I needed to challenge that heroic self-portrait. “So instead of creating chaos in your own life by using, you create chaos in other people’s lives?”
There was tension in the room. “Fair enough. Well put,” Beckman said, pausing briefly to acknowledge the truth. But Beckman was in the zone. This was not a conversation; it was a performance. He continued, “Some artists I work with are two or three hit albums into their careers, and they are lost. Lost. They can’t get in touch with the wanting, with the desire, the raw emotion that made their music great in the first place. Their success has made them numb, in so many ways. Cogs, complacent cogs. So, when they would show up here to work with me, some record company executive watching every move, I began inserting small experiences of chaos into what would otherwise be a predictable trip to write and record the next album. It started small, sending them off to write in Paris or London for a few days, but in disguise. I would put them up in crappy apartments, take their computers and phones and gaming crap away, and give them only a few bucks to spend. I wanted them to remember what it was like to walk the streets without a bodyguard or screaming fans. They could be regular people again, feel again.
“Then I began to make the experiences more complicated: paying beautiful women to turn them down in bars or hiring street kids to steal a wallet and see how they got out of it. Sometimes, I arranged for childhood friends to show up with baggage and vitriol, or former lovers to disarm them. Anything to knock these arrogant rock stars off their pedestals. They would have no idea. They’d think it was a getaway weekend, but it was all orchestrated from the get-go—the creepy cabdrivers, the bar fights, the spontaneous open mic nights that were setups. I found that I was good at planning stuff like this and eventually developed a roster of players who could be counted on to help—hotel clerks, bartenders, street kids, pretty girls, fake policemen. You know, people will do almost anything for money . . . and a signed CD. I never ask anyone to do anything completely illegal, just unsettling.”
“So was Beatrice part of your crew?” Nate asked.
“Yup. Beatrice has become a reliable foot soldier. She’s has been in on a bunch of these. In various roles. This one was literally right up her alley.” Beckman paused for a second as if he was remembering an intimate moment with the young art agent. Of course, he’d been involved with Beatrice. Her reverence for him a sure sign of a broken heart. “Here’s the thing, Nate, it works. Bands would come back from these four-or five-day ‘retreats’ and be energized again. Able to tap into something real that they had lost. You know the British band Synnex?”
I shook my head. It had been a long time since I’d known any hot bands. Maybe never. JM, on the other hand, broke into a chorus that included some beatboxing, not only indicating he had knowledge of Synnex but shocking us all. Polly begged him to stop, but you could tell she loved him for it.
“That’s right, JM. Love that hook! I wrote it! Boy band with a rock edge. You know their whole fourth album that was a monster hit? It all came out of one crazy weekend in Paris. First, we purposely lost their gear, and then I sent them on a wild-goose chase for their stolen guitars, but only after I canceled their credit cards. They walked for miles, bummed rides, hopped Metro turnstiles, hung out in cemeteries and dive bars. Totally changed them. Full creative recharge. They came back to Fortnight ready to work.”
“That’s genius,” said Nate. “How come I’ve never read about this in any article on disruption? It’s all we talk about in my business. That’s something a tech journalist would love to write about.”
“Nondisclosure agreements as soon as they stepped onto the property. My business manager tells everyone it’s because I’m a recluse and I’m terrified of press. But that’s not it at all. If an artist knows they are going to be messed with, it doesn’t work. I don’t want this to be Club Med for Madness. I want the experience to be authentic, so the deal is that they can’t tell anyone afterward. Or else I won’t go into the studio with them again. A few get pissed and walk out, never to return. One pop diva did that after I dognapped her Maltipoo for, like, twelve hours. Beatrice was in on that one, too. She loves dogs. But ninety-nine percent of the bands get over it. We’ve turned out some great music.” Beckman was clearly proud of his own mythology, a creative guru with special powers.
“This is all fascinating. Thanks for the TED Talk,” I said, frustration growing within me at his hubris for thinking I was akin to some boy band with too many followers. “And you thought that I, someone you’d never met and didn’t know at all, needed the ‘Peter Beckman treatment.’ Are you kidding me? I’m not a client. I’m not a band searching for musical identity. I’m an actual person that you don’t know at all. You screwed with me and my career for your own amusement. What is wrong with you?”
“Joan, I do know you. I’ve been following you since you were born, and much more closely since your father’s death.”
My mother was about to jump in, but I shut her down. This was my conversation to have. “And because you had a few phone calls with Luther and set up a Google Alert on me, you think you know what I need?”
“Actually, I used an old-fashioned clipping service, like it’s 1985. But they do it digitally now. That’s how I came across your blog a couple of years ago, Polly. You mentioned Joan in a post. But now I read you for fun. You really make me laugh, Polly. I loved that post last month on the best stalls at the flea markets for lamps. I printed it out and used it like a road map two weeks ago.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. I bet you got some good deals! I sense you can negotiate!” Polly said, clearly pleased. Then she noticed my look and ceded the floor, like our debate club days. “Oh, I’m sorry, Joan.”
“Thank you, Polly. I want to be clear, Peter . . .” The name did not sound comfortable on my tongue, after days of Blackbird and Beckman. “I don’t need a stranger to orchestrate an adventure for me so I can get back in touch with my feelings. I’m in touch with my feelings, and, sure, over the last ten years, many of my feelings have sucked. But I’ve dealt with them. You had no right. It was disrespectful.” This was more than I wanted to say in a crowded room, but now it was out there, and I felt unburdened. I caught Nate’s eye. He didn’t turn away.
“I loved your father, Joan. I’d be dead by now without him. No question. OD, suicide, something tragic.” Beckman crossed in front of the enormous fireplace for effect. “And I loved your mother. Deeply. Differently. But you nearly killed me, too, Suzannah. But, somehow, between the two of you, you saved me.”
“All this, the interest in the Panthéon Sketches, the running all over Paris, the clues, the meetings with Jacques de Baubin, this was your plan to save me?” I asked.
“Well, ‘save’ is a strong word, but yes. Thanks to my Google Alert, as you called it, I read your quote in CandysDish about wanting a reinvention sabbatical in Paris, or some nonsense like that. I thought, ‘That’s my in. I can be a part of that.’ Plus, I felt I owed it to your dad.”
“That’s a pretty big debt: $350,000.” I quoted the sale price of the sketches I’d seen on the paperwork.
“I’d have paid twice as much, for the art and for you. But, sorry, JM, I didn’t want to send a letter through a lawyer. Or an email. It needed to be bigger. What I’d done for pop stars I could do for you. But make it matter more. I discovered the WAM had the Panthéon Sketches in their archive, and everything clicked for me. Paris, Saint Joan, Bright & Dark, Joan Bright Blakely.”