It’s January 31st and Ione just won Album of the Year.
She’s standing in the press room backstage at the Staples Center and she’s holding a whopping four Grammy’s. She is holding so many Grammy’s that someone has to actually help her prop them up on her arms because when she tried to pick them all up the first time, she almost dropped one, and breaking one of her first through fourth Grammy’s felt like a bad omen. People are shouting things at her like, “how does it feel to be the youngest Album of the Year winner?” and Ione is elated, because why wouldn’t she be? She’s twenty and she’s just won what’s, in her opinion, the highest honor she could receive.
She’s twenty, and she’s just won the highest honor she could receive.
It’s January 31st still, so Ione doesn’t know what’s coming next. She doesn’t know about the backlash that’s on the horizon for her performance that night, struggling through a duet with one of her idols. She doesn’t know that someone out there will soon be writing an article that asserts she’s ruined her own career and that she’s done, and that even if it’s not true it’s still going to really fucking hurt more than it should. She doesn’t know yet how badly she’s going to take the criticism, or how different she’s going to become in the aftermath of it.
Ione still thinks she deserves it.
She’s not old enough to drink, but at the afterparty, no one is going to tell her no. Everyone will indulge her, praise her, offer her excess that she doesn’t necessarily partake in but still basks in how easy it would be for her. The members of her band are having almost as good a time as she is. They thank her for these experiences, and she feels like she’s doing them a favor that she feels very good about. She’s being congratulated left and right, she’s being told how incredible it is that someone so young could write something worthy of such an accolade, and she agrees with them. Of course it’s incredible, and of course she was able to do it. This is what it feels like to be satisfied, she thinks to herself. Ione believes she is on top of the world, unstoppable.
She’s twenty, and she’s just won the highest honor she could receive.
Because it’s January 31st still, so she doesn’t know yet that being at the top means the only place to go from there is down. She doesn’t know yet that her next album will be spitefully written entirely by herself, without a single cowriter anywhere on it, to prove that she is capable, because she is wildly convinced that no one believes she is anymore. She doesn’t know yet that she’s going to spend the next six months feeling like a joke and an embarrassment, even while continuing her very first headlining tour, the feeling of failure overwhelming the feeling of success every time. She doesn’t know yet that she's going to spend the next six years of her life struggling with feeling like she just doesn’t fucking deserve it, because right now she does, oh, right now she deserves everything that is handed to her. She doesn’t know what it means to feel mediocre at best, unworthy at worst, in the arena or in the press room or at the afterparty where she is surrounded by yes men and congratulatory remarks. She doesn’t know that everpresent feeling of inadequacy, no matter how much she succeeds, what records she breaks, what accolades are handed to her. Eventually Dani will say to her, “you just have to show them what you can do, prove them all wrong,” and she will drive herself insane trying to.
But she doesn’t know any of that yet, and on January 31st, Ione isn’t in the business of proving points.
On February 1st, Ione learns that she'll never win against herself.
She’s standing in the press room backstage at the Staples Center and she’s holding a whopping four Grammy’s. She is holding so many Grammy’s that someone has to actually help her prop them up on her arms because when she tried to pick them all up the first time, she almost dropped one, and breaking one of her first through fourth Grammy’s felt like a bad omen. People are shouting things at her like, “how does it feel to be the youngest Album of the Year winner?” and Ione is elated, because why wouldn’t she be? She’s twenty and she’s just won what’s, in her opinion, the highest honor she could receive.
She’s twenty, and she’s just won the highest honor she could receive.
It’s January 31st still, so Ione doesn’t know what’s coming next. She doesn’t know about the backlash that’s on the horizon for her performance that night, struggling through a duet with one of her idols. She doesn’t know that someone out there will soon be writing an article that asserts she’s ruined her own career and that she’s done, and that even if it’s not true it’s still going to really fucking hurt more than it should. She doesn’t know yet how badly she’s going to take the criticism, or how different she’s going to become in the aftermath of it.
Ione still thinks she deserves it.
She’s not old enough to drink, but at the afterparty, no one is going to tell her no. Everyone will indulge her, praise her, offer her excess that she doesn’t necessarily partake in but still basks in how easy it would be for her. The members of her band are having almost as good a time as she is. They thank her for these experiences, and she feels like she’s doing them a favor that she feels very good about. She’s being congratulated left and right, she’s being told how incredible it is that someone so young could write something worthy of such an accolade, and she agrees with them. Of course it’s incredible, and of course she was able to do it. This is what it feels like to be satisfied, she thinks to herself. Ione believes she is on top of the world, unstoppable.
She’s twenty, and she’s just won the highest honor she could receive.
Because it’s January 31st still, so she doesn’t know yet that being at the top means the only place to go from there is down. She doesn’t know yet that her next album will be spitefully written entirely by herself, without a single cowriter anywhere on it, to prove that she is capable, because she is wildly convinced that no one believes she is anymore. She doesn’t know yet that she’s going to spend the next six months feeling like a joke and an embarrassment, even while continuing her very first headlining tour, the feeling of failure overwhelming the feeling of success every time. She doesn’t know yet that she's going to spend the next six years of her life struggling with feeling like she just doesn’t fucking deserve it, because right now she does, oh, right now she deserves everything that is handed to her. She doesn’t know what it means to feel mediocre at best, unworthy at worst, in the arena or in the press room or at the afterparty where she is surrounded by yes men and congratulatory remarks. She doesn’t know that everpresent feeling of inadequacy, no matter how much she succeeds, what records she breaks, what accolades are handed to her. Eventually Dani will say to her, “you just have to show them what you can do, prove them all wrong,” and she will drive herself insane trying to.
But she doesn’t know any of that yet, and on January 31st, Ione isn’t in the business of proving points.
On February 1st, Ione learns that she'll never win against herself.
“Can I skip the press room?” isn’t the first thing someone should ask after walking off a stage where they’ve just won Album of the Year, but it’s what Ione is very quietly whispering into her publicist’s ear when Brooke greets her behind the scenes. Of course, Brooke spits a much louder “absolutely fucking not” in response, and Ione wants to argue her but there are too many people around, too many production assistants and executives and her own producers and other people she doesn’t recognize hanging around the sidelines so Ione is quiet instead, holding her award like it’s a fragile thing, a bomb about to explode in her hands.
Actually, it just might be a bomb about to explode in her hands.
Then Ione is locked in a bathroom that her best friend has ensured is empty, and that best friend is living up to her title by saying “I’ll come with you, I’ll stand on the side of the stage,” but once Ione’s put her game face back on she exits the bathroom to find that Brooke’s decided against the press room, anyway, and they’ll be going straight to the photo op. Ione can plaster a smile on her face if it means she doesn’t have to talk. It’s fun for a minute because Scout is there, Joseph is there, they’re celebrating Bad Blood and it feels good and not forced, but then they move on and she’s surrounded by producers and she’s sitting next to Jack who couldn’t possibly seem happier and she’s smiling but she’s also thinking and those two facts are never on the same page.
The photos won’t convey that the award feels like a bomb that’s about to explode in her lap.
The rest of the night is fine. The rest of the night is good, even. The rest of the night is spent with friends and loved ones, even after her parents head back to their hotel before the afterparties. She’s a little drunk, and she’s a little distracted, but she’s getting a lot of congratulations from people she knows and people she doesn’t and after the twentieth or so the thank you’s start to feel a little less forced but a little more mechanical. She repeats instructions in her head like it’s an instinct. Smile, act surprised by it all, say something that makes you sound humble. She’s laughing and she seems like she’s in good spirits and in some ways she is, walking that fine line between who she really is and who she forces herself to be. No one would know the difference; sometimes she doesn’t know the difference.
Her mind is reeling like a bomb that’s about to implode in her head.
It’s when she’s home later that she feels the most ungrateful. The buzz from the alcohol and the thrill from the party has worn off, and she is taking an opportunity to sit outside alone in the quiet. She is attempting to remind herself that she is lucky. She is, and she only has to look around to know that. But she feels like she cheated. She thinks of losing two years ago and the bullshit she spewed to make herself feel better about it: this was the album I wanted to make, it couldn’t have been better while simultaneously wondering what she could have done differently. She thinks about sitting up at four in the morning sending ideas back and forth with Jack and feeling like they were onto something incredible and the subsequent discovery that every piece of shit feels like genius when you’re sleep deprived. She thinks of sitting in the studio with Max recording the sound of their feet tapping on the floor to create a melody and how it made her feel fifteen again, at home with Dani listening to Tilly and the Wall, but also how desperate she was for gimmicks to be able to say look at how hard I worked, look at how clever. She thinks of Dani, who once said to her “sometimes I just worry that you get caught up in feeling like you have a point to prove.” What point did she prove? It wouldn’t matter. The backlash is coming, and maybe it should. Mediocre at best, unworthy at worst.
That’s the bomb that’s about to go off. She thinks she’ll deserve that more than she deserved that Grammy.
Actually, it just might be a bomb about to explode in her hands.
Then Ione is locked in a bathroom that her best friend has ensured is empty, and that best friend is living up to her title by saying “I’ll come with you, I’ll stand on the side of the stage,” but once Ione’s put her game face back on she exits the bathroom to find that Brooke’s decided against the press room, anyway, and they’ll be going straight to the photo op. Ione can plaster a smile on her face if it means she doesn’t have to talk. It’s fun for a minute because Scout is there, Joseph is there, they’re celebrating Bad Blood and it feels good and not forced, but then they move on and she’s surrounded by producers and she’s sitting next to Jack who couldn’t possibly seem happier and she’s smiling but she’s also thinking and those two facts are never on the same page.
The photos won’t convey that the award feels like a bomb that’s about to explode in her lap.
The rest of the night is fine. The rest of the night is good, even. The rest of the night is spent with friends and loved ones, even after her parents head back to their hotel before the afterparties. She’s a little drunk, and she’s a little distracted, but she’s getting a lot of congratulations from people she knows and people she doesn’t and after the twentieth or so the thank you’s start to feel a little less forced but a little more mechanical. She repeats instructions in her head like it’s an instinct. Smile, act surprised by it all, say something that makes you sound humble. She’s laughing and she seems like she’s in good spirits and in some ways she is, walking that fine line between who she really is and who she forces herself to be. No one would know the difference; sometimes she doesn’t know the difference.
Her mind is reeling like a bomb that’s about to implode in her head.
It’s when she’s home later that she feels the most ungrateful. The buzz from the alcohol and the thrill from the party has worn off, and she is taking an opportunity to sit outside alone in the quiet. She is attempting to remind herself that she is lucky. She is, and she only has to look around to know that. But she feels like she cheated. She thinks of losing two years ago and the bullshit she spewed to make herself feel better about it: this was the album I wanted to make, it couldn’t have been better while simultaneously wondering what she could have done differently. She thinks about sitting up at four in the morning sending ideas back and forth with Jack and feeling like they were onto something incredible and the subsequent discovery that every piece of shit feels like genius when you’re sleep deprived. She thinks of sitting in the studio with Max recording the sound of their feet tapping on the floor to create a melody and how it made her feel fifteen again, at home with Dani listening to Tilly and the Wall, but also how desperate she was for gimmicks to be able to say look at how hard I worked, look at how clever. She thinks of Dani, who once said to her “sometimes I just worry that you get caught up in feeling like you have a point to prove.” What point did she prove? It wouldn’t matter. The backlash is coming, and maybe it should. Mediocre at best, unworthy at worst.
That’s the bomb that’s about to go off. She thinks she’ll deserve that more than she deserved that Grammy.