Then.
Shit blew up. Things changed.
* * *
—
If there was a Broadway musical of my life, the delivery of the first Ben Folds Five album would be the end of act one. Not because the success of that album was overwhelming, but because, as of that day, I was officially a recording artist, and that alone made me feel a little more at home in my skin. I could take “aspiring” off my job description. I wouldn’t have to hide the fact that I was a musician from prospective landlords and employers. That voice in the back of my mind that was concerned my parents would always worry about me could hush. I was no longer a tumbleweed with a demo tape begging to be heard.
I would have breathed a sigh of relief had there been a split second to process it all. But there was no intermission after act one. I was shot out of a cannon directly into act two before the audience could even return from the bathroom. Gone were the late nights of writing at a notebook in my bed, surrounded by empty album jackets, pizza boxes, and balled-up pieces of paper. I’d enjoyed going to sleep as the sun rose. I’d enjoyed reaching for my glasses at 2 P.M. and stumbling up to get a burrito and a Coke for breakfast. I’d thought it was funny to be an adult who was constantly reminded by strangers that he should tie his shoes.
Now it was different. I found myself waking up with the rest of the working world. It started with early mornings to take phone calls from the U.K., remaining tethered to the phone until the West Coast had concluded business hours. Back in this era of the music business, the three months prior to a new-album release were jam-packed with business and promotion for the band and label—if you were so lucky. For the first time in my life I knew what I would be doing the next day, month, and even year. We had plans. Plans to eat up every ounce of day and night we could handle. Every silent space would be filled and I would always be on the move. And I knew I could handle it all, so I said yes to everything. I was given the Script™ and was happy to follow it note for note. It went like this, robotically: “record-tour-record-tour.” Amazing. No need to ruminate on life and my future. This was the future, and it was full of plenty to keep me busy.
I stay focused on details—it keeps me from feeling the big things
—From “Still,” Over The Hedge soundtrack, 2006
The buzz about our soon-to-be-released debut album set off interest from major labels who wanted to buy our yet-to-be-conceived second album. Before our first album had even hit shelves, we found ourselves consumed by the process of major-label courting for the second one. But sleep could wait. In a business like this, I figured, you get one chance if you’re lucky. I was twenty-eight years old and nearly aged out of the rock business. All of this, I figured, was happening just under the wire.
Some mornings I’d open the front door to discover stacks of massive boxes containing every record Warner, EMI, or Sony had ever made. Each label that was pursuing us had their entire catalog sent to my house. Just that alone was overwhelming. I was used to a normal life of acquiring one album at a time, listening on repeat for weeks until I could afford the next. Now I suddenly owned more than I could ever listen to. Hundreds of CDs spread across my living room floor. I’d play ten seconds of each, tossing them around the room like confetti while opening the plastic wrapping of the next. But record-bingeing wasn’t as satisfying as I would have imagined. I felt like an out-of-control CD junkie, trying to soak up all of recorded music history in spare minutes.
As the setup period for the first album raged on, the front yard became my office. I’d pace around outside with my old-school chunky wireless landline phone, bullshitting my way through interviews. I spent all day talking about myself. I’m sure my next-door neighbor must have looked across the yard like, what a douche, as I wore a line in the grass, spouting God knows what kind of crap.
Front-yard office, Chapel Hill, 1994
Between press calls, I’d get updates from Alan on the major-label bidding war, names of the last five people to say I was great, the daily list of five-star reviews, who would be at what show, and what opportunities couldn’t be missed.
It was an exciting day when Alan called to tell me we had our first national review—exciting for a few minutes, anyway. It was a glowing review, in Entertainment Weekly, and Alan read the whole thing to me over the phone. They rated the album an A-minus, a rating that, he added, wasn’t given out “like candy.” But it was candy, all right, for my little ego. Alan read all the good bits again for emphasis. It soon occurred to me to ask the obvious: “Was there another review this week with a higher grade?”
He flipped around the reviews section a bit. “Yes,” he said. “A band called Garbage.”
“Garbage, huh? So, what’s their grade?” I asked.
“A-plus.”
Innocence lost. You learn quickly that no sales number, no review, no award, will ever be good enough.
* * *
—
Alan kept me constantly up to date on all the amazing developments, like how many records had shipped. As long as the figures continued to rise, which they did, I was happy. Offers poured in from everywhere for things I’d never dreamed of doing. I’d grab my calendar as he added shows, turning each month ahead into a black page. It was all good news all the time. Every call-waiting beep was like a bell at the county fair, winning more and more prizes. Yippeeeee!
It was on an afternoon of such exhaustingly ego-inflating calls that I put one on hold and hit CALL WAITING to receive the next goody. But this wasn’t the standard welcome-to-our-showroom-of-prizes call. It was Dave “Stiff” Johnson, the producer of the abandoned and vaulted version of our album. We hadn’t spoken since the mix.
“Hello, Ben speaking,” I answered.
“Well, well, well! Mr. ‘Ben Speaking’! Mr. Ben fucking Folds! Welcome to the goddamn music business!” Dave shouted maniacally, almost as if he were singing. “You’re gonna do just great in this cutthroat business, you fucking asshole!”
Oh no! It seemed nobody had told Stiff that we had rerecorded the whole album. He hadn’t even received a courtesy call or letter—not from management, the label, or us. Dave Johnson had to find out for himself that not a second of his production was to be found on our release. He had just read about it in a magazine, picked up the phone, and was dealing me an earful. It’s possible my neighbor could hear him through my phone too. But Dave was right. And I needed to hear it.
It seemed my new place in act two of my life elicited far more intense reactions than I had experienced before, both good and bad. My decisions now affected others. I guess it’s called responsibility—not that special. It’s just that being chewed out for being late to wait tables never quite had the emotional torque I had gotten from Dave Johnson. This wasn’t just Life as Usual + Fun Prizes. It was a mixed bag.