Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [29]
I shared a deli lunch of corned beef and chips with Michel, who seemed happy that I was in New York.
“So you think I’m going to like this director?” I asked Michel as he took a swig from his can of root beer.
“He’s up and coming. And I worked with him on a Chanté Moore video—it was one of the best of her career,” Michel said as he picked up the empty paper plate sitting in front of me. Our attempts to get two of the top directors, Billy Woodruff and Paul Hunter, had been unsuccessful. Both were booked for up to a year, and since they hadn’t heard of Yancey B, both had passed. But that’s okay. I intended to make them regret that decision when I got to my second or third video. By then I would have my choice of directors.
“Are you surprised by how well your first single is doing? I mean, I looked at some reports yesterday and it’s the most requested song in ten markets,” Michel said.
“I’m not a bit surprised. I’m just waiting for it to hit the top forty,” I said confidently.
“It’s well on the way,” Michel said. “I mean to hit the charts after the first week is amazing for a new artist.”
The phone in the conference room rang and Michel picked up the receiver while I touched up my makeup. Just as I was closing my compact, there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Michel said. The door opened, and in walked a man with an almond-brown leather coat, a hat and sunglasses. Hmm, I thought, who does this guy think he is? I’d only seen big stars wear sunglasses indoors.
“Are you Desmond Fowler?” Michel asked.
“I would be he,” Desmond said. His voice was deep and strong, and he had a commanding presence.
“Have a seat. This is Motown’s newest diva, Yancey Braxton, a.k.a. Yancey B, and I am Michel Rodriguez, head of A and R for our East Coast operations.”
“Nice meeting you,” Desmond said as he took off his jacket and hat. He had thin dreads the size of a new number-two pencil and honey-colored brown eyes. He was tall, I would say a little over six feet, with a lean build. He was handsome in an adult homeboy kind of way.
“Nice meeting you,” I said as I extended my hand toward Desmond.
“Did you bring your reel?” Michel asked.
“Sure did,” Desmond said as he reached into a leather duffle and pulled out a videocassette.
“Who have you worked with?” I asked.
“In terms of?” Desmond asked.
“What stars have you directed?” I asked trying to make what I thought was a simple question clearer.
“The only stars I believe in are in the sky. And I haven’t worked with any of them. But if you’re talking about people who sing and dance for a living, then I’ve worked with quite a few,” Desmond said.
“Like who?” I asked.
“Eric Benet, Kenny Latimore, Peabo Bryson,” Desmond-said.
“Any female singers?” Michel asked.
“I just worked with Tamia.”
“Ooh, I loved her last video,” I gushed. “It was very sensuous.”
“So you liked it? Thanks. I think that was some of my best work,” Desmond said.
“Why don’t you tell us about yourself,” I said.
“What do you want to know besides the fact that I’m a damn good director? Naw, make that a slamming director,” Desmond said confidently.
“You don’t have a resume?” I asked.
“Everything you need to know is on that tape,” Desmond said.
“Where did you get your film training?” Michel asked.
“I went to undergrad at the University of Minnesota and went to film school at NYU, but I dropped out.”
“Do you mind my asking why?” Michel quizzed.
“I learned what I needed to know and then moved on.”
“Have you listened to my music?” I asked.
“Yeah, and it was jive-tight.”
I must have had a puzzled look on my face, because Desmond looked at me and smiled. “That means great. Your vocals and lyrics are real strong.”
“Thank you.” I smiled.
“You’ve seen the