Read Time: 01:12
Before I’d even met him, my idea was to end up in Malibu like it was still the 60s, where music and art and writing and complicated relationships were the things.
Still, he didn’t mention that he was married when I met him.
He couldn’t read tablature, but he was a good enough guitar player that his Laurel Canyon friends would ask him to play at art openings or dinner parties hosted by Vogue people. He played stylized covers. It was fine enough.
He invited me to one of these numbers up on Wilshire, an art opening where he was playing, and there was an open bar. I left with a beautiful art book and a new Moleskine gilded with the gallery’s emblem, though they weren’t necessarily giving them away.
About the fact that I had just stolen beautiful books from an art gallery where he performed, he said, “Bonnie & Clyde.”
Later, he’s telling me about his cheating wife, and each pour of the 2015 Rombauer Merlot is warming a perilously close confidence. Everything he says feels like an admission, but to me, admissions feel like secrets. Admissions talk like they’re related to honesty and truth, but they’re second cousins at best.
He said, “I could love you.”
I said nothing.
He said, “So then, hire me as your assistant when you make it.”
I said, “You can’t even read music. You have to learn to read music.”
And he said, “That’s fine.”
HOME / ABOUT / RADIO / BACK TO TOP
Current Sh*t 