Fashionista
by Nyssa Janye
1999
Taylor was admiring his toenails. He'd done a pretty good job of
painting them black in the van ride to the recording studios.
"Horizontal or vertical stripes?" giggled Zac. Taylor turned to
face our younger brother.
"Diagonal stripes!" he quipped. "I don't know where you
heard that whole 'you can tell someone's gay or not by the direction they paint
their toenails' thing from, but," Taylor tightened the lid of his bottle of
nail polish, "it's a rule I don't know, so I make up a new one."
"What do diagonal stripes mean, then?"
"That you're Taylor Hanson." Taylor slipped his feet into a pair
of opened-toed Converse shoes, as the van stopped, and the three of us piled
out. Some fans had come to greet us, so we signed their CD's and shook
their hands, before moving inside the studios, down the hall, and into a
conference room.
Mr. Record Exec stood at the end of a long table. He sat down when Tay,
Zac and I did -- we were the last to arrive.
"'Middle of Nowhere' did really well, everyone here is proud of the album
and you guys." The three of us smiled at each other -- they were the
fist encouraging words Mr. Record Exec had expressed towards the album.
"You unintentionally brought back pop music, and we there through that you
shouldn't muck with the winning formula. We need 'MMMBop'
again." Taylor looked a little lost for words, before deciding to
totally blag it. He jumped up onto the table. He had to duck so his
head wouldn't hit the roof. Mr. Record Exec was just about to ask Taylor
what he was doing, before Taylor spoke.
"Keep explaining the rules... I need to know which ones to break and which
ones to make up, so we can make you lots of money again." I snorted
under my breath, as Zac cried out,
"Fashionista!"
* * * * *
1996
Mr. Record Exec loomed over us, like he was scrutinising us.
"Kurt Cobain killed himself two years ago. Rock is looking for
another musical sensation, musical god to slave attention upon and
idolise." Mr. Record Exec was paying the most attention to
Taylor. Taylor was tapping his fingers on the desk in concentration,
before picking up Mr. Record Exec's mobile phone, and pretending to talk into
it.
"Hi, this is Taylor Hanson, Kurt Cobain's replacement? Yeah, I need
the best crack dealer in town, some teen angst served up in 3-chord musical
form, oh, and can you take out my shower?" Mr. Record Exec snatched
his phone back, slamming it back down on the table. I was trying
desperately not to laugh, I'm not quite sure if Zac got the whole joke, and our
manager just about died. "We make pop-rock, sir," explained
Taylor, turning on the charm. "Sweet, sweet pop, enough to make your
youngest daughter squeal in delight! Oooh-oooh!"
"I signed you to my record label. I pull the strings. You'll do
as I say."
Taylor played saluted him.
* * * * *
"I totally did not know what to say," said Taylor, in the recording
studio, about yesterday's meeting. "I totally blagged the whole
thing."
"Sometimes you talk faaaar too much, Tay," laughed the sound
engineer. "Now shaddup and sing."
"Bring it on!" The music started, and Taylor started to play
karaoke.
"Can you tell me what you see whenever you look around
We're tripping all over ourselves and pulling each other down
We're separating, consciousness is fading
Are you thinking that its me you're fooling
Where's the right in, all of our fighting
Look at, look at, look at what we're doing-
"Wait!" Taylor called, just as the chorus started.
"Since when was Ike's guitar so distorted, and the drums so full on?"
"Mr. Record Exec liked it better this way," shrugged the sound
engineer.
"That's bullshit!" cried Taylor. He skipped out of the recording
booth, and went to stand by the sound engineer. "Teach me how to
change it back, you can't deny that that sounds like crap." The sound
engineer laughed and shook his head a little, before changing the song back.
It was obvious Taylor worked well when he didn't have a clue.
* * * * *
1998
"Taylor! Just grab a jacket and let's go already!"
Zac's hyper side was starting to rear its head.
"What matches my outfit?"
"Grab my black woolen coat!" I yelled from the car. "It's
the only thing that'll match those dog-ugly pants," I said to Zac, who
snickered.
"I'm just preying he won't see the matching jacket the stylist left,"
said Zac.
"Oh, no way." Zac nodded.
"Aw, FUCK, the power went out!"
"GRAB SOMETHING!" Zac and I screamed. "We wouldn't want to
be late for the Grammies or anything!"
"Okay! Okay!" Finally, we saw Taylor run out of the
building, lock the door, and jump into the car.
"Oh dear."
"You didn't..."
"What?"
"You grabbed the matching jacket." Taylor looked down at his ensemble,
deep red leather jacket and pants, and a knitted black tank top.
"Some poor couch has suffered to make your outfit, you know."
"You're a fashion disaster," muttered Zac playfully.
"A what? Fashionista? What the hell...?"
"Yeah Tay. That's what I said, fashionista."
"What does it mean? Or is this just your creative spelling at work
again?"
"You tell me, you're good at blagging situations."
"Well... if I'm a fashionista, it would mean someone who's good at fluking
mad-as outfits for the Grammies."
"Tay... that is not a mad outfit."
"I reckon it is, and that's all that matters."
"Fashionista."
"Thank you."
So from that point on, Taylor had been a fashionista -- someone who make up and
fluked what he didn't know.
* * * * *
Back to 1999
Zac and I lost it at that moment, and started to laugh, as Mr. Record Exec
attempted to get Taylor to sit down.
"It's different this time around," he snapped. "You fucked
up my instructions, my orders, last time, wowed the right people, and got
lucky, coz you had to go from nobodies to somebodies with something."
Taylor held steady eye-contact with Mr. Record Exec, still standing, just not on
the table. "This time around, you have to give people what they
expect of you, so you can sell some shit, coz you're now somebody. I know
what people want." Taylor just continued to stare at him, until Mr.
Record Exec sat down. "Go write a record that will have the
Backstreet Boys very pissed off at you. Go finish what you started."
Taylor just play saluted him.
* * * * *
Rolling Stone Review
May 2000
Please Explain? Toothy trio Hanson discover their soul for second
coming.
Hanson, 'This Time Around' (Mercury)
Here's a record that comes with a shitload of baggage. In case you've just emerged from a coma, Hanson ruled planet pop in 1997 (with the Dust Brothers' help), thanks to a sticky sweet three minutes of bubblegum called 'MMMBop'. But 'This Time Around' begs the question: just when did pop's Brady Bunch become soulmen? So it's out with the cheese and in with the lovestruck grit, as the brothers Hanson harmonise soulfully and rock with a southern accent the Black Crowes wouldn't sniff at. The standout 'If Only' is peppered with blustery harp from John "Blues Traveller" Popper, while fellow teen start, axeman Jonyy Lang, does his bit on 'This Time Around'. But more than anything, it's the grooves and startling consistent tunes that make 'This Time Around' a fifteen-track exercise in eating humble pie. I mean, who'd have thought?
Three and a half stars
"Eat my shorts, Mr. Record Exec!" laughed Zac, giving Tay a
high-five, then one to me. "Any final words from Hanson's own fashion
disaster-"
"Fashion disaster?!"
"Sorry, Tay."
"-to those who told us the wrong set of rules?"
"Fashionista means fashion disaster, doesn't it?"
"Ahhh..."
"Pffft, I'll just have to make up a new word."
"... Maybe you will, fashionista."
Musical Credit
Hanson, 'Where's the Love'
From the album, 'Middle of Nowhere'