Page 143 of Hot Mess
She looked over at me. “She made this for you?”
“Yeah.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of the look she gave me, so I ignored it.
“Ain’t Talkin’ ’Bout Love” had ended, and she fiddled with her phone. The Chili Peppers came on. “Blood Sugar Sex Magik.”
“Gotta hand it to you, DJ Summer. You definitely know how to put your finger on someone’s pulse through music.”
“I do.”
She turned to look out the windows again, sipping her beer.
Then she turned back to me with that look she got when she had some grand idea that I was either gonna love or hate.
“I’ve got an idea.”
“You don’t say.”
“Make me a playlist,” she said. “A playlist of songs you want me to hear, because… if you were on your deathbed, these would bethesongs, like the songs that define what you’re about, musically.”
“Why?”
“And they can’t be your own songs,” she said, totally ignoring my question as she hashed out her idea. “They have to be other artists’ songs.”
“Okay. Why?”
“Let’s make it exactly twenty songs. It’ll be about an hour-and-a-half of music or so. I’ll make a playlist for you, too. That’s our homework for each other.”
“Uh-huh. Why?”
“Because it’ll help us to see where each of us is coming from musically and where we want to go. Not just inspiration or imitation, but like if your heart was music, in twenty songs, show me what that sounds like. What thatfeelslike.”
“My heart?” I sipped my beer, thinking that over. Summer was the playlist queen. I could see why this idea would spark her creativity.
“Yes. Like I want the beat of your pulse… your soul, your blood and guts and bones, in twenty songs.”
“I dunno. It’s a pretty messed-up place in there.”
“Great,” she said. “Then let it be that. Whatever it is, I wanna hear it. In twenty songs. Soon. We’ll call it your vortex playlist.”
“Alright.”
“Awesome.” She sat down again, seeming pleased with her idea.
“We can do that,” I said. “Sounds like a good exercise. But what about the band? I need the vibe of the other members to create with. I’ve never been great writing alone. And no offense, but I don’t want to write the songs just with you. The whole point of this was to put together a supergroup. That means everyone brings what they’ve got to the table. Everyone brings their own fucked-up musical heart,” I told her, using her metaphor, “and we build this thingtogether. As equal players.”
“Yes.” She stood up so fast she slopped her beer on my hardwood floor. “Players. That’s what we’ll call it.”
“Huh?”
“The band, baby.” She fixed her blue eyes, blazing with passion, on me. “The Players.”
I shook my head, dismissing the idea outright. “Too generic.”
“So what? Uh, have you ever heard a classic little song called ‘The Weight’? ‘Up On Cripple Creek’? ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down’?”
“Obviously.”
