Last
year I decided to go visit my friend Laura in San Franciso. Laura is
a beautiful working actress who was my LA neighbor for years, with
whom I share some core values in the “make the world and ourselves
better” realm. Having never gone to college given her longstanding
career, Laura applied to and was accepted at Berkley. After hearing
about Laura's growing community there, and having spent some time in
San Francisco before, I figured a road trip might prove a worthwhile
adventure.
As it
turned out, my college friend Rob's opera was opening in San
Francisco the night of my arrival. Laura, newly enamored with
academia, was gleefully studying and unavailable to attend. So I
threw down my bag and got back in the car, running on the
exhilaration of a new destination.
As I
took a seat, a bright orange watch band on the arm rest next to me
caught my attention. “Nice watch!” I said before looking up and
noting the watch's adorable owner. Watch Band accepted the compliment
and pursued some conversation. “So what brings you here tonight?”
“Oh, I went to college with Rob, the guy who wrote the libretto.
And you?” “I know Rob, too. But I mostly know Jack, the guy who
wrote the music.” “Oh cool. What do you do?” I am always
infinitely curious about people's lives outside the industry. As
exotic as people might find our lot, I am always smitten by “real
jobs” and their correlating communities. “I'm a musician. But I
also work in wine.” He sounded like the perfect San Francisco
prototype to me.
The
opera was called LOVE/HATE, and played out the initial encounter,
ensuing courtship and demise of a relationship.
During
intermission, I told my new friend, “You work in wine, so you must
recommend a place for me to have dinner.” I swear I had no ulterior
motive; I just assumed his wine pedigree would outperform my YELP
app. And yes, I was chipper and open, unbound by my hometown
identity, one of the many reasons I love to travel. “I actually
need to eat dinner too, so maybe we could go together?” Seconds
later in the ladies room, I texted two girlfriends “I've been in
San Francisco less than 2 hours, met a guy at Rob's opera and now I
have a date. It's THAT EASY outside of LA.”
At
dinner, Jordan told me he was not a musician, but a singer
songwriter. When I asked what kind of music he wrote, he told me that
it was hard to explain and would become clear once I got to know him.
A seemingly pretentious comment, but delivered by Jordan with low key
sincerity. Afterwards, Jordan walked me back to the theater where I
had parked nearby. I am pretty consistently scattered (see prior blog
admission to A.D.D.), so it never really occurs to me to make a note
about where I parked my car. “You know what? I am pretty sure it's
on this street” I told
Jordan about 10 minutes into our search for my car. 45 minutes later
we were still looking, and still immensely enjoying each other's
company. My defenses were down from sangria, and I was getting tired.
So I turned to Jordan and said “why don't we take a break?” And
then we kissed. And then we kissed some more.
I got a text from Jordan the next day. “There's a great place in
your hood – a piano bar, Martunis – meet me there later?” In
the meantime, I did a Google search and noted his Berklee School of
Music credentials. And found a song of his on YOUTUBE. But I'm not
the kind of girl who goes gaga over a musician. I listen to Howard
Stern and CNN exclusively while driving, and I watch tv. Music is
just not a large part of my media consumption these days.
When I ventured out early evening, my car was nowhere to be found.
JESUS CHRIST, AGAIN? At first terrified that my car had been stolen,
I wisely second guessed my own judgment and called the nearest towing
facility. Yup, I was blocking a driveway and my car had been towed. I
texted Jordan “small problem. Would you mind picking me up and
taking me to the tow place?”
$500
later, we ended up at Martunis, which as it turns out is a gay piano
bar. I was in hog
heaven. A cute, straight musician takes me to a gay piano bar? I'm
MOVING to San Francisco. We talked and drank, and in our booth that
was not so discreetly hidden, made out.
The next morning, Jordan made me delicious coffee, awesome eggs with
aged gouda, and handed me three of his CDs. I mentally rolled my
eyes. As much as I liked him already, getting 3 CD's from a “singer
songwriter” post-dalliance promises nothing but trouble. But I
listened on my drive back to LA. and was surprised. Actually, bowled
over. His music was amazing. Not objectively, “this guy is
legitimately talented” amazing, but the kind of Elliot Smith-Jon
Brion music that gets into my head and under my skin. His songs were
incredibly well produced, and his voice, and the lyrics.... each song
was a new and fantastic discovery.
And so started a confusing love affair, where my affection grew in
proportion to my adoration of his talent. It's not uncommon to flame
the spark of romantic obsession by listening to songs that serve as
your very own movie soundtrack. But now imagine that soundtrack is
composed – and sung by - the very object of your affection! The
experience was surreal. And I was going down, fast.
After a few emails detailing my reactions to whatever specific song
had become my new favorite, I admitted: “Your music is very dangerous. Please let me know if I am being overly... enthusiastic. I
suppose the experience and musical aftermath hit a vulnerability vein
in me, which was unexpected.”
To which he responded: “I like it.”
I fall in love with talent all the time. Unabashedly. And in my work,
purposefully. It is the reason I got into this business, and the
reason I remain excited about it. Whenever I hear an executive or
friend tell me that they just “fell into” the biz, or that they
stumbled upon it after law school, I grow irate. It's not that I
think they are undeserving of success, but when your heart and soul
is shaped and molded by the arts at a tender age, you feel entitled
to getting first dibs.
I wanted more than anything to place and promote Jordan's music. But
being somewhat new to this part of the biz, I didn't have the
vocabulary to properly position him. So I spoke with his producer,
Josh Fix, an uber talent and singer songwriter in his own right. I
started listening to music in the car with newborn ears. I was
learning so much and it was exciting and fun! But I was also careful
to make sure Jordan understood this was not a play to get him to need
me (which I have been guilty of in the past). To drive the point
home, I told him with all honesty “Please don't take this the wrong
way, but I think I like your music more than you.”
I went back to San Francisco to see Jordan again, but this time I
knew what he was made of. One morning he pulled a stool to the edge
of his bed, and grabbed his guitar. He played one of my favorites
(UNTITLED #24), while I sat in his bed feeling both honored and very
small. Jordan sings and plays with such grandeur and conviction, it
felt as if I was privy to something raw and very private. It was like
nothing I had ever experienced before and one of the most intimate
moments of recent memory.
Afterwards, we went into his modest makeshift studio, a small closet
with space for a computer (and whatever else musicians need to
record). He wanted to play me a new song he had just recorded. I
stood behind him as he sat at the computer in front of me, playing
the track (TIME). It's huge and haunting melody brought me quickly to
the brink of tears. I was seeing and experiencing Jordan during a
time in my life that was filled with great uncertainty. I had no idea
where I was going – personally, professionally - and without a
strict employment routine, had very little grounding me. I guess I
felt a shared kinship in the vulnerability he expressed in his music.
And the lyrics to this song inparticular really resonated for me:
Time,
it is a melody.
I
hear it on the clock.
It
never stops.
And
time, time, time....
It
is a tragedy.
I'm
always a little late. For goodbyes.
But
it's always on my mind
When
the truth is hard to find
Time
won't wait for and it sure won't answer
And
time
It
is a memory
Made
an angel in the snow.
It's
hard to let go.
And
time, time, time, it's alright to cry, it's alright
You're
only learning to fly. And it takes time.
That
little closet seemed entirely too small to contain all of that unique
sound and heartfelt emotion. It seemed to me downright unjust. Later
when Jordan was lying on the bed, I approached him. “You have every
right to be angry” I told him “I'm angry for you.”
He just looked at me and smiled, later telling me how much what I
said meant to him. Then we had lunch at a cool New Orleans styled
restaurant. It really was a special and beautiful day.
Jordan's songs are inherently romantic, but he was less accessible to
me on a personal level. At one point I told him that knowing him was
a little bit like looking into the window of a great restaurant. I
was hoping for more of a full course meal. Sure, he might not have
been willing to go deeper with me specifically. But I was also
curious if it was a symptom. If you're an artist with a vessel to
feed, can it render you an empty shell? Is it worth differentiating
either way?
I love getting romantically star struck. Generally I find that vast
admiration, overwhelming curiosity and pedastal placement are all
part of that equation. People say that equation amounts to nothing
but a fantasy. I say it is magic.
But I often find myself in trouble, so willing to engage and become a
number one fan, that I eventually feel short-changed if not met with
the same concrete consideration. And while it is something that I am
keenly aware of, generally, I cannot help myself.
Sometimes people will say to me, about moving to Los Angeles and
pursuing my career “You went after your dream, how brave, what
strength it must have taken, what courage!” But for many of us, it
was never really even a choice.
Kind of like falling in love.
This is an unabridged version of an article published on HOLLYWOOD JOURNAL
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