Defying Gravity

Isobel,

I realise that this is short notice, but everyone else is unavailable – and to be honest, you are the only person who I know I can trust to be completely professional with this.

I have secured an interview with the band Hanson for this Wednesday, the thirty-first of January, at four-thirty in the afternoon. They have a concert scheduled for next Saturday evening at Radio City Music Hall, and have agreed to take time out from their rehearsal schedule to speak with you. They’re allowing one hour at the absolute most for the interview, plus an additional half hour for photography, and will be providing their own photographer.

There are, essentially, four reasons for me asking you to take this assignment. One – unlike many of your colleagues, you are least likely to lose your cool when you meet with them. Two – as I wrote earlier, I trust you to conduct yourself professionally. Three – I know that I can count on you to conduct the interview, and to have an article written and in my inbox by Thursday afternoon, in preparation for inclusion in next Monday’s edition. Four – I would like to give you a second chance at doing fieldwork.

Let me know by nine tomorrow morning if you can do this, and I’ll have an advance copy of Hanson’s newest album, The Walk, in your mailbox on Tuesday for you to have a listen to before the interview.

Regards,

Stephen

The email from my editor had come through at seven that morning, a time on a Sunday when most people are still in bed. Not me, though. When seven o’clock on Sunday morning rolls around, I’ve already been up for half an hour. The main reason for this is that Schuyler, my dearest friend and my roommate, makes such a racket as she gets ready for work that I find it nearly impossible to sleep beyond half-past six.

This is not to say, however, that I am in any way coherent so early in the morning.

“Skya?” I called out cautiously as I finished reading through Stephen’s email. I wasn’t sure if she’d already left – for all her clattering and banging around the apartment as she gets ready to head out, Schuyler tends to be as quiet as a mouse when she actually leaves.

“Yeah?” she called back. Her voice echoed, so I knew that she was in the bathroom and in all likelihood halfway through doing her makeup.

“Can you come here, please?”

“I’m sure I can, Bel,” she replied. “It’s a matter of whether or not I actually want to.”

I sighed and briefly closed my eyes. “Could you come here, please?” I called, choosing to rephrase my question. It was my own stupid fault for forgetting that Schuyler could be very particular about how she chose to interpret certain words and turns of phrase. I blamed it on being up at what I considered to be an unholy hour.

“That’s more like it.” Within a minute she had come out to where I sat in the kitchen of our apartment, in my usual spot at our kitchen table. My laptop was set up on the tabletop in front of me, with Outlook Express open on the screen and a mug of hazelnut coffee close at hand. “What’s up?” she asked.

“There ought to be a law against being awake so damn early on a weekend,” I grumbled. “Read that.” I indicated the screen and scooted backward so that Schuyler didn’t have to bend down over my shoulder.

She had the email read in ten seconds flat. “You get to do an interview. So what?” she asked as she straightened up.

I gave Schuyler the mother of all evil eyes. “And that in itself is proof that you didn’t read the whole email. Who is Stephen asking me to interview, Skya?”

“Hanson. I don’t see why that’s such a big-” It didn’t take long for it to dawn on her. “Oh.”

“Exactly.” I pushed the sleeves of my dressing gown up around my elbows and started counting off on my fingers. “First problem – I’m not a Hanson fan. I’ve never heard any of their music, and what little I do know of them is what I’ve heard from you. Second problem – I’ve only ever done one interview, and it was an utter disaster. Third problem – how the hell am I supposed to get to the middle of Manhattan from here on a Wednesday afternoon? Because there is no way in hell that I’m driving.”

“Bel, first of all, you need to calm the fuck down.” Schuyler pulled out one of the other kitchen chairs and sat down on it. “Let’s look at this rationally.”

I snorted. “Wishful thinking, that.”

She ignored this. “One, I’m guessing that you not being a fan is the exact reason why your editor asked you to do this interview – you don’t have any preconceived ideas about them, and so that allows you to be completely unbiased. Two, the last time you did an assignment for High Fidelity you’d only just started your internship there – you didn’t have any real experience with doing interviews. And three, you’re a New Yorker – you can take the subway, can’t you? Either that, or you can come to work with me that morning and walk to Radio City from there. It’s a two-mile walk, so it shouldn’t take you very long.” She gave me a smile. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Bel. I mean it. They’re really nice guys. And hell, if you want me to I’ll come along for moral support. It gives me a reason to ditch work early.” She shrugged. “Plus it gives me a chance to see my boyfriend.”

“Your boyfriend?” I asked, puzzled. It clicked after about half a second. “Oh, you’re talking about Mark. Is that who Mark is?”

“Yes, that’s who Mark is. I’d have thought you’d worked that out by now.” She smirked at me. “Mark has an identical twin brother, by the way. And said brother is very much unattached. You might just get lucky.” She gave me a wink and stood up. “If you’re so worried about never having heard any of their music, I’ve got all of their albums on my external hard drive. You should probably listen to Middle Of Nowhere and This Time Around before you listen to anything else – not that their other music isn’t good, because it’s excellent, but those two albums will give you the best possible idea of who they are as musicians.” She turned to leave the kitchen, but obviously thought better of it. “And I know it’s going to hurt, but please try to keep an open mind. You’ll probably surprise yourself.”

Schuyler left for work about ten minutes later, leaving me by myself in our apartment. The very first thing I did before going into my room to get dressed was reply to Stephen’s email.

Stephen,

Of course I’ll do the interview. I hope you realise, though, that I’m not going to know Hanson from a bar of soap. I really don’t know what was going through your head when you asked me. But really, work is work, so I’ll be there on Wednesday.

Isobel

Once I’d dressed, I went into Schuyler’s near-obsessively neat bedroom in search of her external hard drive. It sat on her desk next to her laptop, hooked up to one of the computer’s USB ports and the power outlet under the desk. I unplugged the drive from both the outlet and the USB port, tucked the drive under my arm and coiled its cords up in my hands, in preparation for carting it all out into the kitchen.

Before I left the room, I spotted a Polaroid that had been taped to Schuyler’s bedroom mirror. The photograph was of two blonde guys, one of whom sat in a wheelchair and had an expensive-looking Canon camera, judging from the stitching on the neck-strap, in his lap. The other was crouched next to the wheelchair. The two of them looked identical, carbon copies of one another, right down to their smiles. In Schuyler’s flowing cursive beneath the photograph had been written Mark and Taylor Hanson – Underneath Electric Tour, Enmore Theatre, Sydney, Australia – May 28 2005.

Deciding not to puzzle over which of the Hanson brothers was which, I left Schuyler’s room and went back out into the kitchen. As soon as I’d hooked the drive up to the power and my laptop, had loaded all of her Hanson MP3s into my iTunes library, and was playing Middle Of Nowhere as loudly as I dared, I did what any journalist worth their paycheque did.

I researched.

As I researched, I learned a fair bit about my newest interview subjects. I knew that what I found out was most likely old news to someone like Schuyler, but to me it was like discovering a whole new world. According to Wikipedia and the various fansites I’d found on Google, there were eight children in the Hanson family – five sons and three daughters – and Hanson had been formed from the two oldest and the fourth-oldest sons, their names being Isaac, Marcus (Mark for short) and Zachary (otherwise known as Zac). They had been signed to a recording contract in 1996, and had since gone on to break musical records worldwide. Three world tours, three studio albums, one Christmas album and two live records had garnered the trio a veritable legion of intensely passionate and extremely devoted fans from all walks of life. They had their own record label, with a fourth studio album due for release this year, and were involved in a fair amount of humanitarian and charity work.

When Schuyler returned home from work that afternoon, I was still researching.

“What have you been doing all day?” she asked as she set her handbag down on the kitchen bench.

“Stalking your boyfriend,” I replied, completely straight-faced.

“Very funny.” She indicated the screen of my laptop, which was currently open to an unofficial fan forum by the name of Hansonliners. “I see you’ve been doing your homework. Find out anything interesting?”

“Well, nothing that you’d find particularly interesting or noteworthy. There is something I’ve been wondering about, though.”

“Oh really?” Schuyler sat down in the chair on the opposite side of our kitchen table and propped her chin up in her hands. “Well, fire away. Just keep in mind that I may not be able to tell you much – there are some matters that are considered very much confidential, so I have to keep them to myself.”

“You said this morning that your boyfriend has an identical twin brother.” Schuyler nodded as if to confirm this. “How the fuck do you tell them apart?”

“I’m going to assume that you saw that photo on my bedroom mirror. Would I be right?” When I nodded, Schuyler got up and left the kitchen. She came back with the Polaroid I’d seen taped to her mirror. “This is the easiest way to tell Mark from his twin,” she said, and indicated the watch that one of them wore on his wrist. “Mark always wears a watch – he’s never seen in public without one. Taylor doesn’t, because according to him the clock on his phone is just as good as any watch, though it doesn’t much help him if he leaves his phone at home or if the battery runs out of juice in the middle of the day. His mom’s been on at him for years to start wearing a watch, but he won’t listen to her.”

“I see.” I studied the photograph closely. Now that I knew how to tell the two of them apart, I had even more questions. “So why exactly is Taylor in a wheelchair?”

Schuyler smiled wryly. “You just had to ask me that, didn’t you?”

“Could you try not being cryptic for once?” I asked.

“That’s one of the confidential matters I mentioned. I’d love to tell you why, but Mark would kill me if I did. He didn’t even tell me until we’d been dating for about six months – he had to make sure I wasn’t going to get onto Hanson.net and tell the world. They’re very private people, and they have their reasons for being that way.”

“You know I’d never tell a soul, Skya,” I said as I stood up. “I know how to keep a secret as well as you do.”

“I know you can keep them, Bel.” Schuyler put the Polaroid on our fridge, attaching it with a bright pink flamingo magnet. “But I also know how you get once you’ve got a few drinks in your system. I think it’s probably in both our best interests if I keep it to myself for the time being. I’d rather not betray Mark’s trust.”

“Oh, fine,” I said, very reluctantly giving in. “So what do you want for dinner?”


At around four on Wednesday afternoon, Schuyler and I left the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where she worked in Visitor Services, and walked the two miles to Radio City Music Hall. The night before, I’d sat down in the living room with my notebook and had written out a ten-page list of questions I thought I might be able to ask my subjects during the interview. During lunch Schuyler had gone through that list, ruthlessly vetoing most of the questions before helping me organise the leftovers into a list of twenty dot points that, like any decent journalist, I could use to conduct my interview. That list had been safely tucked away in a pocket of my handbag, behind my voice recorder. Schuyler had also taken it upon herself to give me a few pointers when it came to dealing with Hanson and their ‘entourage’ (the latter of which, according to Schuyler, usually consisted of Mark’s twin and the oldest of their sisters), in particular when it came to making a good impression.

As we walked down Park Avenue, Schuyler decided it would be a good idea to test me on what I should and shouldn’t do during my hour with the Hanson brothers. As if I wasn’t already nervous enough.

“Don’t act like a teenage girl – not that I even do that,” I began.

“It happens, Bel,” Schuyler said. “Even to the best of us. Next point?”

I skirted around a fire hydrant as I reeled off the next few points. “Act professional, limit my questions to their music and charity work, don’t focus on anything before the current album release, don’t get frustrated if any of them go off on a tangent, and most importantly don’t speak to either Taylor or Jessica beyond a greeting unless they speak to me first.” I eyed Schuyler with one eyebrow raised. “Is that last point really necessary?”

“You’d be surprised,” Schuyler replied. “I’ve been present for a lot of interviews, and I’ve lost count of how many interviewers talk to their siblings more than they do the guys themselves. It makes you look bad, for one. Basically, if Taylor or Jess wants to talk to you, then they will. If either of them even shows up, Taylor will be there to work, and it’s highly likely that Jess and I will spend the hour hanging out, so you won’t have much of a chance to talk to them. A quick hello should do the trick.”

Almost before I realised it, we had arrived at our destination. While Schuyler made a quick call on her phone, I took the printout of Stephen’s most recent email from my handbag and read it through once more.

Isobel,

I can’t thank you enough for taking this assignment. I am confident that you will uphold the good name of the magazine, and thus I am counting on you to not let me down.

A few pointers to keep in mind:

1. I have been in further contact with the band, and they have indicated that they would prefer for the interview to take place on the performance stage or in the general area. They have agreed to notify the box office that you will be there to interview them, and will organise an access pass for you. Your driver’s licence or passport should be sufficient ID.

2. You have one hour, and one hour only, to conduct your interview. They cannot allow more time than this, as they are required to leave the venue by six o’clock. If needed they are willing to allow for any necessary photography to take place after five-thirty. I need not remind you that this does not give you the right to prolong the interview.

3. The questions you ask should relate as closely as possible to the upcoming release of The Walk and the band’s charity work. Please try not to deviate too far from this, as our readers are not particularly interested in their private lives.

I don’t want you to stress out too much about this. I realise it’s been a few years since you went out on assignment, so I know you’re somewhat out of practice, but the main thing to remember here is that above all else, you should enjoy yourself. Make a good impression by all means, just so long as you don’t try too hard. I look forward to seeing your article in my inbox on Thursday afternoon.

Stephen

Once Schuyler had finished her call and had stowed her phone back in her bag, we went inside. I took a quick detour to the box office to collect my access pass, leaving my passport as security, and Schuyler led me through to the concert hall.

Not surprisingly, especially for this time of day, the hall was mostly empty. The stage was set up to accommodate a full band – a full drum kit with an unusual-looking symbol on the front of the bass drum, a grand piano with an electric keyboard situated atop the closed lid, and a few guitars set up in a rack. The only occupants of the hall aside from Schuyler and I were a girl who was working through what looked like a dance routine on the stage, and a guy walking around the floor with a light meter. I saw that he had a camera hanging from one elbow on a neckstrap, and I felt a strange sense of déjà vu. The girl onstage stopped dancing as Schuyler and I descended through the rows of seats.

“Skya!” she called out, waving. As if in response Schuyler moved faster, almost skipping down the stairs until we reached the floor. In one fluid movement Schuyler had hoisted herself up onto the stage, and had extended a hand down to help me up.

“Hey Jess,” Schuyler said as soon as I had planted both feet on the stage. “Bel, this is Mark’s sister Jessica,” she said by way of an introduction. “Jess, meet my roommate Isobel Reynolds.”

“Good to meet you, Isobel,” Jessica said, and she extended a hand for me to shake. “You’re here to interview my brothers, I assume?”

“I am,” I confirmed as I shook her hand. “You’re a dancer?” I asked, referring to the routine I’d seen her dancing.

“Sophomore at Juilliard,” Jessica replied.

“She’s freaking good, too,” Schuyler said. “You should see her onstage, Bel. This girl is phenomenal. I’ve honestly never seen anything like it.”

“I’m not that good,” Jessica said, sounding very modest.

“Oh, come on. How many dancers audition each year, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” Jessica said with a shrug. “About four hundred, I think.”

“And how many actually get in?” And here Jessica flushed a deep crimson. She ducked her head as she mumbled something. “Jessica Grace,” Schuyler seemed to admonish. “Come on, tell us.”

“Twenty-four,” Jessica replied at last. “Twelve guys, twelve girls.”

“And you say you’re ‘not that good’,” Schuyler said with a chuckle. “You need to give yourself more credit, Jess. Much more credit. Especially considering you got in two years earlier than usual.”

“That makes me sound abnormal, though,” Jessica said distastefully. She glanced down at her watch. “They ought to be here by now. I swear to God, if they’re not here within the next five minutes-”

“Sorry we’re late!”

My head snapped up from foraging through my handbag at the sound of the newest voice. Coming down through the rows of seats were, I assumed, the subjects of my interview. I heard Schuyler’s voice fast in my ear as she explained who was who to kick-start my memory.

“Isaac’s the oldest – electric and acoustic guitar, some bass guitar, bit of piano, occasional vocals,” she whispered. “Mark’s in the middle – piano, guitar, harmonica, percussion, the odd bit of drumming, primary vocalist. Zac’s the youngest – drums, some guitar and piano, secondary vocalist.”

“Thanks,” I whispered back.

Once Schuyler had greeted her boyfriend, she and Jessica disappeared up into the uppermost row of seats, leaving me to do my job. All of a sudden I was very nervous – a feeling I recognised from when I had made a disastrous attempt at my very first interview for High Fidelity. I couldn’t even remember who I had interviewed, which was a good indicator of how much I had screwed things up. Well, that and Stephen’s very obvious reluctance to send me out on any more assignments before now.

“Okay, well, my name’s Isobel Reynolds,” I said to kick things off, sitting down on the drum riser as I spoke. “I work for High Fidelity.” As I spoke, I took my voice recorder and page of dot points from my handbag. I clicked my voice recorder on as soon as I had it out in the open. “Just for identification, we have – and I really hope I have this right – Isaac, Mark and Zac, right?” I pointed my recorder at each of the brothers as I said their names, and received a series of nods in return. I breathed a mental sigh of relief – the first hurdle was over with, and now I could relax and do my job.

Thankfully the interview went off completely without a hitch, and was wrapped up not long after five-fifteen. Schuyler came up to sit on the riser beside me as I clicked my recorder off and slipped it back into my bag. It was followed in short order by my list of dot points. “So what’s the verdict?” she asked sotto voce.

“They’re all right,” I replied quietly. “I hope you don’t think that this has turned me into a fan, though.” The word ‘fan’ was given an inflection of distaste. “I’m still not completely impressed. It’s going to take much more than just the one interview.”

“Hey, it’s a good start though.” She gave me a grin, before looking up. “Oh, hey Taylor.”

At Schuyler’s words, I too looked up. Standing before us was Mark’s twin, judging from the lack of a watch around either of his wrists. “Oh wow,” I breathed. He towered over Schuyler and I, and wore his long, caramel-coloured hair loose over his shoulders. Peering down at us in what looked like amusement, over a pair of rectangular-framed glasses, was a set of bright blue eyes. “Hey Skya-” I started, only to be rewarded with a well-placed elbow to the ribs.

“Bel and I need to get going,” Schuyler said smoothly as she stood up, “so unless you need us for anything we’re gonna get out of your hair and let you work.”

“I think I have everything under control,” Taylor replied. He looked at me. “Bel, was it?”

“Isobel,” I corrected as I got to my feet. “But yes, that’s me.”

“Isobel, then. I’ll probably be able to get these photographs on my computer by tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest, so could I have your email address so I can pass them on to you?”

“Yeah, of course.” I pulled the small spiral-bound notebook I kept for taking notes and my favourite pen from my handbag, flipped to a new page and jotted down my email address. Taylor took the page from me once it had been ripped out of my notebook and pocketed it.

“Thanks, Isobel,” he said with a smile. “I should have the photos emailed to you by about ten tonight – it’ll be from a ‘Jordan Hanson’, so that you know not to trash it.”

I nodded my thanks, and a split second later Schuyler proceeded to drag me off the stage and up out of the hall.

“Why didn’t you tell me he was so good-looking?” I asked Schuyler when we had emerged from the building, out into the chill January air. I pulled my coat closer around myself as a buffer against the cold. “God, I felt like I could stare into his eyes forever…”

“He’s unbelievable, isn’t he?” Schuyler said. She sounded very amused. “Looks to me like Taylor Hanson has found himself an admirer.”

“Perhaps,” I said airily. “And anyway, why’d you elbow me? All I wanted to know is why he wasn’t in a wheelchair. I thought he needed to use one.”

“He has his good days and he has his bad days,” Schuyler explained. “He only needs to use it on his bad days, so I can only assume that today’s a good day for him.” She patted her pockets and pulled her phone from the front left pocket of her dress pants. “I will say that he is looking much better than I’ve seen in a long time, though.”

“What, is he sick or something?”

“In a manner of speaking. Look, I know you’re curious about him, but Taylor guards his privacy even more fiercely than his brothers do theirs. You’re not going to get a lot out of him until he sees fit to let you in. So until he does give you an opening, don’t push the matter.”

I let out a sigh of frustration. “Okay, fine.” I quickly glanced at my watch. “Come on, let’s go home. I’m starving.”