[wotd challenge] #6
First off-- this is off the record. Off-off. Off-planet off. There is no record. I'm only telling you seeing as how we've known each other a while, and I know you're curious as to what the hell happened to me and to the princess of pop. Who isn't. ...And maybe because I need to get it off my chest. But you publish this? This goes to print? Ever? I will sic a fucking pack of Hollywood lawyers on your ass, my friend. Guaranteed. Like the saying is, You will never work in this town again.
Which is kinda funny. Saying that. I mean, in light of--
--okay. So here is how the shit went down...
At a party. This was, what, three years ago? Four? I don't remember what party. Don't remember who was throwing it or why, somewhere in the Hills, a lotta the beautiful people. This is pre-2004. Britney and I are both there. So's lots of other faces. I catch a glimpse of Beyoncé chatting with Halle Berry, and Tobey Maguire shows up same time we do, and, Jesus, someone invited Michael Ovitz? --that's gonna be interesting, because I swear I saw David Geffen, head of the Gay Mafia Cabal, over at the punch bowl... so forth and so forth. Brit beelines for Jessica Simpson-- note how glad I am Aguilera ain't here-- and I decide to see who I can find to talk shop with. Out by the pool I run into, of all people, Rob Fellowes.
Not that it's so weird, I guess, but, I don't know, you'll see him at something, and then you don't, for months. He tends to hit the B-list parties. Hell, he hits C-listers. And I'd like to be able to give him shit for that, but thing is, he digs people out of the C-list and one year later they're platinum, so what-the-fuck-ever, he knows what he's doing. People say Hollywood's all about image, but beneath the image we're about results, and the sonuvabitch gets results, I'll give him that.
So I grabbed two rum and cokes from the poolside waiter and made my way over. Might as well say hey, how's it going, right? See if he had any hot new prospects needing a manager, maybe. Not, I hasten to add here, that I'd try that shit Donny Ortega did in 1995-- get in on his acts as a manager, and then counsel them to find a new label. Yeah, we all know how that turned out.
You don't release an album on Friday the 13th, you don't wish an actor good luck before he gets on stage, and you don't piss off Rob Fellowes. Don't ask me why. It's not as if he's the fucking Weinstein brothers of the music industry or anything, but he knows godddamn near everybody and he's got the old-boy network of Bowie and Reed and I dunno know who else and the fact remains that people who try and screw him over business-wise end up plastered over the front page of the Enquirer with coke dust on their noses and an underage Thai rentboy in the background. Okay, so that was just Ortega, but the point stands. It's just bad mojo. Karma or kismet or what-the-fuck-ever.
Not that I was particularly thinking of any of this as I joined Fellowes by the pool, nodded a hello. He said hello back, asked how things were going, I said just fine, he said, you seem to be doing quite well for yourself lately, Larry. Landed the golden goose, the rara avis, the meal-ticket-for-the-eternal-feast. (He always talks like that.)
I said yeah, thanks, life's good, I got no complaints, you want a drink? And he says, ta, mate, very kind, and we sipped our drinks and engaged in some mutual appreciation of the blondes making use of the pool.
So we talked shop, nice little business chat. I was managing Britney fucking Spears, I'm way the hell out of Fellowes' league with his little indie label, but I remember Ortega and play nice all the same because it's good business practice. We got the pleasantries done with and I was getting ready to circulate back inside to the bigger names when here she comes, my goddamn pop princess.
"Larry! Lair-REE!" She caught sight of me, stomped around the pool looking bad. Jesus, no matter how many times you tell them, you know? 'Baby, don't scowl, it's not attractive and someone will take a picture and it will be on the Internet tomorrow'-- do they listen? Fuck no. Goddamn it.
"Larry, I want to go home now. Have them bring the car around," she snaps as she comes up. Fellowes was mid-sentence; he stops it and sips his drink instead, tactful of him, he knows I gotta pay attention to her. Diva-rules; we both know them.
"Woah, woah, woah now," I said soothingly, "come on, sweetheart, we just got here--"
"Yeah, and now we're going," she hisses. "Do you know what that slut said to me about Justin? Oh my god, I wanted to, like, slap her."
"Ohh shit, you didn't, did you?"
"Um, no! But I totally will if we stay here, I am so serious it's not even funny. I want to go and I want to go now. Oh my god, she's probably repeating it right now to, like, everyone here... "
Consoling hysterical mega-stars: it's a living.
"Okay, now calm down, princess. Let's not just cut and run, doesn't look good, right? We'll sit out here for a bit, take a breather, go back in with a cool head. Hey, look, let me introduce you to someone, good friend of mine, Rob Fellowes. Rob, this is-- well, I'm guessing you know who this is."
He turns back from the pool and gives her this little bow-thing he does. It's cheesy as hell, but chicks eat it right up, that and the accent and the smile he's giving her. He offers his hand. "I do indeed. Miss Spears, a pleasure to truly see the lovely face I've only known through your music videos."
Here's the thing about Brit: she's not, per se, a bad kid. She can be downright sweet when she wants. But, my hand to God, a rock could beat her at an IQ test.
She just stares at him, blankly, for like fifteen seconds. I can see the wheels turning: someone saying hello - compliment - my videos - fan.
"Oh, yeah, well, nice to meet you, I'm so glad you like my work, that means so much to me." (I train 'em well, don't I?)
I cleared my throat and interjected, "Rob produces music. Serptichore Records?" No light went on in Britney's eyes, so I pressed on. "You ever hear of Fell, sweetheart? Classic rock act? That was Robbie."
There was a flicker of recognition on her face, amazingly enough. "Oh... yeah. I think my mom listens to your stuff..."
That awkward silence is the sound of Brit being oblivious, me wincing, and Fellowes' diffident little smile changing not a bit. "Your mother has excellent taste, then," he said smoothly, after too many seconds had gone by without me saving the conversation. "Would she like it if I signed something for her, do you think?"
Britney gives him another blank stare. She's used to this going the other way, people asking her to sign stuff for them. From the furrow that shows up between her perfectly plucked brows, she's trying to sort out whether she should be offended. "Whatever," she says eventually, and turned back to me. "Laaaaaaarry. Did you, like, miss the part where I said I wanted to go, forever ago?"
I knock back what's left in my glass and tell myself I can still save this. "Princess," I say with the tight smile I use when I'm telling her something important (sometimes it gets through), "--Rob here's a good friend. Good people. Good to know. He knows a lot about music, maybe you should ask him what he thinks of In the Zone."
That awkward silence is the sound of my girl completely missing the clue bus, and losing her temper. She stamped her foot-- yes, actually stamped the pool deck-- and said, "Hello! I want to go home! I do not want to listen to some washed-up has-been going on about the druggie seventies! Why the hell don't you ever pay any attention to what I want, Larry? Seriously, like, I do not get it, I've been, I've been embarrassed, and I'm hurt, and I'm mad, and I just want to go home, and you want me to stand here and suck up to some freak from back in the day, while they talk about me inside-- like, what the hell, Larry? Once more, for the cheap seats: I am going home, and if I have to I'll fucking walk, okay?"
And pop princess storms off. Chrissake. I took a breath and turned to Fellowes. "...look, I'm sorry about that, she's going through a rough time right now--"
"No, she's not." He smiled as he said it, raised his glass and sipped. "Give it a few months, though."
I'd started to say something. I stopped. Something about the way he said it. I know a threat when I hear it. You know how many times I've been told You'll never work in this town again?
This wasn't like that. This wasn't a screaming diva. Not a threat. Just a statement.
Los Angeles night, palm trees, maybe seventy degrees out. I shouldn't have felt cold.
"She didn't mean anything," I said hoarsely. "She's a good kid."
Fellowes shrugged, the cut crystal of the glass in his hand winking with the motion. Pool was reflecting wavy lines of light onto him, onto the shadows of his face, and I couldn't see his eyes. Found myself, all of a sudden, not wanting to see his eyes.
"You should probably go after her," he said pleasantly. "Assuage her wounded ego."
"Yeah. Yeah." I told myself it was stupid. Told myself this wasn't some wetback who'd crawled up to become an agent that we were talking about here, but one of the best-goddamn-selling female artists in the history of ever. Only female artist to have her first four albums debut at number one. Chrissake, she was on top of the world, and I was the guy who'd gotten her there. What the hell could he really do, right?
"Look, Fellowes... you don't want to start a war, man. Nobody wants that. Bad press. The lawyers get dragged in eventually. C'mon, this is Jive Records you're dealing with here. Fucking corporate, man. Eight-hundred pound gorilla to your little baby label. It'd be all sorts of ugly."
Fellowes laughs. It's almost a giggle. (Faggot, incidentally. Not that I give a shit-- who can afford to, in this business? --but I'm just saying.) His teeth catch the light and gleam perfect white.
"What an absurd thing to say, Larry," he says. "I don't 'start wars'. I don't wage wars. As you say: ugly. And a waste of my time. "
I took a breath, relieved. Like I said, what could he really do, right-- but better safe than sorry. Good to have it taken care of. I nodded, opened my mouth to say something else, something like okay then, glad we're on the same page, but he wasn't done yet.
Thoughtfully, tilting his head to one side to watch one of the models swimming, he says, "What I provide is object lessons. 'There but for the grace of God.' Education, you might say. Freely given to those who have not received it from the proper quarters. Larry? It was splendid of you to say hello tonight. In return, may I offer some advice, purely gratis--?
"If she is as you say a princess, then it would be wise to remove yourself from court. Faithful ministers have tended, historically, to accompany their respective royalty to the guillotine. Right now, you're working for Marie Antoinette."
And he turned and walked off to the other side of the pool, started talking with one of the bikini blondes, while I stood there trying to convince myself it was all bullshit.
Two months later I quit. She didn't fire me. Everyone thinks so, but no, I quit before she could. Took the advice and got the hell outta dodge. And ever since-- during the last four years of the goddamn train wreck Brit's become-- I've been trying to figure out how the hell he's doing it. Because this shit goes way beyond anything I can do with a few phone calls.
My poor crazy little princess....
So there you have it, my friend. Remember: this does not go to press. This does not get breathed. The true story of why I no longer manage Britney Spears. Maybe the true story of why she's in a handbasket to hell. I don't know. I don't know, and I'm not going to say, am sure as hell not going to point any fingers or bring that sonuvabitch's name up. I'm not starting any war.
There but for the grace of Robbie Fucking Fellowes...
Words: rara avis, cabal, kismet, assuage, diffident
Which is kinda funny. Saying that. I mean, in light of--
--okay. So here is how the shit went down...
At a party. This was, what, three years ago? Four? I don't remember what party. Don't remember who was throwing it or why, somewhere in the Hills, a lotta the beautiful people. This is pre-2004. Britney and I are both there. So's lots of other faces. I catch a glimpse of Beyoncé chatting with Halle Berry, and Tobey Maguire shows up same time we do, and, Jesus, someone invited Michael Ovitz? --that's gonna be interesting, because I swear I saw David Geffen, head of the Gay Mafia Cabal, over at the punch bowl... so forth and so forth. Brit beelines for Jessica Simpson-- note how glad I am Aguilera ain't here-- and I decide to see who I can find to talk shop with. Out by the pool I run into, of all people, Rob Fellowes.
Not that it's so weird, I guess, but, I don't know, you'll see him at something, and then you don't, for months. He tends to hit the B-list parties. Hell, he hits C-listers. And I'd like to be able to give him shit for that, but thing is, he digs people out of the C-list and one year later they're platinum, so what-the-fuck-ever, he knows what he's doing. People say Hollywood's all about image, but beneath the image we're about results, and the sonuvabitch gets results, I'll give him that.
So I grabbed two rum and cokes from the poolside waiter and made my way over. Might as well say hey, how's it going, right? See if he had any hot new prospects needing a manager, maybe. Not, I hasten to add here, that I'd try that shit Donny Ortega did in 1995-- get in on his acts as a manager, and then counsel them to find a new label. Yeah, we all know how that turned out.
You don't release an album on Friday the 13th, you don't wish an actor good luck before he gets on stage, and you don't piss off Rob Fellowes. Don't ask me why. It's not as if he's the fucking Weinstein brothers of the music industry or anything, but he knows godddamn near everybody and he's got the old-boy network of Bowie and Reed and I dunno know who else and the fact remains that people who try and screw him over business-wise end up plastered over the front page of the Enquirer with coke dust on their noses and an underage Thai rentboy in the background. Okay, so that was just Ortega, but the point stands. It's just bad mojo. Karma or kismet or what-the-fuck-ever.
Not that I was particularly thinking of any of this as I joined Fellowes by the pool, nodded a hello. He said hello back, asked how things were going, I said just fine, he said, you seem to be doing quite well for yourself lately, Larry. Landed the golden goose, the rara avis, the meal-ticket-for-the-eternal-feast. (He always talks like that.)
I said yeah, thanks, life's good, I got no complaints, you want a drink? And he says, ta, mate, very kind, and we sipped our drinks and engaged in some mutual appreciation of the blondes making use of the pool.
So we talked shop, nice little business chat. I was managing Britney fucking Spears, I'm way the hell out of Fellowes' league with his little indie label, but I remember Ortega and play nice all the same because it's good business practice. We got the pleasantries done with and I was getting ready to circulate back inside to the bigger names when here she comes, my goddamn pop princess.
"Larry! Lair-REE!" She caught sight of me, stomped around the pool looking bad. Jesus, no matter how many times you tell them, you know? 'Baby, don't scowl, it's not attractive and someone will take a picture and it will be on the Internet tomorrow'-- do they listen? Fuck no. Goddamn it.
"Larry, I want to go home now. Have them bring the car around," she snaps as she comes up. Fellowes was mid-sentence; he stops it and sips his drink instead, tactful of him, he knows I gotta pay attention to her. Diva-rules; we both know them.
"Woah, woah, woah now," I said soothingly, "come on, sweetheart, we just got here--"
"Yeah, and now we're going," she hisses. "Do you know what that slut said to me about Justin? Oh my god, I wanted to, like, slap her."
"Ohh shit, you didn't, did you?"
"Um, no! But I totally will if we stay here, I am so serious it's not even funny. I want to go and I want to go now. Oh my god, she's probably repeating it right now to, like, everyone here... "
Consoling hysterical mega-stars: it's a living.
"Okay, now calm down, princess. Let's not just cut and run, doesn't look good, right? We'll sit out here for a bit, take a breather, go back in with a cool head. Hey, look, let me introduce you to someone, good friend of mine, Rob Fellowes. Rob, this is-- well, I'm guessing you know who this is."
He turns back from the pool and gives her this little bow-thing he does. It's cheesy as hell, but chicks eat it right up, that and the accent and the smile he's giving her. He offers his hand. "I do indeed. Miss Spears, a pleasure to truly see the lovely face I've only known through your music videos."
Here's the thing about Brit: she's not, per se, a bad kid. She can be downright sweet when she wants. But, my hand to God, a rock could beat her at an IQ test.
She just stares at him, blankly, for like fifteen seconds. I can see the wheels turning: someone saying hello - compliment - my videos - fan.
"Oh, yeah, well, nice to meet you, I'm so glad you like my work, that means so much to me." (I train 'em well, don't I?)
I cleared my throat and interjected, "Rob produces music. Serptichore Records?" No light went on in Britney's eyes, so I pressed on. "You ever hear of Fell, sweetheart? Classic rock act? That was Robbie."
There was a flicker of recognition on her face, amazingly enough. "Oh... yeah. I think my mom listens to your stuff..."
That awkward silence is the sound of Brit being oblivious, me wincing, and Fellowes' diffident little smile changing not a bit. "Your mother has excellent taste, then," he said smoothly, after too many seconds had gone by without me saving the conversation. "Would she like it if I signed something for her, do you think?"
Britney gives him another blank stare. She's used to this going the other way, people asking her to sign stuff for them. From the furrow that shows up between her perfectly plucked brows, she's trying to sort out whether she should be offended. "Whatever," she says eventually, and turned back to me. "Laaaaaaarry. Did you, like, miss the part where I said I wanted to go, forever ago?"
I knock back what's left in my glass and tell myself I can still save this. "Princess," I say with the tight smile I use when I'm telling her something important (sometimes it gets through), "--Rob here's a good friend. Good people. Good to know. He knows a lot about music, maybe you should ask him what he thinks of In the Zone."
That awkward silence is the sound of my girl completely missing the clue bus, and losing her temper. She stamped her foot-- yes, actually stamped the pool deck-- and said, "Hello! I want to go home! I do not want to listen to some washed-up has-been going on about the druggie seventies! Why the hell don't you ever pay any attention to what I want, Larry? Seriously, like, I do not get it, I've been, I've been embarrassed, and I'm hurt, and I'm mad, and I just want to go home, and you want me to stand here and suck up to some freak from back in the day, while they talk about me inside-- like, what the hell, Larry? Once more, for the cheap seats: I am going home, and if I have to I'll fucking walk, okay?"
And pop princess storms off. Chrissake. I took a breath and turned to Fellowes. "...look, I'm sorry about that, she's going through a rough time right now--"
"No, she's not." He smiled as he said it, raised his glass and sipped. "Give it a few months, though."
I'd started to say something. I stopped. Something about the way he said it. I know a threat when I hear it. You know how many times I've been told You'll never work in this town again?
This wasn't like that. This wasn't a screaming diva. Not a threat. Just a statement.
Los Angeles night, palm trees, maybe seventy degrees out. I shouldn't have felt cold.
"She didn't mean anything," I said hoarsely. "She's a good kid."
Fellowes shrugged, the cut crystal of the glass in his hand winking with the motion. Pool was reflecting wavy lines of light onto him, onto the shadows of his face, and I couldn't see his eyes. Found myself, all of a sudden, not wanting to see his eyes.
"You should probably go after her," he said pleasantly. "Assuage her wounded ego."
"Yeah. Yeah." I told myself it was stupid. Told myself this wasn't some wetback who'd crawled up to become an agent that we were talking about here, but one of the best-goddamn-selling female artists in the history of ever. Only female artist to have her first four albums debut at number one. Chrissake, she was on top of the world, and I was the guy who'd gotten her there. What the hell could he really do, right?
"Look, Fellowes... you don't want to start a war, man. Nobody wants that. Bad press. The lawyers get dragged in eventually. C'mon, this is Jive Records you're dealing with here. Fucking corporate, man. Eight-hundred pound gorilla to your little baby label. It'd be all sorts of ugly."
Fellowes laughs. It's almost a giggle. (Faggot, incidentally. Not that I give a shit-- who can afford to, in this business? --but I'm just saying.) His teeth catch the light and gleam perfect white.
"What an absurd thing to say, Larry," he says. "I don't 'start wars'. I don't wage wars. As you say: ugly. And a waste of my time. "
I took a breath, relieved. Like I said, what could he really do, right-- but better safe than sorry. Good to have it taken care of. I nodded, opened my mouth to say something else, something like okay then, glad we're on the same page, but he wasn't done yet.
Thoughtfully, tilting his head to one side to watch one of the models swimming, he says, "What I provide is object lessons. 'There but for the grace of God.' Education, you might say. Freely given to those who have not received it from the proper quarters. Larry? It was splendid of you to say hello tonight. In return, may I offer some advice, purely gratis--?
"If she is as you say a princess, then it would be wise to remove yourself from court. Faithful ministers have tended, historically, to accompany their respective royalty to the guillotine. Right now, you're working for Marie Antoinette."
And he turned and walked off to the other side of the pool, started talking with one of the bikini blondes, while I stood there trying to convince myself it was all bullshit.
Two months later I quit. She didn't fire me. Everyone thinks so, but no, I quit before she could. Took the advice and got the hell outta dodge. And ever since-- during the last four years of the goddamn train wreck Brit's become-- I've been trying to figure out how the hell he's doing it. Because this shit goes way beyond anything I can do with a few phone calls.
My poor crazy little princess....
So there you have it, my friend. Remember: this does not go to press. This does not get breathed. The true story of why I no longer manage Britney Spears. Maybe the true story of why she's in a handbasket to hell. I don't know. I don't know, and I'm not going to say, am sure as hell not going to point any fingers or bring that sonuvabitch's name up. I'm not starting any war.
There but for the grace of Robbie Fucking Fellowes...
Words: rara avis, cabal, kismet, assuage, diffident