Tales From the Music Industry: Rockstar CD Listening Party
by Justin Anderson
It's an unseasonably warm October evening in Toronto. I've been working at a Canadian music industry trade magazine for a few months now. Myself and a couple of co-workers - two of my three bosses - are heading to a big listening party for the successful Canadian artist’s new album.
What a listening party is, in case you’re wondering: it’s a gathering for music industry types to hear a new record a few weeks before it comes out. The primary purpose, from what I can tell, is so that said music industry types can tell people they’ve heard the new, highly anticipated record, and tell other people that it sucks.
(Something to keep in mind for future reference: if you’re talking about a song or an album or a video to someone with a vested interest in its success - i.e. someone from the label - then it’s always great. If not, your reaction will range from underwhelmed to nauseated.)
Another thing with music industry functions - the ones where there’s some sort of pretence, at least, aside from just getting loaded - is that they start early. The drinks usually start a-flowin’ at 5 or 6pm.
After eating, my co-workers and I head over to the small upstairs club where the party’s at. I’m still relatively new to the business, so the rush of being on the guest list still runs down my spine as we’re ushered in. Even though we’re a about 10 minutes late, everything here runs on M.I.T. - Music Industry Time. Fashionably late.
I head over to the bar, still uncomfortable with the open bar concept. Do I still tip? No one else is, and hey, they all make way more than me. So tipping’s a negatory.
I head over to a table with my screwdriver (the drink, not the tool) in hand. I see a co-worker chatting with a fat guy in a business suit. He’s got a cute girl with him. I have a seat and am introduced. Guy’s a concert promoter bigwig, girl’s a bit lower on the ladder at the company. Kinda like me. Did I mention she’s cute?
I finish my drink. Did I mention I have low alcohol tolerance?
Given that I’ve been single for a few months, I try to strike up a conversation with the girl, something I’ve rarely tried, ever. But the Russian-made Liquid Courage is flowing through my veins, so I’m feeling good. We exchange cards and pleasantries. I can’t tell if she’s being polite or if she’s genuinely interested.
I get up to go to the bathroom and get another free drink. Ask her if she wants one.
"No thanks," she says with a smile. "I’m fine."
I get back from the bathroom and the bar and she’s gone.
---
The rockstar who’s album we're listening to - and who’s music I genuinely like - shows up when we get to the second-to-last song. My boss knows I’m something of a fan, so he makes a point of introducing us.
We have to wait for a few minutes while the rockstar - notorious for his anti-music industry rants - gladhands with small town radio programmers and record store managers and label reps. Standing there waiting for the big intro’s a little like waiting in line to see a Mall Santa.
Eventually we get to me.
"This is Justin," says my boss. "He’s the editorial assistant down at the magazine."
"Hey, nice to meet you . . . " says the rockstar as we shake hands. Mine are kinda clammy I think.
"Justin," I supply. "I do a lot of writing at the magazine. I don’t just fetch coffee, despite what my title may suggest."
Did I mention I hate my job title?
"Great. J-Jason . . . ?" he says, squinting.
"Justin," I offer again.
"Nice to meet you man," he says.
"I know it doesn’t mean a whole lot coming from a magazine writer like me," I say, part of my somewhat-planned small talk, "but I’m a huge fan of your music."
"Great," says the rockstar.
"Good luck with the new record. Sounds really good."
"Great," says the rockstar.
The rockstar is shuffled off to meet someone else.
Twenty minutes later I stumble out to the streetcar stop alone, full of vodka and disappointment.
