How to Kill a Rock Star (20 page)

“When I’m talking to a reporter I do.”

“Ugh. Don’t think of me as a reporter. Think of me as an old friend.”

Loring nodded, and I launched into a tirade of questions about his childhood. He told me many things I already knew, like how he’d grown up in a townhouse on West Twelfth Street, but that his family also had a farm in Vermont, in the same town where his mother, Lily, was born. She raised hors-es there. And Loring had a younger brother, Leith, a film editor who lived in TriBeCa.

“When I met your dad he told me you were the last person
17in the world he thought would end up in this business,” I said, careful y tearing off the top of an elephantine blueberry muffin. “He thinks you’re too smart to be a rock star.” My nerves were gone by now. I felt comfortable talking to Loring. Despite his background and his success, I found him to be disarming, bright, and not the least bit jaded. He was also the only musician I’d ever met who wasn’t completely self-absorbed. Hel , even Paul was completely self-absorbed, in his own heartfelt way.

Loring scratched his temple and said, “Can we not talk about me for like, five minutes? I’m boring myself. Besides, it’s hardly fair that you know everything about me and I don’t know anything about you.”

“There’s nothing to know.”

“I don’t believe that,” Loring said.

I saw him glance down at my wrist, and that’s when I knew that Doug had already told him my whole life story. I flipped my wrist for Loring’s inspection. “Paul wants to get a tattoo just like it. Instead of wedding rings, we’l have matching scars.”

“How romantic,” Loring said, but he sounded facetious.

And he sounded like he was trying to change the subject.

“When are you getting married, anyway?”

“Soon. But Paul’s got a lot on his plate right now.” Loring took a bite of his bagel. There was a warm, sad smile on his face, one that I chalked up to disappointment over his own failed relationship.

I mined around the body of my muffin, trying to locate a blueberry, my thoughts now on Paul. He’d been gone for almost a week, riding around with the Michaels, playing shows on col ege campuses along the East Coast. I imagined him, that very minute, curled up on the floor of the van in some deserted rest stop, hungover and hungry for a cigarette.

“Loring, can I ask you something? How do you handle
al the bul shit that comes along with what you do?”

“Are you asking as a reporter, or as the concerned friend of a potential rock star?”

“Concerned friend,” I said. “Paul is so obsessed—with not sel ing out, with not compromising, with being unable to maintain his integrity. Every step forward is a battle for him.” I shrugged. “I don’t real y know what I’m asking, I just worry.”

“I remember one night at Emperor’s Lounge, a girl came up to Paul raving about one of his songs. But she was wearing an Aerosmith T-shirt and he freaked out. He said Aerosmith was one of the biggest sel out bands in the world and he couldn’t reconcile that someone could like his music
and
Aerosmith’s.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. It took me a month to convince him to make a video. And even then, he only agreed to let them film a live performance of the song.”

“Maybe it’s just easier for me because I grew up around it, but I think Paul takes his job too seriously. We’re not curing cancer. We’re not negotiating peace in the Middle East, right? Hel , it’s only rock ’n’ rol .” I felt my jaw drop.

“Uh-oh,” Loring said. “She’s lost al respect for me.”

“Are you
sure
you’re related to Doug Blackman? Because I don’t think he would
ever
raise his son to say something as stupid as
It’s only rock ’n’

roll
.” Loring laughed. “You think I’m wrong?”

“What I think is that you can’t trivialize art. ‘The Day I Became a Ghost’ changed my life. Do you understand how
big
that is? That a sil y little song can alter the course of a person’s destiny? My life would be remarkably different, remarkably less extraordinary, less
everything
, if it weren’t for the mystical force that a second ago you pitiful y reduced to
only
rock ’n’ rol .”

17He was stil laughing at me.

“Answer me something,” I said, fired up. “Don’t you think what you do has immense, ineffable value?”

“Maybe. But maybe not. Al I’m saying is that making a video isn’t the end of the world. And the truth is I want my songs played on the radio, I want my videos on TV, I want to sel records. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Paul wants that, too. Just not at the expense of his self-respect.”

“He’s a lot like my dad that way. Fortunately, Doug’s got his own history to back him up. Paul doesn’t have the same luxury. Not yet, anyway. I’m sure I don’t have to tel you this, but I think Paul could be huge if he would just give in a little.”

“Giving in is against his religion.”

We were both quiet while Loring finished his bagel and I scanned my notes. “Question,” I said, getting back to the interview. “Have you ever had a real job?”

“As opposed to my fake one?”

I chuckled. “Sorry. I just mean, did you ever have to real y struggle?”

“I never had to struggle financial y, if that’s what you’re asking. But I did have to clean the horse barn when I was a kid.” His answer came out sheepish and I wondered why he sometimes seemed embarrassed by who he was.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Why do you keep asking me that?”

“It’s my way of warning you that my next question could be construed as invasive.”

“You already searched my house. How much more invasive can you get?”

“Why are you so self-conscious about who you are?” There was a long pause. “I guess one of the reasons is How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08 5:00

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because I’ve taken a lot of flack for my last name—case in point being the record review in the magazine you work for.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of my dad. But I never feel like people see me as separate from him. His name is always mentioned when my career is being discussed, yet notice how he has complete autonomy from my shadow. The irony is I don’t think I’m a musician because of Doug Blackman.” He held up his finished product for inspection. It was a robot and it looked like it came straight from a toy store.

“You’ve obviously had a lot of practice,” I said, comparing it to my structure, which was nothing but a rainbow-colored box. “So, if not for Doug, then why?”

“October, 1982. The Clash and the Who at Shea Stadium. Imagine the impact on a nine-year-old.”

“
See
? You just proved my point!
That’s
the power of music!”

He acquiesced with a shy smile that cal ed to mind Vera’s word
hottie
.

“Don’t you think your dad’s proud of you?”

“Off the record?” Loring said. “I think he’s completely disappointed in my chosen career. He used to give me that old ‘you’re too smart to be a musician’ line, but sometimes I think what he real y meant was ‘you don’t have it in you.’”

“Have what in you?”

“That
thing
. Like he has, and Paul has. That overwhelming life-or-death
need
to make music.”

“He sure went on about you when I met him.” Loring looked surprised by that. “Here’s a perfect exam-ple of what I mean—I was on the track team in high school.

Junior year I could run a mile faster than anyone in the dis-trict and my dad bragged about that like it was the greatest accomplishment in the world.

But he’s never once patted me on the back and said, ‘Congratulations on those number one records, kid.’”

17“How fast?”

“What?”

“How fast could you run a mile?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. Tel me.”

“I think my best time was four minutes eleven.”

“
Four eleven
? Are you kidding? I run six days a week and can’t break nine minutes. What about now? If you’re sprinting?”

“I could probably manage a four fifty-five, but it would kick my ass.”

“So what’s next on your schedule? Writing? Recording?

The Olympics?”

“I have two weeks of shows in January—makeup dates we cancel ed after September 11. I might record a song for a movie soundtrack next year.

Other than that, I plan on taking a lot of time off. I’m going to hang out with my kids and try to cultivate some kind of personal life.” I began putting the used dishes and napkins back onto the tray and Loring said, “Are we done?” He almost sounded disappointed.

I took off the sweater, folded it like Paul had taught me, and set it on the couch. “Is there anything else you want to say? Any censorship you wish to impart?” He thought it over. “Actual y, I’ve never understood why what I’m wearing or what I look like is relevant. It would be real y cool if someone wrote an article that didn’t include that stuff. Oh, and the three-headed shower—that was here when I moved in.”

The cover of the January issue of
Sonica
, which hit newsstands in early December, featured a photograph of Loring Blackman posed on top of a bed, his back against the head-board, a blond-and-black Telecaster in his lap, and a dash-ing, wel -lit look of self-consciousness on his face. To his right, the headline read:
Rock’s Most Eligible Bachelor: “I want
to be in love just as much as the next guy.”
The article itself was a miscel any of quotes taken out of context that painted Loring as an achingly handsome, surly, broken-hearted whiner with an Oedipus complex.

In my original draft, the article made no mention of Loring’s clothing, his empirical y good looks, or his famous father. Immediately noting that Doug had been overlooked as a topic, Lucy cal ed me into her office and said, “What is this kiss-ass crap?”

I wanted to blink myself invisible. Better yet, I wanted to blink Lucy into oblivion.

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“You expect me to believe you didn’t talk about Doug during the interview?”

“We did, but—”

“Then
write
about it. His father is the king. You can’t write about the prince without mentioning the king. If you were any kind of journalist you would know this. And people wil want to know what the guy was wearing.”
17I couldn’t get
no
out of my mouth, let alone
fuck off and
die
. But I did manage to shake my head. “Writing about Doug would completely vitiate the dignity of the piece.” Lucy scoffed. “What do you think this is, the
Wall Street
Journal
?”

I prayed to God, my dead parents, and the late Jim Morrison that I didn’t start crying in front of Lucy—I would be back at square one if I let the bitch see me cry.

“Loring trusted me,” I said. “And do you real y think there’s a person out there who’l pick up this magazine and not already know who his father is?

For once, why not let the guy stand on his own? Considering the completely erroneous record review
Sonica
gave him last year, it’s the least we could do.”

“It’s not our job to do these people favors, Eliza.” Lucy told me that if I didn’t make the changes I would have to hand over my notes, and she would write the article herself. “I know he’s cute, but is Loring Blackman worth losing your job over?”

I walked to my desk, col ected my notes, and took them back to Lucy’s office.

“Just keep my name off of it,” I said.

Loring dialed the number three times before he pushed

“send.” And even though he was wel -aware of whose number he was cal ing, it startled him when he heard Eliza’s voice.

“Hi.” He paused. “It’s Loring.”

Sonica
had hit the newsstands days earlier, but judging from the silence on the other end of the line, Loring guessed one of two things: either Eliza had no idea when
Sonica
hit the newsstands, or through the static of his cel phone and the noise of the traffic behind him, she had no idea what he’d said.

“It’s Loring,” he repeated.

“I know who it is.” Her voice was murky. “Why does it sound like you’re in the middle of Times Square?” Actual y, he was standing outside a coffee shop on Columbus Avenue. He’d just walked the boys to school, stopped to get a scone and, he told her, someone had left the magazine on the counter.

“You read it?” she sighed.

“Yes.”

“Are you cal ing to tel me how much you hate me?”

“No.”

Loring quickly confessed that he’d run into Terry North at a party a few days back. He refrained from confessing that he’d only gone to the party because it was
Sonica
-

sponsored and he thought she might be there.

17At the party, Terry had told Loring al about the squab-ble Eliza and Lucy had over what Lucy mockingly described as “the fucking dignity of the piece.” Terry said Eliza had almost lost her job, and that Lucy tried to rile Eliza even more by assigning her the task of digging up rock stars’ high school yearbook photos for an upcoming fluff piece.

“I was going to cal you,” Eliza said. “I just didn’t know what to say. Not that it’s any consolation, but I actual y enjoyed talking to you, and I was real y proud of the first draft.”

“I enjoyed talking to you, too.”

Loring focused on a long crack in the sidewalk that was shaped like the Mississippi River on a map of the United States. He was standing off to the east, near Atlanta, trying to find a hidden message in Eliza’s words.

“How about we just laugh it off?” he final y mumbled, watching a bug crawl towards St. Louis. “That’s not even why I’m cal ing.”

“Why are you cal ing?”

“My parents are coming over for dinner Saturday. I’m sure Paul would love to meet my dad, and I’ve been meaning to invite you guys over for a while…”
Paul was standing at the foot of his bed, staring blankly into his closet as if none of the clothes in it belonged to him, searching for the perfect outfit in which to meet Doug Blackman. He was trying to decide on a shirt to wear with his green suit and had already changed three times.

“Do I look al right?” he said, turning to face me in a red, long-sleeved shirt. “Or do I look like a
fan
? I don’t want to look like a goddamn
fan
.”