Music

For several years, songwriting was my passion and my primary pursuit. I was in a band -- one of the first all-female bands, called Phoenix Rising. And when I wasn't performing with them I was either playing koto (Japanese harp, my primary instrument) for the New York City Ballet or doing solo gigs at college campuses. The painter Kenneth Noland heard me perform and offered to introduce me to his good friend, a powerful man whose name I didn't recognize then, but who was the head of a Major Record Label and who had the initials A.E.

After our introduction, A.E. invited me to audition for him, so I showed up at his offices carrying guitar, dulcimer and koto, the latter being six feet long. (I was quite an apparition getting through the double glass doors.) He watched with fascination as I set up (it took about twenty minutes) and listened attentively as I played several songs.

"Right," he said. "You're an excellent singer, a good songwriter, and your music belongs somewhere between Joni Mitchell and Laura Nyro with a little of Carly Simon mixed in. I'd like to sign you to the label and we'll start with the basic tracks in January."

As this was December, I didn't have long to wait. Ecstatic, I did my best not to walk backwards and bow with each step as I left the building. I was a college student at the time and was staying with friends in New York and that afternoon I excitedly told my girlfriend Patrice the news! She had to do an errand, she said, and then we'd go celebrate. She asked that I answer the phone while she was out.

When the phone rang, imagine my surprise when it was A.E. calling. Could I come have dinner tonight? he wanted to know. Worried that no answer would be a good one, I tactfully explained that I had plans that evening, but told him how excited I was about January and how hard I'd be working to prepare.

"Oh, bring your girlfriend," he said, as though I hadn't declined his invitation at all. "I'll bring someone for her too."

I couldn't think fast enough to come up with another excuse, so, reluctantly, I agreed to meet him. (I could think up plenty of excuses now, but I was only eighteen at the time.) When Patrice got home I told her our dilemma.

"No problem," she said, she'd be my chaperone.

We met A.E. and his friend B. (the manager of a popular group called "Yes") and we had a dinner full of forced cheerfulness and awkward small talk. A.E. lurked behind his glasses and leered, but exhibited the polished manners of a European diplomat and I was lulled into a false sense of security. Next, A.E. suggested we go to the Carlyle to hear Bobby Short perform, which sounded like a marvelous treat. Imagine my surprise when we walked past the room where Mr. Short was playing and proceeded directly to the elevators.

"Where are we going?" I asked, puzzled. "Oh, I keep a suite here," A.E. replied.

The tension in the elevator was intense enough to snap the cables, but we arrived on some upper floor and were ushered into a sumptuous living room. I turned on the all the lights and asked if we could order coffee from room service -- anything to keep the evening from degenerating into a bedroom scene.

When Patrice excused herself to use the restroom, A.E.'s friend B. mysteriously locked the adjoining door and my girlfriend was never able to make her way back into the living room where I now faced A.E. alone. Leering like a troll under a bridge, he performed a Groucho Marx walk in my direction and I began backing away. Had I not been so terrified, the scene would have been comical -- a real French farce with innocent girl trying to escape, rounding the bed of the sofa one more time, and dastardly villain giving chase and showing no mercy.

After bending my arm back far enough I thought it would break, he marveled that I didn't cave in to his advances. Finally, A.E. did something I'd never seen before -- he sat sideways on a large, overstuffed chair, and began to pout. Lip protruding, eyes dropping, it was a cartoon-perfect sulk.

"I don't like being put off by you," he said in comically dejected tones.

"Then don't put yourself in a position to be put off by me," I replied.

It was, of course, the wrong thing to say, if I wanted to preserve any sort of relationship with this individual. But that was the furthest thing from my mind at that moment. Reaching for my coat, I slipped past him and sped to the elevator, knocking on adjacent doors and calling for Patrice as I went. I couldn't find her, but I did make it safely to the lobby and stepped outside for a cab. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I turned around and saw A.E. standing next to me. Before I could stop him, he took me by the elbow and maneuvered me into his waiting limo.

"You're taking me home," I said with more authority than I felt.

"Fine."

Luckily for me, he was still pouting. We rode in sullen silence for several blocks as the limo headed downtown toward the Village. Then began the lecture.

"Now I have to start again to find someone," he sulked.

Paying no attention to his remark, I drew instead upon my own diplomatic training.

"It was a wonderful dinner," I lied. "How generous of you to take all of us out."

"How dare you waste my time," he said.

At last we arrived at Patrice's building and I could only hope she'd made it home safely --(she had.)

"Thank you again," I even mustered a smile. "I'm looking forward to January!"

"Oh, I don't think so," he said, an evil glint coming into his eyes.

The next day I received a call from his office to the effect that my January recording session had been cancelled until further notice. It took twenty years, but one day I realized I'd become an audio producer and had a recording studio. With the encouragement and expertise of a pro who's also a dear friend, I co-produced the long awaited album and "Manhattan Malibu" made its debut as a 70s album in the 90s. I still think A.E. was right about one thing - I was a good songwriter.

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