Authors: Alice Severin
“Using Sartre to sell? Isn’t that a little like using a chain saw to clean out a wound?”
He finally opened the lid of the box. Trevor was clearly trying not to smoke, but
he was finding it difficult to stop himself from at least rolling one of the Cubans
between his fingers. He was feeling the weight of it, the calm and pleasure it would
bring. He dropped it back in and shut the box abruptly. I jumped at the sound.
Trevor began again, slowly. “Look, Steven, this is all extremely interesting. Certainly
on point. But tell me what your suggestions would mean if we were to promote someone
say, like…” Trevor looked out the window, appearing almost distracted, then turned
back suddenly, his eyes fixed on his target. “Tristan Hunter? You’re familiar with
him, of course?” Steven nodded again. “Good. What would you do?”
Steven had the appearance of someone who was about to tuck into a good meal. “Great.
Just great. I love a challenge. Some people really dislike him. Fantastic. And he
doesn’t have a good solid media presence. After all that bad press. Weren’t there
rumors going around that he was heavily into kinky sex, S and M?”
Trevor looked at him, his gaze level and steady. “We are trying to sell music here,
not sex toys.”
“But that’s just it. His demographic has limited itself to older fans of the first
band, and people who are drawn to the rumors. Very limited. If you want the younger
teenage demographic, he’s going to have to tone down the image somewhat. A lot.”
“And what would you suggest?” Trevor asked blandly.
“It wouldn’t be too hard. First, clean up the public image. Get some ‘candids’ of
him exercising,” here Steven made the air-quote gesture, as if to underline the obvious
staging of these scenes, “running, shopping, walking the dog. Normal things. Getting
a coffee. Then mix that up with some close-ups from the studio. Playing instruments.
Looking intent on the music. Clothes—always important. Nothing too fashionable. Everyday.
A little less black and tight. And maybe some pics of him out at restaurants, going
to juice bars, meeting other celebrity musicians. Does he have a new girlfriend? We
can find a companion for him. Shared interest in getting publicity. I can put in a
call to a friend. Always some new actresses happy for the exchange. Controllable
situation. Establishing him as…”
Trevor interrupted. “As a nonthreatening mainstream brand.”
“Well, yes, to a certain extent. That healthy lifestyle is very appealing now. No
one wants to see people falling out of clubs, under the influence. Even smoking. Very
Lindsay Lohan. Gives the impression of failure. If he’s embracing the moment, then
we can reposition him as a star for today.” Steven looked thoughtful for a moment.
“Hey now, didn’t he have a big gay following? Would he be willing to do some charity
work? Outreach? That would draw in a lot of people. Explain his outsider status. We
could go the other way with clothes at awards shows, that kind of thing. Cleaning
up elegantly for events. And we can get quotes from people saying how good he looks—fashion-icon
kind of thing. Some best-dressed lists. Suits. Designers. Might be interesting to
see if he could model for someone. Keep that demographic interested. Probably would
work better in Europe.”
I reminded myself to move the tea cup to my mouth from where it had frozen in midair
at his words.
Trevor’s mouth was a tight line. “I’m sure he would be willing to help with any charity,
as he has in the past, but I doubt he would want it publicized or tied into the album.”
Steven seemed surprised. “He has? But he hasn’t publicized it? That’s a waste. Even
a small name drop makes a big difference. Usually spike in donations too. Win-win
on both sides.” He smiled broadly. “Symbiotic.”
“Can I just make a point here? You do know he isn’t a pop star?”
“He wasn’t a pop star. Before. Now, it’s a zero sum game. And pop is where the money
is. So if he wants to position himself, he is going to need to do it that way. Look
at Coldplay. Alternative to mainstream. Though Chris Martin’s arms, crazy, am I right?
Someone’s been to the gym.” He laughed. “Incorporating the hip-hop and rap style.
Electronics. Who saw that coming? But he’s following the trends.”
“And the money,” Trevor responded drily. “Though Chris is a very nice boy, really.
Talented. And yes, a lot more savvy than people give him credit for.”
Steven was momentarily thrown, but he regrouped quickly. “Can we get Hunter to go
to some more parties? Charity events? Photos with established names. No one is crazy
about the
Daily
Mail
or
Just Jared
, but they do get the hits.” Steven had a thoughtful expression. “A duet. What does
he think of Katy Perry?”
Trevor was silent. “I’m not certain that he ever has. Let me just ask you. Do you
actually know anything about him? As an artist?”
“To a certain extent, but I don’t always think that’s the best way to go into a client
situation. I like to see the problem fresh. As a marketing challenge. New ideas first,
then we see what we keep from what went before.”
“What happened to actual reality? Authenticity.” Trevor laid a hand on the cigar box.
“Charting a course by what he wants to be.”
“Limited by the outdated image. He is a brand, and the word is that the brand needs
a reboot, ASAP. Have you thought of some giveaways? Meet the band? VIP tickets are
very popular, although he wouldn’t be playing venues big enough to make it worthwhile.
Maybe if this takes off. Autographed merch?”
“Yes, we have.” Trevor had made his mind up, and opened the box, taking out one of
the cigars and rolling it between his fingers. His nostrils were slightly flared.
He glanced over in my direction, his face expressionless. I knew that didn’t come
without effort. He turned back to Steven. “And for the merchandising?” The flame shot
up as he finished his words. Small puffs of smoke emerged, and Trevor leaned back,
taking the cigar out of his mouth, and contemplating it. He waved it at Steven, before
returning to producing another few small smoke clouds. With his attention focused
on the cigar, he no longer appeared quite as formidable.
Steven looked alarmed, but managed to stop himself just in time from fanning a hand
in front of his face to keep away the smoke. He crossed his leg over his knee, and
pulled up a neatly creased trouser leg, just short enough to show a slice of his colorful,
expensive socks. “I did go to a TTT concert a few years ago, and they had no product.
It was such a wasted merchandising opportunity. There were people waiting to buy.
They finally came out with some t-shirts, but for such a big concert, it was lackluster.
Everyone had those shirts already. They were expecting commemorative items to celebrate
that concert. We can’t miss out on those opportunities.”
“Interesting,” said Trevor. “But basic.”
Steven carried on. “So I think it’s a clear sell. Attract the female pop listening
audience, who have the most reach on social media. Tumblr blogs, got to love them.
Get the fans to share the transformation. A new haircut, color, mentions of clothes,
tweet after the morning run, that sort of thing. Link to fashion blog. Make him harmless.
Picture of him walking with a tray—two juices—easier to spot in the photograph. Holding
just one in your hand hides it. Could be anything. Juicing is so popular now. A story
on his new morning rituals.” He stopped for a minute. “I wonder if we could get him
on
Ellen
.”
“And Tristan’s exercise regime will sell records? Fill seats at concerts?”
“If it’s energetic, yes, it’s great. These are the present day concerns. Body image
for women. Youth and strength for men. It’s projection and identification. Something
that shows he looks after himself. We better not mention age though, what is he, 35?
37? Let’s not remind them. Thank god for Photoshop. Comeback can be a dangerous word.”
Trevor removed the cigar from his mouth and examined it closely. It appeared as though
his greatest concern was whether to relight it. Then he placed it carefully in the
ashtray, and stood up. His sudden movement startled me, and he shot me a look, before
walking to the window, staring out at the street, and turning back to face Steven.
“So, let’s recap to make certain I am understanding you correctly. In order to ‘reboot
the brand,’ as you put it, my client needs to share the aspirational fashion and beauty
concerns of a new generation of fans, to make them feel that he is one of them. He
does this while presumably creating music that he and his listeners have a stake in.
Or, would you suggest that the songs reflect these preoccupations of the demographic
you have so neatly descrambled?”
“In fact, that’s a brilliant idea, Trevor.” I winced. “Brilliant. He could write a
couple of love songs? Folk-influenced sound is so in these days. Maybe a cover? If
he could find a female artist to duet with, that would be ideal. Has he ever thought
of doing a dance record? Nod to the 70s, to disco. This way he could show he’s still
in touch. With that kind of willingness to really experiment, I could salvage his
career.”
Trevor smiled. “Excellent. Just what we need.” He walked over, and extended his hand.
“I’m sure you could. Fascinating summing up. Where are you staying again? Make sure
Alina has all the details. We’ll be in touch.” His smile was more of a grimace than
friendly, but Steven was shaking his hand, while handing him a small flash drive with
the record company name etched into it. “This is a slideshow of some of the people
I’ve worked with. Just to keep you in the loop. I’ll let the office know what we’ve
decided.”
Trevor pocketed the drive. “Thank you, but I’ll call them when and if we make any
decision. You know the way out, of course.” Steven was staring at him. Then he went
over to where he had been sitting and began rearranging files in his bag. I had the
impression he thought there was more coming. I knew there wasn’t. Trevor sat back
down, and began the process of relighting the cigar, finally blowing out a large cloud
of smoke. When he saw that Steven was still there, organizing his bag, his voice was
crisp. “Have you lost something? Let me have Alina help you.” He buzzed down and gave
an order.
The man zipped up his computer bag. “I think you’re making a mistake. The money you
are wasting while you wait. Those lost sales, sales that may not come back. What you
want to do…”
Trevor spoke over him. “Ah, Alina, excellent. Mr. Hill was just leaving. Could you
escort him out? Thank you so much.” He nodded to both of them, then turned his chair
so that all they could see was the back of the leather seat, and the very top of his
head. Another puff of smoke rose, as they finally left and started making their way
down the stairs.
“Fucking hell,” Trevor said to himself. “Authenticity. Sartre. Camus. Poor bastards.”
He turned back towards me. “Cigar, Lily? I’ve just had a shipment of the smaller ones.”
I found my voice. “Thank you Trevor. I think I could use one. Very kind.” He inspected
my unpracticed attempts to light it, and once I’d managed to fire it up, he turned
back to the window. We sat there, smoking, watching the twilight sky darken over the
London streets.
The smoke was calming my nerves. A strange little encounter. One which left me with
a lot of questions, not the smallest of which was why the record company had sent
over someone with that point of view. Someone with almost no knowledge of Tristan’s
output or career, aside from the lurid details. Maybe it was to remind us that there
were a lot of people out there for whom Tristan was a footnote in rock history from
a few years ago, and times had moved on. Or could. Or did. Without their support.
I shivered. It was a brutal business, no joke.
* * *
The phone beeped. I tried to ignore it, but I found myself squinting through half-closed
eyes at the dark room. What the hell time was it? It felt middle of the night late,
too far away from the night to be part of it, not yet feeling the distant change of
light and wind that would mean dawn. It beeped again. Two were harder to dismiss.
I flung out an arm from the sheets and knocked the phone to the floor. Fuck. Eyes
shut, I moved over and did a tired sweep of the floor next to the bed. There it was.
I grabbed it, and rolled over on my back. I blearily looked at the bright white of
the numbers. 3:37. Who was texting me? I pressed the little green square with the
2 in the corner, like an angry exponent.
The message window opened and I froze.
Watch me,
said the first text.
Then I tapped at the picture to make it fill the whole screen, and it still wasn’t
big enough. Tristan. Taking a selfie. I wondered for a minute if the phone was wet,
as wet as he was. He was leaning against the tiles in the shower, the water splashing
on to his torso, which was sleek and shining, rivulets flowing down the muscled core
of his body, to land and hover in the neatly trimmed tight curls that partially hid
his balls from view. Nothing else was hidden though, and the blood-flushed tip was
coated lightly with water, and something else, something that showed his excitement
in posing like this. Pressing send. Knowing the effect it would have. On anyone.
The phone beeped again, and the next picture scrolled into view, his hand firmly grasped
around the hard flesh. His eyes were less amused now, dark circles, slightly unfocused.
A minute passed. The phone beeped. This time the photo was blurred, his eyes closed
tight, his hand another blur within the photo, movement. I felt my face grow warm,
the familiar sinking heat spreading down. He was a statue, the muscles taut and flexed
in his shoulders and arms, the dip of the lines by his hips a rigid indent. Another
minute, a beep and the new photo appeared. His eyes were wide open now, and his lips
were wet and full, slightly open, as though he had been taken by surprise. His hand
was still tight around himself, pulling out the last tremors of furious pleasure.
The evidence was captured as it struck him, adding to the sticky wet sheen that covered
his heated skin.