Free You Must Go and Win: Essays by Alina Simone Page B

how tiny or demoralizing, sending armloads of hand-addressed CD mailers to music journalists each week, usually without much response.
    Around the same time I couldn’t help but notice that another local singer, Lisa Cane, who’d also just released an album on a
similarly tiny label, seemed to be everywhere I wasn’t. Wherever my album got a blurb, she had a feature; wherever I managed a listing, she had an interview. The explanation was probably straightforward, I thought to myself. Her music must be a good deal better than mine. A freelancer for Spin puts her CD on the player and its sheer awesomeness blows a hole straight through the back of her head. Whereas mine? Meh. I didn’t give the matter a second thought until she started scoring opening slots for major acts, often playing two to three shows back to back in Manhattan, a practice that reliably pissed off bookers and got local bands banned from clubs for stretching their draw too thin. Something was up.
    Lisa Cane did not have a manager, a booking agent, or a brand-name label. She didn’t dance on bar stools naked, dress up like a velociraptor, or traffic in the kinds of scatological stunts that generate instant acclaim. Nor did she have a hit song or a large, homegrown fanbase. And yet Lisa Cane was managing to take the New York City music scene by storm. Within a couple months, she’d landed a deal with one of the best indie labels in the country. A small ache opened in my chest whenever I saw her name. How was it that she’d managed to arrive on the scene so fully formed and primed for ascent, I wondered? I was jealous. But I was also curious. So I went to her website and started looking around, hoping for some clues. And after a while, I found this mysterious directive: “For more information, contact Shellac.”
    Shellac, I learned, was a media relations and marketing company, but I still didn’t know exactly what that meant. I sent a vague note to the address listed, expressing interest in their “services,” and threw in a link to some of my MP3s for good measure. A reply came the next day from someone named Suzanne. She had listened to my songs and liked what she heard. Would I be interested in coming by the office for a visit to discuss my
music, and what Shellac might do for me? I agreed and we set a date.
    The following week, I showed up at the front desk of their cavernous space in the Flatiron District where the ceiling fans were whirring so far overhead they may as well have been helicopter blades spotted from the Brooklyn Bridge. I was overwhelmed by the sheer real-estate-ness of the place. A young woman who looked as though she’d just stepped out of a fashion spread in Vice magazine darted out from behind a workstation.
    “Alina? Suzanne,” she said, motioning me into a nearby office. “You’re in luck. Lea said she can join us.”
    “I’m sorry … who is Lea?”
    “Lea founded Shellac. Let’s wait to talk until she gets here.”
    A few minutes later, a formidable woman arrived in the doorway, announcing herself with a jangle of heavy jewelry.
    “We listened to your music,” Lea said, without stepping into the room. “Tell me—did Pitchfork review your EP?”
    “Y-yes,” I said.
    “And what was your number?”
    My number? No one had ever asked me for my Pitchfork score before. It was like asking someone their IQ or their cup size or the balance of their savings account. There must be a rule somewhere saying that you can’t just come right out and ask someone for their number without exchanging bodily fluids first. I was scared. I didn’t really know whether mine was a good number or a bad number, objectively speaking. The review had been pretty good. But the number? It wasn’t a terrible number, for sure. Not an amazing number, perhaps, but still—
    I gave Lea my number. She stood there thinking.
    “Okay,” she said at last, coming unstuck from the door frame, “we can talk.” Then she sank into a chair and