Read Rock On for Free Online Page B

now I’m too hung over to be watching it and, Jesus, I think I’m going to cry or something. What if the lights come on and Ice-T sees me standing here crying? He will kill me. Have you heard this guy’s songs? Jesus, he probably actually has a song about killing guys that look like they’re about to cry over their own commercial.
    The spot finishes and George’s assistant is about to turn on the lights when George says not to. Thank God. Maybe he doesn’t want to be seen getting ready to cry? But then George says the reason we’re leaving the lights off is because we’re going to watch it again. Oh, shit. This means they’ve found a mistake or something. Why did I take this on? At the end of the second time, the lights come back on. These two men are still facing away from me, and they stay seated, not saying a word. I’m standing an arm’s length away and slightly behind them and it’s quiet. Way too quiet. George Jackson, without looking, out of nowhere pulls back his huge arm and punches me hard in the shoulder. And since his hand is about the size of my entire head and neck region, I am off balance and tilting, now falling, slow-motion up against the wall. Shit. I got it wrong. My slow motion fall up against the wall continues, and while it’s all happening, I’m thinking:
I swear, I’m on your side, brother
. Strangely, I still have a nervous polite smile on my face. I settle up against the wall; it’s still quiet. And then he starts laughing. Through his huge booming laugh and with a smile in his voice, George Jackson says, “Dan Kennedy! Goddamn!”
    And Ice-T says, “That’s right, you know what I’m sayin’? What you did right there, you showed that it’s history. It’smusic, yeah, but it’s a part of America, see. That’s what makes it so . . . so moving.”
    I readjust my body so I’m not falling against the wall anymore. Kind of make it look like I was done with what I hoped came off as a casual and confident leaning, as opposed to being a medium-frame white guy who was knocked off balance and startled.
    â€œThat’s why the man gets paid. Right there. That’s why,” George says. I think at best I managed to quietly mumble something like, “Hey . . .” then.

    A week or two later I’m in George’s office to talk about doing an ad campaign for the Marvin Gaye remastered CD that Motown is releasing in a few months. About ten minutes into this visit, Stevie Wonder walks into the room. My twenty-nine-year-old brain tries to process the string of events:
    1. Hung over again.
    2. On my lunch hour, need to get back soon.
    3. I am shaking Stevie Wonder’s hand.
    Mr. Wonder reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small DAT tape, telling George that he recorded this song at home last night and that George absolutely needs to hear it, that he feels like it’s one of the best songs he’s ever written. Holy God, I am going to hear a song that Stevie Wonder wrote less than twenty-four hours ago. A song that he’s standing right here saying he thinks is one of the best things he’s written.
    â€œI’m tellin’ you . . . George, you gotta hear this. Put this in and turn it up.” This from Stevie Wonder, now standing about fourteen inches to my left.
    How is any of this happening? In my head, I reel and stagger, trying to figure out what any of this means. Does this mean my life is the type of thing where I spend my lunch hour sitting around with the man who wrote “Superstition” and “Higher Ground,” shooting the shit, listening to demo songs, having a laugh? Have I been admitted to some club that I don’t even realize I’m part of yet?
    â€œHang on, let me get finished with Kennedy about this TV stuff and get him on his way here. Then you and I, we’ll sit down and we’ll listen to it.”

    Duly noted.

F URTHER P ERSONAL