The Asset by Shane Kuhn Read Free Book Online

music to Motown to punk. Two years after Belle died, Sierra signed with a label. She had a couple of Billboard singles at eighteen, and seemed destined for stardom, but found herself being sucked into a world of drugs, sleazy older executives with foul intentions, and artistic imprisonment. So one day she just up and quit, changed her name to Love, and started over, building her career from the ground up, on her terms. Kennedy had very little contact with her in her twenties but heard stories from old friends about how she made a few albums on indie labels, did small-club touring, and worked as a session player.
    And there she was, playing an in-studio session with Nic Harcourt, the bellwether DJ and tastemaker who’d made stars of Coldplay and Norah Jones. Hearing her voice brought back a flood of memories Kennedy hadn’t conjured in many years.
    â€œThat track is off your new album, which is your first in a couple of years, right?” Nic asked.
    â€œYeah, I really took my time with it. I wanted every song to be well thought out and have a life of its own. I hate the notion of B-side tracks so I work on each track as if it were going to be a single.”
    â€œIt shows. It’s rare for me to listen to a record and not have at least one song I always skip past. But I like them all.”
    â€œThank you. It’s really nice to finally get some recognition for my work . . . from the right place, that is.”
    She sounded the same. Maybe a little more mature than when they were kids, but she still had the same old charmingly smart mouth.
    â€œLet’s talk about that. You got a lot of recognition when you were in your late teens. Some say you walked away from a hugely successful pop career.”
    â€œThey’re right. I did. But in that case success was defined as fame and fortune, the tails that wag the dog, as they say. I love music too much to have those things dictate how I make it. And that’s what was happening back then. Plus, a lot of nasty old farts were constantly trying to get in my pants.”
    â€œSounds dreadful,” Nic said, laughing.
    â€œGod, it was. I had to walk away because I knew if I stayed I would wind up hating myself and hating music, which just wasn’t acceptable.”
    â€œIs that why you changed your name to Love?”
    â€œExactly. I never wanted to forget why the hell I’m doing this.”
    â€œSo, the big question is, why haven’t I heard any of your post–pop emancipation work until now?”
    â€œProbably because I spend a lot more time touring than recording. To me, playing live is the reason you become a musician. And I love the vagabond life. Playing in small clubs from Miami to . . . Marrakesh, making a lot of friends along the way, living dangerously. Makes it hard to get into the studio. I produced three albums prior to this on my own label but never released them because they weren’t right. This is right.”
    â€œI couldn’t agree more,” Nic said. “Tell us about your gig tonight.”
    â€œYeah, I’m really excited. I’m getting back to my roots down in Venice at The Sink, one of the places I played all the time when I was young and dumb.”
    â€œI can happily say I’ve been young and dumb there myself on a number of occasions,” Nic said. “And I will be again tonight. What time do you go on?”
    â€œI go on at—”
    The clock radio inexplicably shut itself off.
    â€œSon of a bitch!” Kennedy yelled.
    He fumbled with it, trying to turn it back on, but when he did Love was already playing another song. Kennedy went online and looked up the show, but it was sold out. He really wanted to go and thought about contacting her, but didn’t have any current information. He found heron Facebook and almost hit her up that way, but it felt weird to stalk her on social media after years of very little contact, to score a backstage