Page 3 of All That Remains
Reentering the industry on my own terms signaled a seismic shift in my otherwise carefully considered path. One vital to any hopes of reinvention in other areas of my life. I took it seriously. If I was to forget him, if I was to forfeit what we’d built—to move on from the past both onstage and off, then drumming up new insight was key. For me, music was all-pervading. The nexus that defined everything I was and had the potential to be. There’d be no forgiving or forgetting without its arbitration.
In many ways, Edgar Stern, the man of the hour, made turning the page possible. He and John had helped me negotiate a substantial new record deal the moment Invicta was dissolved. That deal would span three years and ideally generate three albums. To be listed among the names in their shared roster was itself a career-defining honor, so I was eternally indebted to this man and stoked to see him recognized that night as the backbone of the industry. That he’d introduced the world to some of the greatest music acts of all time was not lost on me.
With their help I’d entered the big leagues, and I was determined to spend the next decade proving I belonged there. After the permanent move to Hollywood, I found myself rubbing elbows with all the right people to ensure my status as a major player when the time arrived. It was scary how easily it came to me. Ralph Rawlings,networker. Solo star on the rise. The latest and greatest British export.
Good fortune had little to do with it. It’d all been tactical forethought. I’d set the groundwork in motion long ago, under the instruction of my father. Meeting the Sterns in 2011 had been like a cheat-code for stratospheric success, the pot of which only sweetened over time. They were at the forefront of everything happening in culture and entertainment and provided an ideal offramp as I ventured off on my own, away from the crutch of my ex-bandmates and the dictates ofthe old label.
2018 would be the year I shed my former self like a desiccated second skin. Even so, every aspect of music as a solo artist was intimidating; be it the production, the distribution, the marketing, the consumers. I was petrified of getting it wrong. There’d only be me to blame. There’d only be the one shot. Still, the risk proved far more seductive than spending another year in the old establishment, nothing more than a shiny spoke in a wheel that kept rolling no matter how badly I wanted it to slow or stop.
And I suppose I also had Roman to thank. His hellraising the years prior had opened a window for us all to be free. I’d leapt without thought. Plunging after him, as had been my nature since I was 15. But by the time I’d landed, he was gone. Hadn’t bothered to look back and see if I’d made it out in one piece. Abandonment later evolved into disconnected phonelines and an abrupt move overseas. Effectively kneecapping the band and altering my life in ways I still failed to identify.
Since the gala was my first major event as a solo artist, I felt like an awkward debutante desperate to make my mark on the world. People needed to take me seriously. To see me as an autonomous force primed to take the game by storm, not some soulless byproduct of another manufactured group. One destined to fade into oblivion after a banal solo flop.
John and Jen, newly engaged, had picked me up in their pristine Balenciaga and informed me we were already late. John's doing, since he still subscribed to the dated notion that being late was fashionable. He lectured me about the importance of mystique as a soloist. Apparently I’d been far too accessible growing up on the world stage in what he disparaged as a glorified boyband. He was determined to reinvent me as the fearless leader of the hottest newmanband, whatever the hell that was. And although being unapproachable was not my style, he was too damn good at what he did for me to fight him on the bigger picture. He was a shot-caller. Big on results, and expensive as all hell. I dutifully conformed for now, knowing that once I got onstage, nothing could keep me from reconnecting with my fanbase.
"Carpet?" he asked, peering into the backseat after climbing out to assess the crowd.
"I told you, mate:no," I spat. "I'm done with that. All that performative shit."
"C’mon now, Ralph. It’s a little early in the year to be putting the kibosh on red carpets, huh?"
He backed away as I charged from the truck. The second I hit the ground, a shitstorm of flashes surrounded us. Sizzling, knocking against my skull. When I opened my eyes, I saw spots. Shutters fired incessantly from all sides. Darkly clad figures encroached, pinning me in place because I was notorious for ducking carpets.
Lenses lunged to keep me in frame as I broke through the milling figures. My name was shouted fifty times in the first thirty seconds. I passed through a cloud of cigar smoke and was temporarily blinded. The heat stung my eyes. Someone stepped on the toe of my boot, twice. I knew it was scuffed, but refrained from looking down to avoid flipping the fuck out.
"Alright!” someone barked. “Get what you need! Make room! Give 'em space!"
"This way, Ralph!" another called.
"Straight ahead!"
"Ralph, on your left!On your left!"
“Look here, Ralph!”
“Ralph!”
“Rafe!”
There was the usual shuffle, too many hands grabbing my coattails or urging me on by the small of my back. Someone shouted so near my ear I snapped: "Fuck’s sake! Piss off!"
Once we made it through the metal detectors and past the black portiere, we ran into James Corden. I knew he’d keep me drunk or laughing the entire evening. And it was nice to have a fellow Brit on standby.
"Ralph?!”
“James!”
“Is that you, darling? Long time!" he shuffled towards me, tie gaping around his pudgy neck. Champagne sloshed from the flute and onto the whizzing marble at his feet.
"How long's it been?" he grinned.
"Wednesday, mate. I saw you Wednesday."
"Which is a long bloody time if you ask me!”
“Sure,” I laughed.
“What the devil do we have here?" he thumped myRay-Bansand nearly knocked them from the top of my head. "Pull ittogether, lad. Have some dignity, will you? And what's this?" He surveyed my suit with an inquisitive leer. "St. Laurent?"
