Studio City, CA, October 2019

“So how’s this gonna go?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I’m a little scared--not gonna lie. I’ve heard you make your men cry.”

“Only because they’re sad when it’s over.”

(He bursts into surprised laughter.) “So I’m gonna spill my guts, tell you all my darkest shit, and cry when it’s over, huh?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, Gene.”

(He looks her over from head to toe.) “Let’s go.”

------------------------------------------

“Just for the record, please state your name and today’s date.”

“Gene Coltrane. October 21, 2019.”

“And I’m Rai Paley, interviewing for Lift magazine.”

“Ray, like in Ray Charles?”

“No, Rai like in the Sanskrit.”

“What’s it mean?”

“Tell you after the interview.”

“Shit.”

“Them’s the breaks. You’re the star; you get the questions.”

“You’re a real ray of sunshine.”

“Cute. Tell me about your first kiss.”

“What?”

“Tell me about your first kiss. Easy question. And remember--I’m only recording to take notes later--you get to approve this whole thing before it goes to print, so don’t trip.”

“But how is that a question?”

“It’s an icebreaker.”

“OK, then tell me about yours first.”

(She rolls her eyes.) “OK fine. He was a trumpet player in the high school band. It was in his back yard as we were walking back from a date. In the moonlight. It was perfect, and he was an excellent, top-shelf kisser. So there you go.”

“Tongue?”

“No. And why would he?”

“Context. Sometimes it goes there.”

“Your turn. Wait--before we start, I need to ask you for a favor. Could you please take off your shades?”

(He tilts his head questioningly.)

“I’d like to be able to see your eyes. It’s important for a conversation like this--helps me to get to know you a little.”

“Yeah, fine, OK.” (He removes his sunglasses. Rai and Gene look at each other. A few beats pass like this, then both look away and begin fussing with the things in front of them, slightly uneasy.)

“Thanks a lot--much better. So now, first kiss...”

“My friend’s sister. In the den. We were watching a movie, he left to go to the bathroom or something, and we just kind of leaned into each other, and Bam!”

“Tongue?”

“No! I was twelve.”

(She laughs.)

“How old were you, anyway?”

“Sixteen.”

“Damn! That’s like a book or something--Bob and Jane Kiss at the Dance."

“You’re a card.”

“Jack of diamonds, baby.” (He sprouts a big, charming smile.)

"You do have a beautiful smile.”

“Thanks.” (He laughs.) Caps are a beautiful thing.”

“Ha! At least you avoided braces.”

“Nah. I needed braces growing up, but by the time I was in high school, we couldn’t afford it, so I got caps as soon as I made some decent money writing.”

“And that came about when your dad split? I did some reading up, but keep me honest on all of this.”

"They split. My dad didn’t take off.”

“OK. But after the divorce, your father went on the road and left you and your sisters with an uncle, is that right?”

“No, it was me and my brother. My sisters stayed with my mom.”

“Oh, I see. Thanks. How often was your dad home?”

“Once a month, maybe? Something like that. I don’t remember the exact cadence.”

“And during that time you played sax in your uncle’s jazz band?”

“Right.”

“You were how old?”

“16, 17.”

“Did you see your mom and sisters a lot?”

Yeah, a few times a week. She made sure. (Looks her leg up and down). That’s a cool anklet.”

“Thanks. What made you decide to switch to vocals?”

“Money.”

(She laughs).

“No. Seriously, I just started to not love it so much, know what I mean? And I didn’t want that to stick. So, I changed things up. Plus, I wanted to sing more.”

“Lucky us.”

(He smiles genuinely.) “Thanks.”

(Coffee service is brought to the table beside them. She reaches out and pours a cup.) “Ah, thank you. The nectar of the gods.”

“Black?”

“Yep. I stopped with the cream and sugar years ago. Now it tastes like dessert.”

(He unfurls a lascivious grin.) “I’ll bet it does.”

“What’s your coffee mashup of choice?”

“Grande iced mocha with two extra shots.”

“So, you’re sweet?”

(Another grin.) “Absolutely.”

(Silent sipping.)

“What comes first, Gene, music or lyrics?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“My mood. Where I’m at. Who I’m with.”

“Who were you with when you wrote ‘Green’?”

“No one. I was alone in a hotel room in Memphis or Cleveland or something. Don’t remember. The riff just came in and I wrote around that.”

“How long did it take?”

“To finish?”

“Yeah.”

“Two, three hours. Three bourbons and about half a dozen smokes.”

“How did you start smoking?”

Like a lot of kids. School.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know--I guess to look cool. Then because it felt good.”

“How much do you smoke? Your friends do call you ‘Chimney,’ right?

(Laughs out loud.) “Now how do you know about that?”

(She smiles.) “I have my ways.”

(He leans toward her, speaking more softly.) “But is that really why they call me that?”

(Also softly.) “Why else?”

“Maybe it has to do with my big chute.”

(She laughs out loud--a throaty belly laugh).

“Baby, you got a great laugh.”

“It’s Rai.”

“Sorry. Rai.”

“It’s OK...Gene. Why’d you pick Gene?”

“As a stage name?”

“Yes.”

“Because of Gene Kelly.”

“No way!”

“100%.”

(They pause, each enjoying the other’s smile, then reach for their drinks.)

“Let’s go back to your move to LA.”

“OK.”

“How old were you?”

“19.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. But the first place I lived wasn’t actually in LA. My buddy Lark and I got a tiny little--I guess a bungalow?--in this town called Via Clara.”

“Oh that’s far!”

“Oh yeah. But we got a deal on the place, some family friend of his, and two young, poor horn players, so...”

“Oh you mean Lark Benson!”

“Yeah, yeah.” (He smiles wistfully.) “We had a blast.”

“I’m sorry. He was a gifted young man.”

(Looking down.) “Yeah...he was.”

“But have you heard that Lark House raised $3 million for inner-city drug awareness and rehabilitation just last year? That’s a wonderful legacy.”

“Yeah.” (Still looking down, quiet and distracted.)

(She shifts her posture and changes the tone of her voice.) “So then, when did you move to LA?”

(Another silent beat before he perks up.) “Not until I sold my first album as an artist. It wasn’t released--hell it wasn’t even made!--but I had the forward for it, and a good few production royalties stacked up by that point. (He smiles.) “It was this fine-looking two-story chalet-style thing out in Laurel Canyon. All these complicated fixtures and designs. And I didn’t know what the hell to put in there!”

“Did you get help?”

“Nah. My sisters kept telling me I needed an interior designer. That’s not me. (He takes a sip of water.) Your turn.”

“OK, then. What you got?”

“What’s your whole name?”

“Raimunda. Raimunda Penelope Paley.”

“Damn!”

“Yep. Your turn. Full name, please.”

“You already know what it is.”

“For the record.”

“Jackson Martinez Flores Kensington.”

“Now that’s a name.”

“Damn straight.”

“Cuban mom, Bahamian dad, right?”

“Correct.”

“Raised in the Bahamas, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Mom was an opera singer?”

“Yes ma’am. The best. And Daddy was a music man.”

“Five of you kids?”

“Yes.”

(She pauses.) “And how many do you have?”

“How many what?”

“Kids.”

(Silence). “What the hell?”

“Be honest, Gene. The tabs are all over the place on this. You diddled around the world on tour for a decade, slipping it anywhere you wanted, and now you’ve got a whole soccer team.”

(He stands.) “Fuck this! Fuck you, Rai. I’m done. (Aside.) Ethan, get this fucking mike off me right now.”

(She remains seated, sipping her coffee.) “You do realize that you get to approve this content, right? You don’t want it public, it doesn’t go public.”

(Still standing, gesturing dramatically.) Then why in the fuck would you even ask me?”

(She stands, walking to stop directly in front of him.) “Two reasons. One--if this shit really is true, you might just want a solid, respected place like Lift in which to go public. (She sits back down slowly, crosses her legs, takes another sip, and cradles her coffee cup between her hands.) “And two--now we have a real interview. Pleasure to meet you, Gene. Is that what everyone in your world calls you?”

(He scrubs at his face, rubs his eyes, sighs, and sits down, quiet for several seconds.) “Jack. I’m Jack.”

“(She smiles.) “Munie.”

(Silence as she sips her coffee and he takes a drink of water.)

“Six. I got six kids. Four girls and two boys.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

“Fuck you, Munie.”

(She grins.) “Wasn’t that the issue in the first place?”

(They both chuckle, relieved to have broken the tension. Sounds of talking grow in the background.)

“Sorry Jack. One sec.” (Aside). “What’s up, Micah? Ohhhhh. Every 20? Wow. OK got it.”

“What’s going on? Something with the mike?”

“No, no. Apparently, your contract requires us to break every 20 minutes of the interview for a 10-minute period.”

“What? I didn’t ask for that.”

“The label did.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.” (Raises hands in apology.)

“It’s OK. Really. Happens a fair bit.”

“On 20?”

“Well, no.”

(Both laugh in unison, then take a prolonged look at each other.)

(Her voice is a bit quieter, closer.) “See you in ten.”

“Yeah.”