“I like that better, too. But that’s not what they’re paying me for.”
“In that case, I have only one thing left to say to you. Do you even know what that is?”
J stands up and reaches for her. “What?” he asks. “Tell me.”
She leans over and whispers into his ear.
“Toaster.”
And with that, she disappears.
The next morning, he wakes up groggy, but still texts V,You up yet?
It isn’t until the afternoon that she replies,Things are intensifying here. Will try to find a moment later.
J finishes a draft of Celestia’s song. He can feel other songs starting to form underneath.
None of them are happy songs.
He sends in the draft of his lyrics and receives Celestia’s “notes” two days later. She isn’t at all put off by the “best money can buy” refrain. She just wants to add a few more brand names.
“There are still a few sponsorship opportunities,” Mikhail confides. “So there may be other additions or substitutions. Stay flexible.”
“I’ll try,” J grumbles.
What’s absurd to J—what’s truly absurd—is that his acceptance of the product placement in the song isn’t just about the money he’s being paid and his need to make a living off his art.
No, there’s something even more desperate underneath.
He’s reminded of another wedding he did—for not one buttwoinfluencers. They weren’t rich like Celestia and Roger, and they certainly had time to sit down and talk to J about their song, which they wanted to be about how they met (skiing) and not at all about their individual platforms.
The influencers were in their twenties, as influencers often are, and most of their guests fit that demographic as well. There was only one child at the wedding, a girl who was about five or six years old and dressed like a princess. After J played, the girl came up to him and asked, “Are you famous?” It was a question J would usually sidestep or laugh off, but coming from a young kid, he made an effort to give himself a little glory, so she could reflect in it.
“I’ve been a little famous,” he said.
With a deep assurance, she replied, “I am going to be famous,very soon. Princess is my brand.” She showed J the Instagram account that her mother had set up for her. In each image, the girl was dramatically clothed as a different princess—some fictional, some historical. When J was a child, this would have been called “dress-up” and would have occurred in a haphazard way after school. But nothing about this was haphazard. To J, it was all hazard.
Princess Girl’s mother appeared and said, “Darling, have you shown the man how many likes you got on your latest video?Everyone loves you when you’re Diana!” The girl showed J the video, pointing out how many followers she had, how many likes she got, and how many famous people were following her. Later that night she had a fit when she didn’t get enough attention, sitting on the floor, crying, “Am I not pretty enough to be a princess?” It was very unsettling.
But just as unsettling—now as then—was how J secretly wondered whether the girl had the right strategy. In this day and age, was it foolish to still be touring and releasing albums? It used to be that a big break would come when a famous DJ put your song into heavy rotation on an influential station, or maybe a song of yours would appear in a movie or a TV show. But now your best chance is for your song to be playing in a fifteen-second burst as a very passionate teenage girl you’ve never met complains about her heartbreak to her seven million followers. (Your song will get even more attention if she’s sobbing.)
So that’s the desperate hope under J’s acquiescence to Celestia’s whims: What if this ridiculous wedding is the thing that makes people take notice of him and his work? What if some of her almost arbitrary fame rubs off on him for a night?
J and V facetime. He is in bed, and she is pouring herself a glass of wine at her small kitchen table.
“I’m not even sure if there is such a thing as selling out these days,” V says after he explains how he’s feeling. “When everyone’s become a brand, isn’t that essentially the triumph of capitalism? It almost feels inevitable at this point.”
“What’s my brand?” J asks.
She laughs. “Are you serious? Swedish troubadour. Shepherd of the lonesome and the clever.”
“Fair.”
“And do you know what my brand is?”
There’s no challenge in her question, not really. But J finds himself utterly stumped.
The easy out would be to say, “I don’t want to think of you as a brand.” But instead he starts with “You’re...” and then lets it trail off.
