Part 7

I often think back to the card I received from Steve at my high school graduation open house. He wrote, "Wishing you all the fun, love, discovery, and wonder that you… can handle!" 

When it was time to leave for California, I hit the road ready and anxious to discover the unknown world that lay ahead of me. Exactly what and how much I could handle, though, was yet to be determined.

I was 21 years old, and had never lived away from home before, though I wasn’t really on my own at Anthony’s. There were housekeepers and assistants practically at my beck and call. Groceries were paid for and I didn’t even have to do my own laundry. Outside was a picture-perfect, postcard-image of paradise. Palm trees swayed in the cool ocean breeze as JD and I dangled our legs over cliffsides to watch whales and dolphins play in the Pacific.

I would spend most mornings people-watching at the local plaza where celebrity sightings were a daily occurrence. One morning you might see Luke and Owen Wilson grabbing a brotherly cup of coffee, the next you might see Billy Corgan pushing a stroller down the sidewalk. Paparazzi were down the street waiting eagerly for the perfect shot of Angelina Jolie, who had just split from Brad Pitt, and Kanye was reportedly seen here and there. Needless to say, the opulence of the neighborhood was dazzling, and everything had an air of immaculate cleanliness.

From the morning we arrived, there was talk of record producers, album budgets, and festival circuits. AK had gotten some advice from Guy Oseary, who said it would be against our best interest to sign with a record label, and that we should do whatever we could to maintain ownership of our publishing rights. AK, as our benefactor and de facto band manager, would set up meetings for us in the coming weeks. 

In the meantime, a friend of ours introduced JD and I to a character who would come to define much of our early LA experience. At first glance, I thought Baker Wallis exuded a somewhat stereotypical LA pretty-boy vibe, but the more I got to know him, the more he proved to be a truly eccentric artist, bordering on musical genius. He was one of the few people who was bold enough to directly ask JD what it was like to have a rock star uncle, which earned him some respect. It didn't take long to develop a good rapport with him, and after our first meeting Baker agreed to produce a new single for us.

He was renting a room in a giant mansion in Bell Canyon from a single mother whose son was an actor. There was a grand piano in one of the living rooms, which made it the most obvious place to set up shop. JD laid down his parts flawlessly on the first and second takes, as per usual, whereas I struggled to get into the proper headspace to record my vocals. Baker, like a good producer should, tried to get me out of my own head. I soon found myself standing outside with the microphone next to a black widow spider with an egg in my hand. "Just squeeze the egg as hard as you can without breaking it," Baker instructed. "Dude, there's a black widow in this song now. So dope!"

Baker was the first person I ever met who talked about things like persuasion and hypnosis in regard to publicity and image. He introduced us to a book called The 48 Laws of Power, a kind of nihilistic Hollywood bible that teaches the reader how to practice deception and manipulation. Realpolitik, if you will. He showed us his library of self-produced music, all of which was completely original and forward-thinking. There was probably enough material to constitute several different albums, each with its own theme. 

We would talk late into the night, either out on the patio, or comfortably in the seats of the in-home movie theater. Baker revealed that he hadn’t made many real friends since moving to LA, and admitted to JD and I that we were some of the first people he connected with on a deeper level in a long time. We told Baker all about what had happened to us in the last year, and that two weeks after moving to California we had gotten the call that our friend Micah (from the Trap House) had died of a heroin overdose. Death was so much a part of my life that I didn’t really care to connect with anyone anymore, but Baker was a rare exception.

Life had changed tremendously in the span of one short year. It seemed like only yesterday that I was inconsolably grieving for my lost friends, or maybe more specifically, my lost innocence. I was trudging through the bitter snow to deliver Edible Arrangements for a meager wage, not seeing much purpose in anything I did. Now I was living like a prince on the coast of sunny California. I counted myself lucky, but how long would it be before this luxurious life lost its luster?

After hours of conversation with Baker one night, I had the epiphany that fame is a complete illusion. In fact, it struck me as quite obvious that everything I had been seeking up to that point was meaningless, that the adoration of strangers was my way of filling a bottomless pit in my soul. For years I had watched fans fawn over Anthony, and had even done so myself. I coveted that type of attention and thought it was what I needed to make me happy. If fame couldn’t fill this void, what would? Of course I loved music, of that there was no doubt. But I spent an awful lot of time seeking attention and neglecting my musicality in turn.

There’s a verse in the Bible that says, “For in much wisdom is much vexation, and he who increases knowledge increases sorrow.” Needless to say, this epiphany was rather inconvenient considering the path I was on, so I let it slip my mind for the time being. There was still plenty of fun left to be had while living at Anthony’s, but this was perhaps the first crack in the foundation of a soon-to-be crumbling worldview.