'Til You're Mine

2014

I'm sitting at the kitchen table, writing in a patch of noon sunshine, when my phone rings.

"Alex," Maggie says once I answer. "I have good news."

It's been five months since I signed to Columbia, and things have been surreal with how perfect it's all been– so I can't imagine how things could get much better.

"Alex Turner wants to meet with you."

My mouth falls open in surprise. It's been nearly a month since Maggie asked me for some of my stuff to send around so we could find a co-writer for some songs on the album, and she had mentioned she would be sending it to the Arctic Monkeys frontman, but I never thought anything would come of it. Of course I've heard some of their stuff, and his lyrics are great, but I don't know if it's really my sound. I also know nothing about him as a person, and it feels strange to entrust even a part of my first album– something that genuinely feels like my firstborn child– with a complete stranger.

"I'm going to set up a meeting," Maggie goes on to say, not waiting for a response. "Just coffee or something– he can tell you what he thinks, and we can move on from there. Sound good?"

"Yeah," I finally manage to reply. "Thanks!"

When she hangs up, I pull my laptop across the table and open it, my writing forgotten for the moment, my guitar laid to the side. I type in Alex Turner's name in my search engine, and watch as the screen fills up with images and links, and I feel the intimidation settle in my stomach like a coiled snake.

The pictures that line the top of the results are what get me first– this handsome, slicked back, leather-jacket-wearing James Dean, poised with a guitar and sunglasses, aloof. A black and white photoshoot from GQ makes my throat go dry. He looks like he's seen the world, been chewed up, spit out, gotten jaded and become glossy because of it– he's on the other side of the struggle now, cool. This guy is going to eat me alive.

I rest my forehead in my hand as I put on some of his music, his most recent album, 'AM'.

This music is all rough edges and sleek lines, songs about late nights and beautiful girls and drinking. It's made up of sex and cigarette smoke, and my 19 year old inexperience metaphorically blushes. I like it, it's just not feminine or soulful or haunting– it doesn't sound like me, or what I want to create with my music. The wordplay charms me despite my reservations– the beautiful lyricism and the way it flows with the music. I pause my scrolling through images to look up the lyrics of some of the songs I listen to, and I can't help but get excited– thrilled to have some of this magical poetry injected into my work.

I spend hours doing this, because now I need to know who I could be working with– who could possibly be helping me birth my baby. I don't stop for lunch, just absently pick at carrots and hummus, pita chips, and switch from coffee to wine once the sun starts to dip behind the trees. I haven't turned the lights on, and the sky outside the kitchen window is a swirl of pink and orange sorbet, cicadas singing in the distance. It's dim in kitchen, but I'm transfixed by my searching, my troll through pictures and interviews and articles and lyrics.

I see paparazzi photos of him with his ex girlfriends, beautiful models with long, slim legs, and unbelievable bone structure. I watch his transformation from mop-haired adolescent, to slick-quiffed man. I listen to the sound of his music changing over time, the evolution of lyrics from Sheffield-centric storytelling to 'Suck it and See' romantic. And then I stumble onto the 'Submarine' soundtrack.

You got a lift between the pitfalls

But you're lookin' like you're low on energy

Did you get out and walk

To ensure you'd miss the quicksand

It feels like coming home. It's not haunting or murderous, but it's soulful, and simple, and so, so beautiful. Right down to your soul beautiful. This is the person I want to write with, the person whose music feels right, feels like it matches my energy and my soul, and what I want to give to people.

Dani is walking in from work when I get to the Brit Awards video though, and I'm immediately struggling to reconcile the "Submarine" Alex Turner, with the one swaggering on stage in front of me.

"Hey, Lex," Dani says, dropping her purse to the middle of the floor, kicking her shoes off wherever they land.

"It might hibernate from time to time, sink back into the swamp."

I find myself wincing against the douchiness of it.

"What are you watching?" she asks, grabbing the wine from the fridge to fill a glass for herself.

"But it's always waiting there, just around the corner, ready to make its way back through the sludge and smash through the glass ceiling, looking better than ever."

She sips her wine, and starts watching over my shoulder.

"Yeah, that rock and roll, it seems like it's faded sometimes, but it will never die. And there's nothing you can do about it."

Dani makes a gagging noise. "Who says that after just winning an award? Why don't you just jerk yourself off right–"

And then he drops the mic.

We groan in unison.

The video ends and Dani moves back, leaning against the counter. "Who is that?" she asks, nodding towards my laptop.

"Alex Turner– the guy I might be working with for the album."

She snorts, makes a disgusted face, and says, "Good luck."