MusicHead

So, when I was growing up in Missouri in the 80s and 90s I was an emotional and unaggressive kid. I was also well behaved in school and got good grades. Unlike most kids, my worst subjects in school were recess and PE. As such, by the time I was 8 years old I had been ostracized by my peers for being insufficiently masculine. I wasn’t “boy” enough. The name calling started with “cry baby” and that eventually morphed into “faggot” and I never recovered emotionally or socially from that.*

Being socially isolated, I retreated into my stereo and began my addiction to music. While I had always gotten good grades in school and had strong natural intelligence, by the end of my junior year of high school (16-17-years old) I had decided that I was not going to go to a traditional college. Music was my passion and I had to do it somehow, someway. One problem. While I played bass and guitar in my bedroom, I was self-aware enough to know that I couldn’t ever be a professional musician with my talent level, also I can’t sing. My father worked in television audio, so I had some idea of the engineering side of things. Putting the two together I’d decided that I was going to become an engineer-producer. I did my research and decided on attending Full Sail Center for the Recording Arts in Winter Park (Orlando), Florida.

I graduated high school in June of 1997 and by August I was living in my first apartment 1,100 miles from my family and the community that had rejected me, and began my 13-month tutelage in record engineering and live productions. I was 19-years old when I graduated in October 1998. After graduation, I returned to my parents’ house for the next few months until my friend Debra finished her longer digital media program. When we were both done our plan was to move to Atlanta, Georgia, and share an apartment while we worked on our separate careers. Which is what we did.

We moved in on February 1, 1999 (why I remember that exact date, I don’t know) and got whatever jobs we could while we tried to achieve our dreams. I worked at the North Druid Hills Target and was contacting studios to intern in. One of them was Tree Sound Studios which was, at that time, brand new to their space. I was there for a couple months answering phones, emptying trash, and keeping the lounge and bathrooms tidy. Then, I got a PAID, but temporary, internship at Doppler Studios in mid-town. I couldn’t reasonably do both, so I I left Tree in the hopes that I could come back when I was done. That internship was uneventful in relation to this post, but I worked dutifully until it was time for me to move on. After which, I did, indeed, return to Tree.

We think of Atlanta, now, as being this major entertainment hub of all formats, but back in the late 90s and early 00s it was mostly music that was being produced in and around the city. Sure, there was CNN, TBS, and the rest of the Turner Broadcast empire, but the TV stuff was not the hot ticket for the entertainment industry, even though the TV stuff had been established years earlier. At that time, the Hip-Hop and R&B studios were exploding with business and big name productions. Elton John owned a penthouse downtown and at one time I interviewed at the studio he used for rehearsal (no, he wasn’t there that day). Atlanta had become THE place to write and record your records in those days.

By now, this is autumn of 1999. I’m 20-years old. Tree had allowed me back as an intern, but nothing else had changed for me. I was still answering phones and emptying trash. Something had changed for them, though. Matchbox 20 had purchased a three month buyout of the whole studio while they worked on their second album, MAD SEASON. Now, it might be fun to sneer at the power-pop jangle and overwrought vocals of Matchbox 20, but remember, this is 1999. Their debut record, YOURSELF OR SOMEONE LIKE YOU came out in 1996 and was a multi-platinum selling record. It’s fair to say that they were the hottest shit in rock and roll in those days. Having Matchbox in your studio was a big fucking deal.

I’d been back at the studio for a couple weeks and things seemed normal. I was on the reception desk one Saturday night while the band was working in the studio. The phone rang around 10:00 PM. I’d been around enough to know that there was no such thing as “normal business hours” in the music industry. I also knew that Matchbox’s drummer, Paul Doucette, had been dating none other than Moon Unit Zappa for a brief time. Furthermore, I knew that Paul was planning a surprise birthday party for Moon using a party planner named Heather. Yet more, I had been told that Paul was expecting a call from Heather on party business. You can probably see where this is going.

By now, I had already talked to both of these women on the phone and neither of them had a distinctive voice. So, the phone rings at 10 o’clock at night and after my standard greeting a woman asks for Paul. My 20-year old self was trying to anticipate my client’s needs and provide the best service possible, so, naturally, I ask, “Is this Heather?”

“No.” She said. You can imagine the tone of voice.

Blood drains from my face as I realize that it was Moon I was talking to. I very quickly connected her to the studio phone and tried to hide under my desk until I went home. All that night I heard nothing about what had happened.

Eventually, I go home, sleep, and come back mid-day on Sunday. Still, there are no repercussions for my previous night’s error. Around 2:00 PM they decided they wanted lunch. We were all in the lounge and I was getting their orders, everything seemed fine. Normal. Then one of them asks, “Hey, who was on the phone last night and asked ‘Is this Heather?’”

Abashed, I owned up to my mistake and there was a brief laugh about it. “Okay,” they said, “this is what we want you to do for us…” and they told me, while I was out, to pick up “the Brittany Spears record” (there was only one at the time) and bring it back to them.

I’m thinking, “Okay, this seems fine. I’m making amends. This will all be okay.” I didn’t understand what they wanted the record for, but it didn’t matter to me. Buying it was an act of contrition for my sin. I did what I said I would do. I went to the nearest Target and bought …BABY, ONE MORE TIME with my own money, and brought them the CD with their lunch. Later that afternoon I heard them working out a parody version of the title track for Moon’s birthday gift/apology. Nothing more was said that day and I went home feeling like I was on the path of redemption.

Monday, I didn’t go into the studio.

I return Tuesday (it’s always a Tuesday, isn’t it?) sometime in the afternoon. I hadn’t been there very long and I got called in to the studio manager’s office. This was a first and I didn’t know what to expect. Maybe I was getting an award for emptying the trash so well! Maybe someone saw something special in me and wanted to take me under their wing! The manager started talking to me about the concept of professionalism in some abstract terms. I honestly don’t remember if he said he was having this conversation with all the interns or if I just assumed he was.

Now, when you are working at a place like Tree Sound Studio, privacy for the artists is paramount. Especially, when you have a band as big as Matchbox 20 in the building. You don’t want some crazed fan stalking your client and trying to get access that they shouldn’t have. I had witnessed, previously, a different intern reveal on the phone that Matchbox was currently there. The caller turned out to have been the records producer, Matt Serletic, calling from inside the building specifically testing security.**

So, with this security incident in my head I became very confused when the studio managers words weren’t matching up with what I was thinking. I asked the manager to stop, because I was confused, and asked him to say what this was about.

“There was an incident on the phone a few nights ago that caused some trouble for one of the band members. They’ve asked you to not be around while they’re working on their album.”

My heart sank. Not only was this the only studio in the city that I WANTED to work at, Matchbox were less than a month into the three-month buyout, and I was already on my second chance with these people. I was devastated. I grabbed my things and went out to my car for a screaming cry fit.

This was effectively the end of my music career. I hung on for a few months at another studio whose name I don’t even remember. What I do remember is that I actually met Stevie Nicks there late one night. She was recording TROUBLE IN SHANGRI-LA and reportedly was having a spat with her backup singers (with whom she’d worked for years, supposedly). I was at the sink washing some coffee mugs and when I finished I turned around to see a barefoot Stevie Nicks standing directly behind me. Not only was this a little surprising, but awkward, because I have never ever in my life been able to stand the music of Stevie Nicks or Fleetwood Mac. I simply said, “Hello, Ms. Nicks” with a head nod and got the hell out of her way.

So there you have it. The one good story I have of my life in the music business.

PS: This egregious error of professionalism that ended my music career did no lasting harm to Paul’s and Moon’s relationship. They married in 2002 and remained so until 2014.

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*My parents provided me a safe and supportive home. They weren’t the problem. It was the rest of them.

**Incidentally, Serletic was a complete asshole. He even told me that I’d wasted my money going to Full Sail. I mean, he was right, but it was rude of him to say.