brendan answered sleepily.

“J, it’s nearly midnight. If you want me to come in early tomorrow you need to stop harassing me.”

“Come in whenever you want, I’m not going to do anything in particular tomorrow.”

“We’ve got two weeks left and there’s still three songs to finish.”

“I’ve hit a wall, I think.”

Silence. He hears rustling and murmuring. Female. Brendan is rarely without someone in his bed, a serial monogamist. He then hears movement; presumably his co-worker has relocated to another room.

“Is she messing with your head?” comes the question.

“I’m torn between pity and disgust. It’s not a quandary so much as a confusion of sorts. If only I didn’t want to fuck her I think I’d stop obsessing about these damn songs.”

“You’re obsessed because you’re a perfectionist. It doesn’t have anything to do with her.”

“It does. It’s not enough that they sound good anymore. I don’t know what I want, but there’s something missing.”

“Dude, that sucking sound you hear? That’s the hole left behind when you ripped out your soul and let the corporate entities bend you over the conference table. They used your blood as lube.”

Jon’s response is good-natured, but only the tone indicates it as such.

“You’re a great one to talk about ass-fucking, you goddamn whore. You’ll produce a record for anyone who asks, at least I have standards.”

“You can afford to have standards, which aren’t really standards at all, more like elitist preferences. But please, let’s get back to your existential crisis.”

“I want you to fix everything I’ve noted, and leave everything else alone for now.”

“Okay. What about the three songs that aren’t finished?”

“What’s that one, the ballad?”

“’Between Us?’”

“Yeah, what’s it got so far?”

“Just piano and vocal.”

“Leave it.”

“Are you serious? The vocal needs to be fixed at the very least.”

“Yes I’m serious. The critics will find it refreshingly honest on a record full of slickness.”

“And what if Gary pushes back and says fix it?”

“Then you fix it. I’ll give you a co-producer credit.”

“Like I want to be any further associated with this enterprise.”

“I had good intentions.”

“Sure you did. You had intentions to bone a sweet piece of jailbait and make another hit record. So that the braintrust behind every female teen singing sensation would be knocking down your door to make their girl a star. But now you’re just creepy, man. And I don’t mean strictly because you’re fucking a 17-year-old.”

“You’ve never wondered what that’s like? C’mon Brendan, you’re so full of shit.”

“I knew what it was like – back when I was the same age!”

“And didn’t know what the fuck you were doing.”

“I lost my virginity at 13. Trust me, four years later, I’d learned a lot.”

Jon had reached home a while back and remained in his car, listening to Brendan and the engine ticking as it cooled. He would sleep fine, but feel a crushing weight upon his chest in the morning, the sunlight a malevolent force waiting to devour him.

“J, are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll fix everything tomorrow. You probably just need to chill. Stay in, eat ice cream, watch TV.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh hey – did you get one of those ridiculous invitations for Leanna’s party?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh suddenly you’re such a great conversationalist. Are you going?”

“No.”

“Oh c’mon, it’s her birthday! It’s gonna look bad if you don’t go. Besides, once she’s on the road she’ll forget all about you and then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He was inside now, looking at himself in the hallway mirror. He could see new lines around his eyes, and his hair, despite the aggressive campaign of thickening products, had receded even further than last month. His façade appeared ready to crack and he wondered, with a curious detachment, what was underneath.

“It’s better she learns now what bastards we can be.”

“We?”

“Yes, stop pretending like you’re that much better than me.”

“Of course I am, but you’re more successful. Therein lies the difference.”

It is not until Jon is startled awake in the middle of the night after a dream of being pursued by faceless entities which emitted a trilling, shrill sound that he finally gets the joke. He laughs, he can’t help it.