#LikeADiamond

“You know I just want to make sure that people know that I wrote this song. Like, I want them to have fun and all, but my brand has to be recognizable in this song, you know what I mean? I mean, I’m not worried because I know this song is really, really good, and fans will love it even more ‘cause I wrote it.”

Most people only get to hear the angelic sounds of Janis’s gorgeous voice. Indeed, her latest ballad is a top 10 record on the Billboard 100.  For those of us who have to endure hour after torturous  hour of rehearsal with her, however, “angel” isn’t quite how we’d pitch Janis. 

“I mean, I DIIIID write the other song being considered for my next single, but honestly, I think the world really wants to hear me sing something that’s a little edgier. There’s another song that I wrote that would fit perfectly!”

Oh yes, this is the life in the music industry that I’ve always craved.  Six months into this process, and I am convinced that this business is a slushy mixture of ego management and excessive humility that borders on sycophancy.  As the blaring beat of Janis’ proposed new single (Did I mention that she wrote it? Oh. Well, I’m sure SHE will), she begins to sway, her weave bobbing back and forth, and her eyes closed as if to say “GOD, I am so LEGIT” (as she is wont to say after a rehearsal take).  

“Janis,” the choreographer intones, his broad smile concealing the ever so slight twinge of frustration in his voice, “You didn’t do anything we talked about. What about the hand movements? What about the strut?”  

“Oh! Sorry, I just get so carried AWAY with myself, OMG. Yo, this song is so GOOOD!”   Janis continues to talk about how much her song is “poppin,” indicating  that the “dope” virility of her “pimpin” track will surely carry her to number 1.  Most of the room has moved on to the to the musical logistics that need to be taken care of, and we all hope that the incessant chatter that is being piped into our ears will end soon. Janis demands that her microphone be kept on at all times (with just a touch of reverb even while she talks)  so that her every thought is projected onto the oversize speakers in this tiny rehearsal room. 

Suddenly, the door bursts open and even Janis is forced to stop for a breath...

“RONNI! MICKEY! FEET!!!! WASSUP, WASSUP” she exclaims, with velocity so extreme, I briefly contemplate what kind of legal case I would have if I brought Janis up on charges of unwanted aural penetration.  

Three humungous black men enter the room, all wearing wear baggy jeans, and immaculately clean sneakers.  The one identified as Feet has a Tommy Hilfiger shirt on,  and both ears filled with large diamond studs.  Mickey has dark sunglasses on even though it is dark in the room,and wears a white t-shirt that looks like it could peel off his body and walk around the room it has been so crisply ironed.  Ronni, the largest of the three sports a slicked back 80s jerry-curl ; the kind where you wondered if it would catch on fire if the sun shone too hard on it. 

The men wave to Janis head straight for Cam, one of Janis’ producers.  One of the studio engineers whispers to me that Ronni is the manager of some famous rapper and Micky and and Feet are his assistants. I immediately recognize Ronni’s high nasal voice because he has been calling the office for weeks, trying to get ahold of Cam and his writing partner, Easy.  According to one of the other interns, Cam and Easy the two have purposely been trying to avoid them, but the reason had not been clear to me. 

Unfortunately for Cam, Ronni had met Janis at a party some weeks ago and had asked her to let him know when she was rehearsing in the city, figuring that Cam, Easy, or the both of them would be there.  They had bet correctly.

“Ronni, hey!” Cam says, affecting the black accent he always does when speaking to black industry higher-ups.  His Connecticut  WASP roots combined with the nervous energy that is characteristic of his speech pattern make his “black” voice particularly noxious, but Ronni seems unaffected. 

“Hey dude,” Ronni says as the three men swiftly surround, Cam, “ we just wanted to see Janis work through her shit, you know what I’m sayin?”

“Um, yea, no sure, we cool! yea,” Cam huffs, rushing over to the sound board frantically trying to cue up a song.

After two run throughs, it is clear that we’ve been transported to a black Baptist church service.

“MMMM. YESSS, Janis.”  “SANNNNG that song girl.”  “MMM, that guitar just played the SHITTT out of that.”  “haHA. AMAZING.”  “JUST. So.Good.”  Finally, Ronni gets  down to business 

 “Cam. Lets talk.”

  Suddenly these innocuous church woman are thuggish henchman, about to conversate (no, not converse) with a certain street adversary.  Cam, nervously studies the sound board, but there there is no dial that will disappear these guys.  

“Sure man, yea man, cool man,” he pants. 

An hour later, Cam walks back into the room visibly exhausted and brow beaten. The big black men stand in the corner, now assuming the role of a football team in huddle.  Janis, who has been locked in conversation with an unassuming back-up musician  (yes, she’s still talking on the mic)  has not even noticed the elapsed time, and demands a break as soon as Cam reenters the space. 

I stare at my watch. 4 more hours of rehearsal, left. 

It’ll be months before I know the exact implications of the conversation that Ronni and Cam had. I’m only the intern, afterall.

I do, however, know that it’s going to be a Loooooonnnnnng day.