“…Jane Black for Crushed.”
I put my right hand on my mouth in disbelief. This didn’t just happen. It can’t have happened.
But there’s applause somewhere. Arms around me. A squeal of joy. Another squeeze. A bear hug. Huge, euphoric smiles on the three people surrounding me, like they knew it all along, like they were in on the joke.
Yes, a joke. It must be a joke. A great cosmic joke and Katy Perry and the whole Recording Academy and even the broadcast network carrying this awards show must be in on it, too.
Then Owen whispers in my ear, “Stand up and go to the stage.” I follow his orders and step past my sister and into the aisle. She gently nudges my arm and I put one foot in front of the other.
I’m walking down the aisle, up the steps, to the middle of the stage. Katy Perry gives me a huge hug, like we’ve been friends forever or something. Then she hands me the most adorable little inanimate object I have ever seen in my life—a golden gramophone on a wooden base.
I roll through several curse words in my head a few more times, super fast, so I can get them out of my system before I speak into the microphone.
“Holy sh—” I begin, then try to catch myself. But it’s too late. It still comes out as, “Holy shit.”
There’s some laughter. Oh God, are they going to give me the hook now? Are they going to fine me, take away my award, pull me offstage?
But I can’t unsay the words, so I make the best of it. “I guess I should have taken it more seriously when I made that New Year’s resolution not to swear.”
More laughter.
I look out at the crowd. “As you can guess, I didn’t prepare a speech,” I start, recovering from my verbal snafu. “I didn’t believe there was a rat’s chance I was going to win. So, suffice to say, I really am in shock. But I’m in bliss too. Jubilation. Ecstasy. Take your pick. This is more than I ever imagined and all I can say is this is without a doubt the single coolest thing that has happened to me professionally.”
I barely even take a breath before I continue. “And there are so many people to thank.”
I start listing names—my label, my brother, the band.
“And of course, my family. My parents watching from home in Maine, and my sister who I adore is here with me. My sister’s kids, I know you’re up late and loving it in New York. And my amazing son, Ethan, in the third row there. And to everyone who bought the album, bought a song, listened to a song, a snippet, a line, a verse. I thank you all. And I suppose, yeah, what the hell. It’s no secret that Crushed is a breakup album. So I guess tonight, I can say thanks, Aidan, for dumping me.”
Chapter Three
“Jane, shall we assume you’re pleased the FCC relaxed its profanity clause to allow the use of an expletive for emphasis, especially in fleeting and isolated remarks?” Harrigan’s voice carries across the room as he asks the first question, and for a brief moment I wish it were just the two of us, him interviewing me, so I could listen to his swoonworthy accent all night from my perch behind this mike.
Winners. My God, I must be hallucinating, but there are countless reporters in here too, all ready with questions for me. Me! A Grammy winner!
Harrigan’s infused his question with a touch of playfulness, which is his journalistic style, as I learned from the few interviews I’d done with him, not to mention the times I’d run into him at industry fetes as well as hole-in-the-wall clubs in Manhattan as we both happened to be catching an up-and-coming band—the next Vampire Weekend or Arcade Fire, we’d often say to each other in passing. Of course, there was my effusive thank-you call to him after I’d read the review that changed my life and my rankings on iTunes.
“No need, of course. Just doing my job,” he had said six months ago when I called him. “But I adored your album. I was playing it when you called, as a matter of fact.”
Adored. Why did British accents have to be so sexy, especially with words like adored? I could live off that word said that way, and how it sent shivers down my spine, as if it were said for me alone. Because I wanted to be adored. I’d been without any sort of adoration for years.
“No, you weren’t,” I said in disbelief. I still couldn’t quite compute that the same critic who’d panned my first three records would dub anything I’d done essential.
“Actually, I never play and tell,” he teased.
Now, I clutch my statuette even tighter. I’m never letting this go. “Thrilled,” I say, then quickly add, “Fucking thrilled.”
They laugh. I’m with kindred spirits now, because if anyone curses more than musicians, it’s reporters. “I’m actually really sorry about that. It slipped out. Well, obviously it slipped out. I really never thought I’d win. And I’m kind of superstitious, so I thought if I prepared a speech I’d be tempting fate. So when it happened, that was just my gut reaction. Holy shit.”
“Just in case there was any confusion,” a reporter from the back of the crowd barks out.
Then a wire service correspondent raises his hand and the Grammy publicist points to him. He’s wearing a suit and a dark red tie. He holds his reporter’s notebook and a tape recorder. I remember his review: “With a touch of Joss Stone–esque vocals, Jane Black croons heartbreak in a voice that is equal parts your best aged whiskey and a fresh jar of sweet honey.” I like him.
“There were rumors you were considering quitting before this album. How close did you come to hanging it up?”