|
 | | | | Jun30Written by:Ted Perlman
Tuesday, June 30, 1998 6:00 PM  All writers want it, need it, got to have it. Ain't no stopping them. A "hit". A #1 record. The big payoff. The realization of all their dreams. Something their mama can show to the neighbors to prove that her son (or daughter) is not a bum, but a big deal songwriter with a "hit". Better yet, not just a hit but a "#1 hit".
One of my clients has become a major writer. Whitney, Tina, Barbra, everybody wants his songs. He's a hero to the other writers. "If he can make it, so can I" Although, a few of his contemporaries wish he would die soon. They're so jealous of him. His death would be like passing gas. Kind of like relieving the pressure, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, on this particular morning, I was working with a writer on a new song. "Did you hear that Alan's record went to #1 today?" she asked. Wow, no shit. Right out of obscurity and into the limelight. He would have something in the bank for at least the next couple of years. Definitely get his contract renewed at the publishing company. Major big-time.
I decided to have a little bit of fun at Alan's expense. Now, you have to know Alan to understand what I was about to do. This is a very sensitive person. Probably why he writes such great lyrics. A real tender hearted man. I dialed his number.
Ring, ring, ring. "Hello".
"Oh, Hi Alan, it's Ted. I just got the corrected Billboard charts. Don't feel bad. #2 is still a great place for your song to be on the charts."
I hung up the phone. Now I know Alan's shitting bullets over there. I have ruined his day. I figure he'll think about it and finally realize that Ted is just fucking with him. `Ted Time' - the total absence of reality. Ten minutes go by. Hmmm, Alan should have realized that I'm only kidding by now.
Ring, ring. "Hello", I say.
It's Alan on the other end. "Oh Pearl, Pearl" (his obnoxious nickname for me) "What's all this about a corrected copy of the Billboard charts. Nobody I called seems to know anything about it. I'm just dying over here. Oh Pearl, please tell me it ain't so!"
"Wow", I think to myself. I could really torture him with this. Send him to the psychiatrist in a major way. He really believed me with that corrected chart garbage. His record really was #1 across the entire country. I thought he would catch on.
Not Alan. He swallowed the bait hook, line, sinker, rod, reel, handle, and fisherman. I couldn't do this to him anymore. I decided to give him his reprieve. "I was just kidding, Alan. There is no corrected Billboard chart. Just messing with your head. Talk to you later, I gotta get back to work. See ya". I hang up the phone. The other writer with me is on the floor laughing hysterically. She knows that Alan is gonna be a nervous wreck for the next week because of me. I love it. I love Alan, but this is delicious.
Well, Alan was a nervous wreck. For that week and next. But not because of me. He was a wreck because his song only stayed at #1 for one week. One week. One mangy, measely, meager string of seven 24-hour groupings. Maybe I should call him up and tell him that his Barbra Streisand cut just got bumped off her next record.
Too easy.
I'll wait until next month to do that.
Tags: | | | | | | | |
|
|
| | | |
| | | | | | | |
|
| | | | | | | | | | | |
|