Chapter 49
Corey reported to a poolside restaurant on the roof of a small boutique hotel in Westwood Village. Lou mercifully booked her a room at the same hotel. Corey barely had enough time to splash water on her face and freshen up. She was as out of sorts as she could be, still had the remnants of a hangover, and she alternated between anxiety and excitement on the flight across the country…and thoughts of Kyle. Now? It was as if the week she had spent writing had deferred her heartbreak. She gathered all of her will to keep thoughts of Kyle at bay, and instead tried to focus on the enormity of what was before her.
Ricki Fucking Parrish.
You did not select Ricki Parrish as a producer. Ricki Parrish selected you. Corey had no idea why she was even meeting with her. All she knew was that she was being summoned. Ricki Parrish was primarily a pop producer—she was the hidden queen of Top 40—and Corey pointed out that Ricki Parrish didn’t exactly traffic in Corey Lyondell’s brand of rock and roll these days. But any protestations or second-guessing was immediately squashed by Lou.
“You are going,” she said, “Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Proceed to LA with due haste or woe be upon you.”
“I’ve been burned, okay? Hell, I’m still smoldering.”
“Ricki’s great. Tough cookie, but great. Just have dinner, okay? You remember how to have a normal conversation, don’t you?”
“Yes…no. I’m spiraling here…”
“Look, relax. Just calm down. Take all of your expectations and release them into the air like a flock of doves. And also don’t bother coming home if you fuck this up.”
No pressure.
Corey landed, grabbed her carry-on, and stumbled out into the LA sun. Even in the late afternoon, the sunshine was sharp and oppressive. It assaulted her New England skin, her hangover, and her general state of mind. Still, she found a cab and made her way to Westwood. Now she sat by the rooftop swimming pool, looking down at her dark Northeast aesthetic, born of punk and Boston winters, and tried not to feel as out of place as she looked. She glanced around. Ricki Parrish was late. Should she look at her phone? What would look more non-chalant, looking at her phone or not looking at her phone? The early evening sun dipped beneath the fronds of the palm trees that surrounded the rooftop. She blew out a shaky breath and stared at the light shimmering on the pool’s surface. It was soothing, entrancing. She didn’t know how long she was lost in the play of the light on the water when she heard a husky female voice say, “Where have you been, Corey Lyondell?”
Corey spun around and there she was. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and Corey noted the dreadlocks and brightly colored braiding, revealing her neck and shoulders. She wore a loose fitting tee shirt that read The Regrettes and showed off her arms, striated with grin. The woman was fit. Her nose ring danced as one of the sides of her mouth lifted in an easy smile. Ricki Parrish thrust out her hand.
Corey stood and returned the handshake. Ricki’s grip was as firm as any man’s in the business Corey had shaken, but without the man’s need to impress or dominate.
But the question threw Corey.
“I…I’ve been here.”
Ricki laughed a deep, husky laugh. “I meant where have you been? The past ten, fifteen years.”
“I’m been here all along.” Corey set her jaw. “Plugging away.”
Ricki Parrish nodded, thinking about it. Weighing the answer in her head.
“Well, Reveille is fire anyway.”
A waiter glided over and Ricki ordered seltzer water. “For now,” she added. When the waiter looked at Corey, who had ignored her while she was alone, Corey considered a beer, but mumbled, “Same.”
Ricki Parrish likes Reveille, she thought. But Corey was masterful at scratching a compliment long enough until it revealed an insult underneath. She stared at the pool as the waiter returned with their fizzing waters then disappeared again. Ricki reclined in her seat. Corey felt coiled.
“Big fan of Damsel. Masterpiece. At Charm’s Length had its charms too.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s going on now?”
“Just writing.”
“Good. Sounds like the old fire is back.”
“It never left.”
Ricki screwed up her face and looked over the rim of her glass before taking a drink. “Really though?”
Corey set her jaw. She wanted to tell Ricki Parrish to fuck off then and there, or better yet, do something rock and roll like cup her ear and say, “Hear that? That’s the band playing me off,” then sashay away with what was left of her dignity. To her surprise, she took a deep breath and found herself conducting a risk analysis. There was no discernible threat in listening to Ricki Parrish—not really—but there were many, many consequences to storming off yet again. To her career, to her relationship with Lou, to that part of herself that would ask “What if?” for the rest of her life. So she decided to stay and hear her out.
It didn’t mean she would be a pushover.
“I’ve been eating shit as a working musician for twenty-five years. From critics, from journalists, from bandmates, from other bands, from fans, from fucking trolls. And I’ve had a bit of a month, so with all due respect, I don’t need anyone to push my buttons right now. Even someone who can festoon her mansion with Grammys.”
“Yes, girl,” said Ricki, pointing dead center at Corey. “Right there.”
“Right there what?”
“That’s what I heard in Damsel all those years ago. And that’s what I saw on YouTube the other day. Passion. Reveille was raw. Haunting. I could feel an ache I haven’t heard from you in years. It was revelatory.”
“You…” said Corey, “…could have led with that.”
Ricki laughed. It was a boisterous laugh, a laugh among friends who had known each other for years. Except they weren’t friends. They had just met.
“Do you honestly believe your entire catalog stands up to Damsel? All of it?”
“I’m proud of my body of work.”
Ricki nodded vigorously. “As well you should be. I’m not running you down, babe. What I’m saying is the Stones have a shit ton of records, all good, some great, but there’s only one Exile On Main Street. Careers ebb and flow. Everyone has their high water mark.”
Corey fought every inclination to sulk. “So you summoned me here to tell me my best work is behind me?”
“No,” she said, reclining in your chair. “You’re here because you haven’t hit your high water mark yet and I think we can hit it together.”
Corey felt the stirrings of hope, but she squashed it. Hope only hurt.
“You’re crazy.”
“Am I? Why was Damsel lightning in a bottle? Why was it so relevant? Why does it stand the test of time?”
“If I knew that secret, I would’ve had a much different career path, wouldn’t I?” she said with a rueful laugh.
“Urgency. I loved The Toddlers. Everyone did, but while everyone had their eye on Anders, I had my eye on you. Off to the side, getting George Harrison’ed, relegated to a couple of tracks per record. I heard a woman absolutely burning to step out from behind a man’s shadow and seize the mic and the spotlight and spill her heart. Damsel was the levee breaking. And I can tell it’s ready to break again. I heard those beautiful, splintering cracks on Reveille and I want to be there when it blows wide open.”
Corey didn’t know what to say. She knew she had a habit of being as resistant to good news as to good sense, and before she could stop herself, she blurted, “I’m no Courtney Quick.”
“That’s good. The world already has one of those and she’s doing a magnificent job of it.”
“What I mean is I’m not some pop princess.”
“There it is. Come on, I thought you were better than that…”
“Better than what?”
“Musical snobbery. You have something against pop? Against hits? Come on, don’t pull that sour grapes nonsense with me.”
“It’s not sour grapes. I just want organic, authentic songs. Nothing manufactured.”
Ricki rolled her eyes. “We’re not making microbrews here, babe. We’re making music. We’re trying to move people. I’ve heard two hundred thousand people singing along in a field in Europe to songs I produced, where they don’t even speak English. Two hundred thousand people swaying together, weeping. That’s as organic as it gets, a real shared experience. Hits are a gift to the world. And there are hits in you, my divining rod feels it. The question is, are you woman enough to dig deep and pry them out of yourself? If we work together, we go for the brass ring. None of that self-effacing indie bullshit. We chase glory. Shamelessly, with full, open hearts, and if we fail, we fail honorably. You don’t want to be a pop princess, that’s fine by me. But take your rightful place as a rock queen or die trying.”
Corey was stunned, still trying to process what Ricki Fucking Parrish was telling her. She cleared her throat.
“Okay, I’ll bite. How?”
“I saw something in Courtney Quick, so I helped to make her the fullest Courtney Quick she could be. I revealed her. And I want to do the same for you.”
“More specifically, what would you fix with Reveille?” Corey folded her arms. “Let me guess. Synths? Drum loops?”
Ricki shook her head. “Doesn’t need fixing.”
That threw her. “You wouldn’t want me to re-record it?”
“I’d kill you if you tried. Sure, maybe you could get a more ‘perfect’ vocal, but not a more perfect performance. The ache? The strain? The imperfections? That’s the beating, breaking heart of your next record.”
“No gimmicks? No studio wizardy?”
Ricki took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out. “I’d add a little reverb, make it sound a bit farther off. A bit lonelier.” She gently touched her thumb to her forefinger together, as if pinching a diamond. “And a very subtle Hammond organ underneath. Like a bed. Like a…”
“…rising sun,” said Corey.
Damn. It was like finding a word on the tip of her tongue or, better yet, the final piece of a puzzle. It was perfect, and in that moment, she felt as if she had finally landed on a friendly shore after years of being lost at sea. Tears welled in her eyes for a moment and she turned her head and blinked them away. When she turned back, Ricki spread her arms.
“In the end, it’s your song. It’s your vision. I just try to articulate it, midwife it into the world. So…is there any more where Reveille came from?”
Corey spun in her chair, as eager now as she was wary moments before. She rummaged in her bag until she found her journal. She clutched it in both hands.
“Dozens.”