Wicked White
Page 2
This should shock me, her treating me like a puppet on the string that she controls, but it doesn’t. It’s true that over the last two years since she discovered me, Jane Ann has morphed me into a million-dollar singer. Fronting a band that Mopar Records created should’ve been a dream job, but it’s not. I don’t get to sing any of the music that I enjoy singing—and writing? Forget it. The label won’t trust me with creative liberties one bit.
That’s what pisses me off the most.
I’m an artist. I don’t want to keep re-creating someone else’s vision for my entire career. I want to be free to express myself and control my own success or failure by allowing the fans to hear my original songs, not ones I’m forced to sing.
But it’s been made very clear to me by Jane Ann time and time again that if I want to continue to have label backing, I have to play what they give me until the record label says otherwise.
I know she’s patronizing me, but if I don’t want to lose everything I’ve worked for, I have to go along.
For now.
“All right, but can I at least listen to the new songs I’ll be recording?” I ask, completely deflated.
A satisfied smile pours over her face. She’s clearly delighted I’m giving in. “Of course, darling. After tonight’s show I’ll play them for you.”
Once upon a time I believed this woman was actually my friend. But that was before the piles of cash were rolling in and I became her primary source of income. She told me our friendship didn’t have anything to do with money.
Having friends has never been one of my strong suits in my last twenty-six years, so I desperately wanted to believe that Jane Ann was someone I could actually trust. She seemed genuinely to have my best interests at heart regarding my music career when I first met her, but now I’m not so sure that she does.
It was lonely growing up as a foster child, bouncing from place to place—never really having a steady home. I never had time to make friends, not real ones anyway. That’s what led me to music. It was the one constant in my life. The one thing no one could ever take away from me. I spent most of my youth alone in my room, learning to play every instrument known to man. Focusing on something other than the fact that my real mother didn’t want me anymore seemed to keep me out of trouble.
I walk next to Jane Ann as we wind our way through the maze of roadies and stagehands working to get everything ready for Wicked White’s set. “Are the rest of the guys here?”
“Yes. Already warmed up and ready. They were waiting until you were done with your autograph session to go over tonight’s set list with you.”
“Good,” I say. “I hate when they’re late and we have to go round them up.”
“I’ve spoken with them about their tardiness and explained just because they were the best the studio could find for the job doesn’t mean they aren’t replaceable. Everyone is replaceable.”
Even me is what I’m dying to say, but know that she’d just laugh and yet deny it. Jane Ann is a label talent scout but has put that position on hold to be my tour manager since this is my first major tour and I have issues with trusting random strangers. Jane Ann also gets a percentage of all my money like an agent would. Last year alone Wicked White grossed over six million dollars from the tour, not counting any of the money made on music downloads and miscellaneous shit that got sold with the band name on it.
Wicked White is not a real band, but a product.
The cell in my back pocket buzzes with the alert of an incoming call, so I grab it and check the screen.
The name that flashes isn’t one that I’ve seen in a long time, but it’s always nice to hear from the one person that I actually care about.
I pull away from Jane Ann. “Excuse me. I have to take this.”
After I take a couple steps, I press the green button. “Hey, Mom. How are you?”
“Ace Johnson?” The deep voice on the other end is one that I don’t recognize. It puzzles me how this strange man knows my real name, and why is he calling from my foster mother’s home number?
“Yes. Do I know you?”
“No. I’m afraid not. I’m Officer Butler with the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department, and I’m afraid that I have some upsetting news. Ms. Sarah Johnson was found in her home unresponsive moments ago. She’s been transferred to Grant Medical Center in critical condition. As you’re listed as her son in her address book, we thought you would like to be notified.” His tone is very businesslike as he rattles off the specifics on where the hospital is located, but I’m barely registering what he’s saying.
I swallow hard as I’m faced with the hard reality that the one person in the world that gives a shit about me may not make it. I need to be with her. I have to get there. Now. “Thank you, Officer. I’m on my way.”
When I end the call, I stuff my phone into my back pocket and turn to find Jane Ann staring at me with narrowed eyes. “Where exactly are you on your way to?”
I square my shoulders. I know she’s not going to like what I have to say, but it doesn’t matter. Not Jane Ann, or anyone else for that matter, is going to stand in my way of getting to Mom. “My mother is sick. She needs me.”
I turn in the opposite direction of the stage, but Jane Ann is quick to follow on my heels. “You can’t leave now!”
“Watch me,” I say.
“Ace, wait!” Jane Ann grabs my arm and jumps in front of me to halt me from going any farther. “Let’s think reasonably. You’re on tour. There are fifteen thousand people out in that crowd tonight that have paid their hard-earned money to see you. Just go out and do the show, then we’ll talk about you driving to Ohio tonight. You can’t make the fans suffer. It will kill your career if you stand them up.”
That’s what pisses me off the most.
I’m an artist. I don’t want to keep re-creating someone else’s vision for my entire career. I want to be free to express myself and control my own success or failure by allowing the fans to hear my original songs, not ones I’m forced to sing.
But it’s been made very clear to me by Jane Ann time and time again that if I want to continue to have label backing, I have to play what they give me until the record label says otherwise.
I know she’s patronizing me, but if I don’t want to lose everything I’ve worked for, I have to go along.
For now.
“All right, but can I at least listen to the new songs I’ll be recording?” I ask, completely deflated.
A satisfied smile pours over her face. She’s clearly delighted I’m giving in. “Of course, darling. After tonight’s show I’ll play them for you.”
Once upon a time I believed this woman was actually my friend. But that was before the piles of cash were rolling in and I became her primary source of income. She told me our friendship didn’t have anything to do with money.
Having friends has never been one of my strong suits in my last twenty-six years, so I desperately wanted to believe that Jane Ann was someone I could actually trust. She seemed genuinely to have my best interests at heart regarding my music career when I first met her, but now I’m not so sure that she does.
It was lonely growing up as a foster child, bouncing from place to place—never really having a steady home. I never had time to make friends, not real ones anyway. That’s what led me to music. It was the one constant in my life. The one thing no one could ever take away from me. I spent most of my youth alone in my room, learning to play every instrument known to man. Focusing on something other than the fact that my real mother didn’t want me anymore seemed to keep me out of trouble.
I walk next to Jane Ann as we wind our way through the maze of roadies and stagehands working to get everything ready for Wicked White’s set. “Are the rest of the guys here?”
“Yes. Already warmed up and ready. They were waiting until you were done with your autograph session to go over tonight’s set list with you.”
“Good,” I say. “I hate when they’re late and we have to go round them up.”
“I’ve spoken with them about their tardiness and explained just because they were the best the studio could find for the job doesn’t mean they aren’t replaceable. Everyone is replaceable.”
Even me is what I’m dying to say, but know that she’d just laugh and yet deny it. Jane Ann is a label talent scout but has put that position on hold to be my tour manager since this is my first major tour and I have issues with trusting random strangers. Jane Ann also gets a percentage of all my money like an agent would. Last year alone Wicked White grossed over six million dollars from the tour, not counting any of the money made on music downloads and miscellaneous shit that got sold with the band name on it.
Wicked White is not a real band, but a product.
The cell in my back pocket buzzes with the alert of an incoming call, so I grab it and check the screen.
The name that flashes isn’t one that I’ve seen in a long time, but it’s always nice to hear from the one person that I actually care about.
I pull away from Jane Ann. “Excuse me. I have to take this.”
After I take a couple steps, I press the green button. “Hey, Mom. How are you?”
“Ace Johnson?” The deep voice on the other end is one that I don’t recognize. It puzzles me how this strange man knows my real name, and why is he calling from my foster mother’s home number?
“Yes. Do I know you?”
“No. I’m afraid not. I’m Officer Butler with the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department, and I’m afraid that I have some upsetting news. Ms. Sarah Johnson was found in her home unresponsive moments ago. She’s been transferred to Grant Medical Center in critical condition. As you’re listed as her son in her address book, we thought you would like to be notified.” His tone is very businesslike as he rattles off the specifics on where the hospital is located, but I’m barely registering what he’s saying.
I swallow hard as I’m faced with the hard reality that the one person in the world that gives a shit about me may not make it. I need to be with her. I have to get there. Now. “Thank you, Officer. I’m on my way.”
When I end the call, I stuff my phone into my back pocket and turn to find Jane Ann staring at me with narrowed eyes. “Where exactly are you on your way to?”
I square my shoulders. I know she’s not going to like what I have to say, but it doesn’t matter. Not Jane Ann, or anyone else for that matter, is going to stand in my way of getting to Mom. “My mother is sick. She needs me.”
I turn in the opposite direction of the stage, but Jane Ann is quick to follow on my heels. “You can’t leave now!”
“Watch me,” I say.
“Ace, wait!” Jane Ann grabs my arm and jumps in front of me to halt me from going any farther. “Let’s think reasonably. You’re on tour. There are fifteen thousand people out in that crowd tonight that have paid their hard-earned money to see you. Just go out and do the show, then we’ll talk about you driving to Ohio tonight. You can’t make the fans suffer. It will kill your career if you stand them up.”
