Read Online Best Of Everything by R.E. Blake, Russell Blake - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R.E. Blake, Russell Blake
Ads: Link
laugh, because if I don’t, I’ll start bawling. “I even have a tattoo to prove it. Property of Derek.”
“Mine’s bigger. Says…what does that say? Stage? Rage?”
I smile. “Night, Derek. I’ve got an early one.”
“Me too. Good night, Sage.”
I wait for him to hang up, and he doesn’t. After fifteen seconds, I sigh. “Hang up.”
“Okay.”
He doesn’t.
Three minutes later, we’re still saying good night, and my phone dies, the battery depleted, the cosmos making the hard decision for us.
Chapter 9
The following day Ruby has three appearances for me: interviews on two different radio programs, followed by a TV talk show that focuses on family infighting, abuse, and trailer trash drama. I’m dreading all of this, but it’s clear that neither Ruby nor the record company particularly care about my preferences. If I can stay in the public eye, for whatever reason, until release date, that’s a big win, because nobody buys your record if they don’t remember you. At least that’s the way Ruby explains it as we drive to the first station, located near Koreatown.
The hosts of the first radio show are a pair of lame comedians stuck with the post-drive time slot. As I listen to their banter on the radio as we approach the building, I wonder how much of my target audience actually tunes in for these clowns, whose act consists of mainly tired one-liners and wacky sound effects.
“Are these guys for real? I know morticians who are funnier,” I comment.
Ruby rolls her eyes. “Remember, be nice. You’re young, fresh, and innocent. And sweet. You know the answers to all the questions they’re likely to ask. You’ll be fine.”
“Just seems like a big fat waste of time.”
“Well, maybe, but you never know who’s listening, right?”
“Mmm, okay. I already agreed. You don’t need to sell me.”
The pair’s grilling turns out to be about as low stress as any interview I’ve done to date. They ask me about the record, my start on the street, the audition process, working with a star producer. I’m on for twenty minutes, all of it pleasant and relaxed.
The next radio interview is a woman who wants to talk music – influences, my approach to arranging songs, how I pick my tunes, and so on. It’s the kind of one-on-one I enjoy, with someone who actually understands what goes into being a recording artist and all the heavy lifting that takes place behind the scenes. At the end of the slot she asks me to perform a song for her, but I have to beg off – my wrist is still in crap shape and not strong enough to go for a whole song. That transitions into some questions about the accident, which I answer honestly, and I feel a twinge of guilt that I haven’t seen June for a while.
Ruby and I have lunch at a sushi place near the TV studio and then go to the green room for Jesse Silverton’s The Real Truth show, which is nothing more than a Jerry Springer rehash, according to Melody, who watches way more television than I do. She has to explain to me what the reference even means, and the sinking feeling I had when I first heard about it intensifies. It’s another host whose audience expects controversy and melodrama, and I reiterate to Ruby that I won’t discuss my personal life.
“We made that clear, Sage. They know the rules,” Ruby assures me, which means nothing. Shows like this thrive on breaking the rules.
The stage manager comes to get me and we approach the sound stage. There’s a ton of applause, the live studio audience coached by a technician in a headset, and then Jesse Silverton introduces me and there’s more clapping. I jog onto the stage, waving, exuding youthful exuberance as I’ve been told to, and she rises to hug me before indicating a seat next to hers. I say hi to the stern-looking African American man in the next chair and offer the audience a big smile with another wave.
“So. Sage! You’re finally here. I’ve been trying to get you on for, like,
“Mine’s bigger. Says…what does that say? Stage? Rage?”
I smile. “Night, Derek. I’ve got an early one.”
“Me too. Good night, Sage.”
I wait for him to hang up, and he doesn’t. After fifteen seconds, I sigh. “Hang up.”
“Okay.”
He doesn’t.
Three minutes later, we’re still saying good night, and my phone dies, the battery depleted, the cosmos making the hard decision for us.
Chapter 9
The following day Ruby has three appearances for me: interviews on two different radio programs, followed by a TV talk show that focuses on family infighting, abuse, and trailer trash drama. I’m dreading all of this, but it’s clear that neither Ruby nor the record company particularly care about my preferences. If I can stay in the public eye, for whatever reason, until release date, that’s a big win, because nobody buys your record if they don’t remember you. At least that’s the way Ruby explains it as we drive to the first station, located near Koreatown.
The hosts of the first radio show are a pair of lame comedians stuck with the post-drive time slot. As I listen to their banter on the radio as we approach the building, I wonder how much of my target audience actually tunes in for these clowns, whose act consists of mainly tired one-liners and wacky sound effects.
“Are these guys for real? I know morticians who are funnier,” I comment.
Ruby rolls her eyes. “Remember, be nice. You’re young, fresh, and innocent. And sweet. You know the answers to all the questions they’re likely to ask. You’ll be fine.”
“Just seems like a big fat waste of time.”
“Well, maybe, but you never know who’s listening, right?”
“Mmm, okay. I already agreed. You don’t need to sell me.”
The pair’s grilling turns out to be about as low stress as any interview I’ve done to date. They ask me about the record, my start on the street, the audition process, working with a star producer. I’m on for twenty minutes, all of it pleasant and relaxed.
The next radio interview is a woman who wants to talk music – influences, my approach to arranging songs, how I pick my tunes, and so on. It’s the kind of one-on-one I enjoy, with someone who actually understands what goes into being a recording artist and all the heavy lifting that takes place behind the scenes. At the end of the slot she asks me to perform a song for her, but I have to beg off – my wrist is still in crap shape and not strong enough to go for a whole song. That transitions into some questions about the accident, which I answer honestly, and I feel a twinge of guilt that I haven’t seen June for a while.
Ruby and I have lunch at a sushi place near the TV studio and then go to the green room for Jesse Silverton’s The Real Truth show, which is nothing more than a Jerry Springer rehash, according to Melody, who watches way more television than I do. She has to explain to me what the reference even means, and the sinking feeling I had when I first heard about it intensifies. It’s another host whose audience expects controversy and melodrama, and I reiterate to Ruby that I won’t discuss my personal life.
“We made that clear, Sage. They know the rules,” Ruby assures me, which means nothing. Shows like this thrive on breaking the rules.
The stage manager comes to get me and we approach the sound stage. There’s a ton of applause, the live studio audience coached by a technician in a headset, and then Jesse Silverton introduces me and there’s more clapping. I jog onto the stage, waving, exuding youthful exuberance as I’ve been told to, and she rises to hug me before indicating a seat next to hers. I say hi to the stern-looking African American man in the next chair and offer the audience a big smile with another wave.
“So. Sage! You’re finally here. I’ve been trying to get you on for, like,
Similar Books
