Bliss (12 page)

“In 1992,” Eva began, in the tone of an infomercial hostess, “a harmonizing black boy group’s single about the ‘end of the road’ bumped a white hero’s single about cruelty from its slot as the longest running number one single in the so-called rock era. And the twelve-week record—for Elvis Presley’s ‘Don’t Be Cruel’—had stood since 1956! After Whitney Houston tied Boyz II Men’s record in 1995 with her rendition of the Dolly Parton-penned ‘I Will Always Love You,’ Boyz II Men broke the record again! For fourteen weeks their ‘I’ll Make Love to You’ was the most popular song in America! Then, in 1996, Boyz II Men—in a quintet with Mariah Carey—stayed at number one for sixteen weeks with ‘One Sweet Day.’ Sweet! Before Boyz II Men proved it could be done, before hip hop music—and that includes acts like Jodeci and En Vogue and Mary J. Blige—became the nucleus of youth culture, even an artist who was a superstar among blacks had few hopes—with the exception of Michael Jackson—of selling the numbers of an artist popular among whites.” Eva curtsied, finished. But she added, at her chirpiest, “The confluence of hip hop, Boyz II Men, and Soundscan marked the beginning of a new era in pop music.” And then sat back down. A few people clapped. Myra and Hakeem were charmed. Eva was tired.

She rarely put the Boyz on the stereo anymore. She appreciated the foursome, though. Boyz II Men’s accidental politics had given Eva’s jobs the feel of a mission.

I thought since hip hop changed my world, it would change the world
.

Eva wished Sunny would walk in. The conversation was turning to what it always did: the Grind.

Black and black-identified Latino personnel—vice presidents, directors of sales, managers of promotions, assistants to senior directors—worked colored rappers and singers at colored venues and colored radio stations and colored magazines until the act went—if it went—
“pop.” The marker was usually one million albums sold—aka “platinum.”

Then the artist moved over to the regular or pop side—the white side—of the label. There the white staff that worked for the white president worked the artist—who was now “mainstream” and so would benefit from being worked by people with “mainstream”/white press and white/“pop” video and Top Forty radio contacts.

Once platinum, the black artist (sadly, ecstatically, or in a quandary) left the colored side.

Some colored employees tearfully waved the artist off, as if it were a graduation.

Some bitched.

Got thrown juicy little bones.

Occasionally, an artist stomped feet in order to have a favored colored exec still active on a project, even as he or she became more super than star.

But the artist went over
.

He or she had to in order to be considered, within the particular label, a real artist.

Real pop acts made real money.

Colored label employees got sick of the separate but unequal setup. Along with the rise of hip hop, resentments that had festered for years in urban music departments oozed at last. Eva was a part of that ooze.

I’ma get more/’Cause I’m financially secure and I’m sure/So I don’t need your tips or advice
.

Special Ed, born Edward Archer in Brooklyn. Debuted in 1989 at sixteen with
Youngest in Charge.

“Eva. Check in, please,” Hakeem said.

Eva wouldn’t be pulled from her brooding. She didn’t want to be with Hakeem or Myra, and she was getting sick of paradise.

Before
Rolling Stone
began putting iced-out, accommodating-ass MCs on its cover, before MTV started covering and playing hip hop to a larger extent and with more creativity than BET, before rap music became the pop rule instead of the maligned exception, before hip hop started
accounting, with every passing quarter, for more and more major label profits, us “urban” execs accepted our second-best status as a tax on the money we make
.

We accept it as an uncomfortable but profitable cross to bear
.

Eva was dirty with the knowledge that but for icons like Russell Simmons, Meri Heath, and Puffy Combs and a few low-profile bigwigs who wielded big sticks, for the most part the situation at the labels remained intact, if not so obvious in terms of job titles. “Urban,” aka “black,” departments began to merge with “pop” departments not in the interest of fairness, but because it had come to the point where whites in the pop departments had next to no “rock” to promote for their salaries. And, when departments did merge, and people had to be let go, some whites were fired, but like as not, it was colored people who were granted two months’ severance and best wishes for their future endeavors.

It’s life. It’s reality. That’s what I say. That’s what we all say
.

The unfairness was clear and verifiable. There was an occasional stink, a rare suit. But the money to be made was too much, the parties too fierce, the expense accounts too boundless, the discriminatory ways of corporate America too embedded in the psyches and habits of whites and nonwhites alike. Hip hop had changed everything—and not much, at all.

We all would do most anything just to be in hip hop, to be large in it
.

And like those boys rushing Ron, we’ve eaten shit willingly
.

And there is no doubt
, Eva thought,
I am in on it
.

“What I’m saying is, there’s no loyalty anymore! Eva? You hear me.”

“You want me to talk about artists staying loyal?” Eva snapped at him. “Talk about how I convinced lazy-ass promoters to sell wack MCs to wack chitlin’ radio when the MC was still Willie Lunchmeat from Queens? Broke-Ass Brenda from Flint? Shit—Sunny Addison from San Diego? That’s what you want me to talk about, for the eight millionth time?”

Hakeem was amused by her anger. “Yes, love. Indulge me. Break down how we all came up in this.”

In this business, in this
life,
somebody always trying to make you prove your origins. Your hometown, yeah, but truly, your
origins.
Want you
to tell them, in one way or another, that you identify. Want you to state that you’re happy but not too happy with the size of your check and the options it grants. Let’s sit up here and remind each other of the contracts signed, fondle the songs created and re-created, songs marketed and promoted and shipped. Let’s relive parties planned and attended, deals cut, cornballs cut out, sex had, children inconveniently born, fans surprised or delighted or disappointed but still spending fifteen dollars on a disc you thought up or helped name or approved the budget for, something you knew was genius or truth or crap—who cared, the shit was hot. And everybody got paid. Everybody in your circle, anyway. Your cool-ass compadres. The fans, if they’re broke, or desperate, or manipulated, what then? The music soothes them, hypes them, serves them. This is a business. Those mufuckers make their own decisions. God bless ’em, but shit: we’re all grown
.

And here’s Hakeem, talking about, Remind me, Miss Eva, Miss Sister-of-Mine, Sister Love, Sister-Who-Is-Down-for-the-Cause. Remind me that you still know who you are, Evey. Indulge me. We walk this road together. Sing that song
.

Eva demanded them herself, the fissile pledges of solidarity. At Lost City, as she went along to get along, Eva hated it. But she turned herself up. Turned it on. She knew how to do that.

Got to give the people what they want
. “You,” Eva said, smiling like a hoochie, like a tough girl still ready to please. “You who was high rollin’ before you had a roll? Who flew into town pimpy and shot callin’, new AmEx hot off the press?” Today she’d take the easy way, prove her history by telling his.

“Yes, love! My first corporate card. Talk about it!”

“That super-fun pass. Magic—separate from your own fucked-up credit.”

“Yes, Eva!”

“You with Chicago
and
Baltimore
and
Brooklyn stains still on your shirt!” Her laugh was crispy at the edges.

“I let fools know, though! However I looked!”

Myra wouldn’t be left out. All she needed was her hand over her heart. “
I
let ’em know who Hawk
really
is,” she piped in. “These negroes and negresses with their big heads, I remind ’em—Hawk bought you a burger and put you up at the biggest Holiday Inn you
ever saw, didn’t he? Hawk saw money in you when your nails were still bent back and bleeding from the clawing you did to get in this game.”

Oh yes
, Eva thought,
go picturesque on us, Myra. Bring it to life!
“What do you tell ’em when they say, ‘So what?’ What do you tell ’em then, Myra?”

“I say, big deal you had had a local following, a college radio hit. So
what
. When you were working at Kinko’s so you could design and copy fliers for free, Hawk came through with a contract.”

“Hawk don’t care about no one but himself,” Eva said. “As long as the liner notes say, ‘Last but not least, I want to thank my man Hawk, for giving me a chance.’ That’s all he cares about.”

“Exactly,” Hakeem said like he was locking a door. “That, and a check. As long as the love comes with a goddamned check.”

If you hate yourself, you should say it out loud. Hakeem Marcus Watkins, born 1958 on the South Side of Chicago, Illinois, he understood self-hatred, and he believed in it. It was normal. But to mull over it, to be distracted by it—
Check in, Eva
—was an insult to the greater discontent. A pause in Eva’s beeline made Hakeem take pause, which would make Myra take pause, and so on and so on, and then how much work would get done? Hakeem refused to fall with Eva into thoughts outside of the music business, outside the dome in which the living seemed easy. What Hakeem cared about was points, period. Once Eva made associate general manager, Hakeem told her that’s all she should care about. The title itself, he’d told her way before Paradise Island, didn’t mean shit. “All the race music Roadshow puts out?” Hakeem often called it
race music
, like folks had in the old days. He wasn’t old enough to have ever used the language when it was popular, but he called singles “sides,” too, sometimes. For Hakeem it was a kind of homage, and a reminder. “All the niggas Roadshow’s robbed? They need a black girl up there. To deflect all that. To monitor the negroes. Get your points, Eva. Shit. Get paid.” Eva had taken Hakeem at his word.

I
n the lobby bar, Hakeem said, “Relax your little body.” In his ambiguous capacity as consultant, Hakeem made money off Sunny’s back end. “Your cash cow,” he said, “will stomp in here any minute.”

“We gotta
use
your power, Eva.” Myra was talking, almost to herself. All she needed was a fan to flutter at her face. “‘Cause you
know
you got it. You can make this industry different. Help black people get the money and
respect
they deserve.”

“Sun’s not a cash cow,” Eva said. “Don’t call her that.” Eva had called Sunny a cash cow so many times she couldn’t count.

“You’re the only black person even working Sunny’s project,” Myra said. “They got them others doing her marketing, her promotion—”

“I do her marketing, Myra,” Eva said coldly. “I supervise her whole everything.”

“I know, miss, I know. Don’t get touchy. I’m your friend. Look out for you even though you never come to our Square Biz soirees. But I’m talking about the
real
marketing, sweetums. I know you handle what they
let
you handle. I know you’re doing a lot, but I’m talking about her pop marketing—”

“Because you know all about that,” Eva said. “Because you’re an expert.”

“—what those white boys talk about at the meetings Miss Eva isn’t invited to.” Myra paused. “Ron’s in those kind of meetings, where he works.”

Fuck you
. “Ron’s Ron. I win with Sun. Everybody else,” Eva said, looking firmly at Myra, “waits for her to fall.”
Waits for me to fall
.

“Of course folks is waiting on a fall!” Hakeem was still amped. He slammed his glass on the table, disturbing peanuts. “The bitch sold nineteen million with
Poems
. Out the gate! Where’s she at now,” Hakeem asked, “with … what’s the name of that shit?’

“You know exactly,” Eva said, turning her glare on him. “Nine million. With
Bliss Unknown
.”

“And it’s a double CD.” Hakeem shook his head. He weighed peanuts in his hand like they were gold pieces.

Myra tut-tutted. “Do it right, Evey, and Sunny’s here for the long haul.”

“Myra. Sip your whiskey. No one’s here for the long haul.” He put a finger on the inch of bare belly showing between Eva’s sheer pullover and her wraparound skirt. “Eva’s thinking about what’s next, who’s next.” He rubbed the stripe of skin and Eva let him. Eva
frowned at Myra as Hakeem said, “I can see it in Evey’s little eyebrows … all scrunched up … Evey’s thinking. Figuring out who she’s gonna make happen when the Sun goes down.”

Legs crossed at the knee, Eva pulled a strand of hair stuck in her lip gloss.

Nobody has this gloss but me. Got it in London. At a boutique. Sunny doesn’t even know about it
.

Eva looked again at the front doors of the hotel.
People with real lives
, she thought.
Coming and going
.