It has been months since my musical group disbanded. I get a call in mid-summer from a music producer named Lonny in Ontario, California (whom we had been referred to by a friend). We met him once, and made plans to make a demo tape, but never made it past the planning stage.
“Pamela, are you and your friends ready to record an album?” he inquires.
“Oh, Lonny, I’m sorry, but we aren’t a group anymore. My friends dropped out for personal reasons,” I tell him.
“Too bad for them. But you don’t need them. You can do it on your own. Go solo as a country artist. I’ll help you,” Lonny responds enthusiastically.
“I don’t know, Lonny. I’m not that talented,” I reply dismissively.
“Pamela, you’ve got it all! The looks. The voice. The moves. You are going to be big!” Lonny exclaims, talking faster and louder. “I have this song I’ve been trying to promote for ten years. I’ve always said, ‘Lonny, when you find the right person this song is going to be huge.’ I think YOU are the right person, Pam!”
“Really? You think I’ve got what it takes?” I am still skeptical, but Lonny seems so excited. “What is the name of the song?”
“I want to spend the night in a sleazy hotel with you.”
I burst out laughing.
“Lonny, you have got to be kidding me,” I say, trying to stifle my laugh. “I can’t sing that.”
“I know it sounds a little funny but think of some of the biggest country hits over the years,” Lonny says, pausing. I can tell he’s taking a drag on a cigarette. He continues, “Many of them have off the wall titles, like ‘It wasn’t God who Made Honky Tonk Angels’ and ‘Don’t Come Home a Drinkin.’ Trust me, it’s going to be huge!”
I hadn’t heard of either of those songs, and I am not convinced.
“Gosh, I don’t know, Lonny. I don’t think I can sing that. It sounds so… well…sleazy,” I reply.
“But wait, Pamela. I haven’t told you about the video,” Lonny says with excitement.
He goes on to explain his concept for the music video for this supposed huge country hit. A bride and groom who have just married are driving in a convertible. They are on a back road, driving through the desert on their way home from Las Vegas. They come across a run down sleazy motel out in the middle of nowhere. There is nothing around for miles. The bride sings to her husband, “I want to spend the night in a sleazy motel with you.”
Hearing the concept for the video makes the song a bit more palatable, since the couple is married. What else do I have going for me right now? I have a degree in music. Maybe this is what I am supposed to be doing. What do I have to lose? I may as well give it a shot. Take a risk and go for it.
“Well, okay, Lonny, I’ll give it a try,” I reply.
“Great! That’s just great, Pamela. It is going to be huge! You are going to be a big star!”
A couple weeks later, I drive to his place in Ontario. I knock on a door at the back of the house, as instructed. Lonny opens the door and invites me into his one-room studio. The room is small and smells strongly of cigarette smoke. The walls are covered with wood paneling, and faded black velvet drapes cover the two windows. On one side of the room is an old desk with a green leather chair behind it. The other half of the room is filled with recording equipment and a keyboard.
Lonny, who is about six foot one, and looks to be around sixty years old, is clad in a pale green button up shirt, and khaki pants. I am comforted by the fact that he looks somewhat professional. I think I’d be more concerned if he was wearing polyester and gold chains. He lights a cigarette, inhales deeply, and peers at me.
“Are you ready to get started, Pamela?”
He mailed me the lyrics and sheet music for the song, so I’ve been practicing for about a week. Lonny asks me to sing through the song one time so he can see how I do. He shows me where to stand, and then pushes a button on the panel. The instrumental notes of the song fill the room.
“Do you know where to jump in?” he yells over the music.
“Yes,” I yell back.
I feel the performance goes fairly well. Lonny, who has been leaning back in the green leather chair throughout the song, stands up and walks slowly over to me.
“Pamela,” he says, shaking his head. “We have some work to do.”
I am in the studio for about two hours. Line by line, Lonny shows me exactly how he wants me to perform the song — inflections, tone, volume, facial expressions, hand gestures, hip gyrations, and movement around the “stage.”
“Pamela, you need to loosen up,” he says at one point. “You look too nervous and stiff.”
Watching Lonny shake his hips like a woman and throw his imaginary long hair back is comical. I wonder to myself if this is how most record producers operate.
I do my best to shake it like Lonny.
“Pamela, make your voice more raspy in this section,” he instructs, and repeats a line in a throaty female impersonation, which sounds really horrible.
I’m channeling Tina Turner performing “What’s Love Got to Do With It” as I sing the section over again, hoping it doesn’t sound anything like he just did.
A week later, I return for more intensive instruction from my “vocal coach.” After two hours, he either thinks I’m actually ready to perform or he’s given up on improving me, and announces, “Okay, Pamela. I want you to audition for my partner in Las Vegas.”
Lonny has a business partner named Albert who will have the final say. If he likes me, Albert will find a third party who will produce the record and a music video. I was under the initial impression that Lonny would produce the record, but I guess he is more of a talent scout. And vocal coach of course. This music business is complicated. I had no idea there were so many steps in the process.
I’m a little leery of the whole thing, since I am supposed to meet Albert in a hotel room at the Aladdin in Vegas. I can be really naive, but even I know bad things can happen to a girl in Vegas. I talk Smitty into going with me.
After a five-hour drive, we pull up to the Aladdin in my Thunderbird. We step into the lobby and recognize Albert immediately, because Lonny instructed, “Just look for the huge guy with black glasses.” Albert, who has a buzz cut and dark black rimmed glasses, is about six feet, three inches tall and must be close to three hundred pounds. He is wearing a yellow button up polyester shirt and polyester pants with a belt. I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses, because the buttons on the shirt look like they are about to pop off at any moment. I notice a gold chain around his neck. Uh oh. Polyester and gold chains. Big red flag.
Albert announces he is taking us to lunch first and leads us out to his convertible Cadillac. Smitty climbs in the back, and I sit in the front. As we drive to the restaurant, I keep sneaking sideways glances at Smitty, who has her hands over her mouth the entire ride. I hear snorts and giggles. I try so hard not to laugh, but I am on the verge of losing it. I pinch my arm to distract myself. I doubt any major country music star got their start this way. I’m thankful I brought Smitty with me.
After lunch, we head back to the Aladdin and take the elevator to Albert’s room. I have dressed up for my audition. I am wearing a white sheer blouse, a white flowing skirt with a colorful flower motif, and white high heels.
“So where do you want me?” I ask Albert, and bite my lip, as I realize I might not want to be saying that.
“Oh just stand over there by the window,” he responds. “Smitty, you can sit on that chair in the corner.”
Albert plops himself down on the edge of the king size bed, and the whole bed shakes and groans.
I pull my cassette tape player out of my bag, pop in the cassette with the background music on it, and push the play button.
I am nervous, sweating, and have to pee. I glance at Smitty, who has her head buried in her knees. I can see her shaking, so I know she is laughing. I am going to kill her.
I focus on Albert and dive into the song. As I sing, “I Want to Spend the Night in a Sleazy Motel with You,” I think the song choice couldn’t be any more inappropriate for this moment.
Despite the distraction in the corner and the crazy thoughts bouncing around my head, I think I perform the song fairly well. Albert doesn’t say much.
“Sing it again please.”
I repeat my performance, avoiding even a glance at Smitty. I’m glad I can’t hear her above the music. I assume she’s still laughing.
“That was good. Very good, Pam,” Albert announces. “Thank you for coming to audition. I will be in touch. I need to make a few calls to my associates, and we’ll try to get you hooked up with someone who can produce your record.”
Smitty and I both shake Albert’s hand. As we walk through the door, I smack her in the back of the head. The moment the door closes, we both dissolve into cackling laughter. I grab her hand and pull her down the hall so Albert can’t hear us.
What a joke.
“What was that?” I ask, between fits of laughter.
“I have no idea, but I sure am glad I came with you,” she responds, doubling over again, as tears run down her face.
So much for my recording career.