Free Rock On by Dan Kennedy Page B

leave. They take off their headphones and we all file out of the studio; I close the door and it fades back into the wall. We say good-bye; they keep asking me if it was goodenough.
Yes, God, it was good enough. Just go. You’ve done enough
. They walk down the south hall back to fancy elevators that will gently set them back down on the street twenty-six stories below so they can be on their way to their hotel before playing for a venue packed with adoring fans. I take a different elevator. An elevator that takes a much shorter trip two floors down. Time to get back into my office, check my e-mail, surf the Internet, and, well, heal.

F REE L YRICS FOR A NY A LL -G IRL R OCK B AND T RYING TO W IN O VER THE M IDDLE -A GED W HITE S UBURBAN M ALE D EMOGRAPHIC
    I think that’s muscle, not fat.
    I think you’re hair’s still rad.
    You and your friends still seem like rockers.
    It turns me on, the way you tuck your short-sleeve Polo
    into your pleated khaki Dockers.
    Hey, baby, did you hear?
    Big changes in the tax laws this year.
    You can write off almost all of your travel
    Doesn’t matter if it’s business or personal.
    What? [sexy moan] Oh, yeah!
    [Chorus]
    Hello, Sir, we wanna do it to you after the show.
    Hello, mister, we could do it and your wife would never know.
    We wanna have two Amstel Lights
    and party till eleven on a Tuesday night, yeah!
    I think your four-door rocks.
    I love those sandals with those socks.
    I swear to God you turn me on.
    It gets me hot when you brag about
    Underreporting your gross annual income.
    [solo, repeat chorus, to END]

F OR T HOSE A BOUT TO R OCK IN V ALLERIE’S O FFICE , W E P OLITELY S ALUTE Y OU
    I’m staring at the calming, soothing colors of the calendar on my computer screen when suddenly Amy interrupts my post-Donnas healing process.
    â€œWe’re all heading down to Vallerie’s office to hear this guy that they just signed.”
    Act like you don’t hear her
.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her still standing in my doorway.
    Ignore her. She answers your phone. She can’t boss you around. She’s so nice, though. I want to be young again like her. Jesus, easy, Sport
.
    â€œVallerie’s office in ten minutes if you want to hear this new guy.”
    â€œOh, yeah. Good. Just checking . . . things on my computer. The calendar there. Good. Looks good.”
    There is something entirely surreal and uncomfortable about being crammed into an office with your coworkers and bosses while a newly signed star-to-be sits in an ergonomically correct office chair with an acoustic guitar and emotionally croons about heartbreak and sexual mishaps; almost always about the general rigors of young hard-living lovers plagued with emotional problems and bound for quasicrippling emotional disaster designed to bring a tear to your eye, it seems.
    I mean, I’m not saying I even find them particularly moving. I’m just saying . . . we’re all being shoved into an office together listening to songs that are supposed to make you cry . . . and we’re at work. So I’m concerned that, you know, worst-case scenario, somebody gets choked up in there; that would be a little awkward. And the musicians who do this, they always look completely comfortable in their skin, oddly enough. Totally fine doing this. Most people would feel pretty damn awkward even talking too much about a health insurance claim while sitting in somebody’s office, but these guys seem to be able to sing about relationship difficulties, struggles with addiction, sexual problems, emotional inadequacies, you name it! They seem to be saying, “Want to hear an intimate performance of my song that talks about my inconsistent weight, surprisingly positive sperm analysis, divorce, and subsequent pill addiction? No problem, which office do you want me to play it in?” My hat is off to them. I can’t even talk to my boss about my weekend plans without