We wrap up with handshakes and promises to be in touch soon. Maya walks me out, chatting about how excited the team is, asking if I need anything, reminding me that they see real potential and want to make this work.
And then I’m standing outside the conference room, trying to process what just happened. They want to change everything. My sound, my lyrics, my look. Everything that makes my music mine. Or maybe I’m being unreasonable. Maybe this is just how it works. Maybe every artist goes through this and comes out the other side better for it.
I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.
Jack’s waiting in the lobby when I come down, exactly where he said he’d be. He’s sitting in one of those uncomfortable modern chairs, scrolling through his phone, but he stands up the second he sees me emerge from the elevators.
“Hey,” I say, and the relief that floods through me at seeing his familiar face is almost overwhelming.
His expression shifts immediately, reading me the way he always does now. “How did it go?”
“Good, I think? Maybe?” I glance back at the elevators, trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent. “They really liked my sound. Said the emotional honesty and vulnerability in my songwriting is exactly what they’re looking for in new artists.”
“That’s great.” He’s watching my face carefully. “So why do you look like someone just told you your dog died?”
“I just…” I start, then trail off because I don’t know how to explain the knot in my stomach.
He takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “Come on, let’s get out of here. You can tell me outside.”
We walk out into the LA sunshine, the heat hitting us immediately after the aggressive air conditioning inside. Jack steers us down the street toward a coffee shop with outdoor seating, and I’m grateful for his solid presence beside me, for the fact that he’s not pushing me to talk before I’m ready.
“They’re interested in signing me,” I say once we’re settled outside with overpriced iced lattes, and the words should feel celebratory but instead they feel complicated and heavy. “They want to move forward. Said my streaming numbers and social media growth show real potential, and they love my songwriting.”
“That’s incredible,” Jack says, but he’s still watching my face. “And?”
“And there’s a but. A big but.” I wrap both hands around my glass, trying to cool my sweaty palms. “Actually, several buts.”
“Tell me,” he says simply, his eyes locked on mine with complete focus.
So I do. I tell him everything. About how they want to change my sound, make it more pop, more commercial. Bringing in big-name producers and co-writers to “strengthen the hooks” and “modernize the production.” Simplifying my lyrics because they’re “too complex for mainstream audiences” and people want something they can sing along to without thinking.
“They kept saying they don’t want to change who I am as an artist,” I explain, hearing the doubt in my own voice. “But then in the next breath they’re listing all these things they want me to change. My sound, my lyrics, my image. They want to bring in a stylist to develop my ‘visual brand’ and create a ‘cohesive aesthetic’ across all platforms.”
Jack nods slowly, listening to everything without interrupting.
“I mean, this is how the industry works, right?” I continue, my coffee forgotten. “You don’t just walk into a major label and have them accept you exactly as you are with no changes. There are always going to be notes, suggestions, ways to make things more commercial and radio-friendly. That’s just reality.”
“Is it?” He’s watching me closely, his expression serious. “Or is that just what they told you to make you accept it?”
“Jack.” I set down my coffee, feeling defensive for reasons I don’t fully understand. “They’re the experts. They know what sells, what gets played on radio, what breaks artists into the mainstream. They’ve launched actual careers. Multiple platinum-selling artists. They know what they’re doing way better than I do.”
“Maybe,” he concedes carefully. “But you know your music. You know what you’re trying to say with your songs, why you write the way you do, what matters to you. Do their suggestions honor that or fundamentally change it?”
I open my mouth to respond, then close it again because I don’t have a good answer.
“Listen,” he continues gently. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do here, or whether you should or shouldn’t sign with them. If this is right for you, and you feel good about it in your gut, then go for it.”
My palms cling to the cold glass, the condensation the only thing that feels real right now.
“It’s your decision,” he continues. “But if they’re asking you to compromise things that matter to you, to fundamentally change what makes your music yours, then believe me when I say you’re talented enough that someone else will want to sign you. Someone who recognizes what you have and doesn’t want to sand down all the edges that make you interesting.”
I look down at my hands. “What if nobody else wants to sign me? What if this is my only shot and I blow it by being too precious about my ‘artistic vision’ or whatever?”
“Then you keep making music on your own terms until the right opportunity comes along,” he says simply. “Your streaming numbers are growing, you’re building a real following, people connect with your songs. You don’t need them.Theyneedyou.”
I want to believe that. I really do. “I don’t know,” I finally admit, shrugging helplessly. “Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe once I actually work with them it’ll feel different, more collaborative. Maybe I’m just scared of success or change or something and that’s why it feels wrong.”
“Maybe,” Jack says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe your gut is telling you something important and you should listen to it.”
