“Glad to hear it. Okay, well, I’ll go get the makeup artist for you. See you at the press conference.”
“See you then.”
He turns to leave.
“Actually, one quick question.”
Savage turns around slowly, his facial expression saying, And I was so close to escaping, too.
I smile. “In the second half of the chorus, that sort of post-chorus sing-along part . . . Are you singing, ‘La la la . . . Laila’ there?”
He flushes. “No.”
“No?”
“Nope. I’m singing ‘la la.’”
“Yeah, I know, but at the tail end there. After the string of ‘la la’s,’ you didn’t cap it off with ‘Laila’?”
“No. I sang, ‘La la’ the whole way through.”
“Huh. That’s so weird. I was positive I heard you singing my name.”
“That’s what being a narcissist will do to you, I guess. You think everyone is singing your name.”
I smile sweetly. “Takes one to know one, honey.”
We chuckle awkwardly. But, seriously. I swear I heard that part as Laila.
His face is red. His Adam’s apple bobs. “I was definitely singing ‘la la’ there. But if you think it sounds too much like Laila, then I can re-record that part, very easily, to make it crystal clear what I’m actually singing—which absolutely isn’t ‘Laila.’”
“No need. I’m sure I was just imagining it. Thinking the world revolves around me, like you said. I’m sure when I listen again, I’ll laugh that I ever thought you sang my name on that part.”
Savage chuckles with me. “Yeah, that’s funny.” He claps his hands together and exhales. “Okay, well, I’ll let you get to it. Like you said, time is tight.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Looking a bit out of sorts, Savage practically stumbles out the door, and a moment later, the makeup artist returns. After she’s picked up her eyeshadow palette, and I’ve settled back into my chair, I shove my earbuds back in, restart “Hate Sex High” from the beginning, and listen to every single word, this time extra carefully:
[Click HERE to listen to “Hate Sex High” along with Laila.]
Hate Sex High
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
One, two, three, let’s go
You’re falling, falling, falling, falling, falling in hate with me
I’m feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling something I don’t want to feel
Saw you with him at the show
I didn’t like it
I played it cold to your face
But I was on fire
He said you were his all along
And I didn’t like it
Turns out I imagined it all
Went back and punched a hole in the wall
You’re falling, falling, falling, falling, falling in hate with me
I’m feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling something I don’t want to feel
You’re falling, falling, falling, falling, falling in hate with me
I’m feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling something I don’t want to feel
Lalalalalala la la
Lalalalalala la la
I shouldn’t-a said what I did
Not tryna deny it
The harder I pushed you away
You wanted to ride it
I fucked with your body, baby
You fucked with my mind
You said it meant nothing to ya
But you came three times
You’re falling, falling, falling, falling, falling in hate with me
I’m feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling something I don’t want to feel
You’re falling, falling, falling, falling, falling in hate with me
I’m feeling, feeling, feeling, feeling something I don’t want to feel
Lalalalalala la la
Lalalalalala la la
I fucked with your body, baby
You fucked with my mind
You said it meant nothing to ya
But you came three times
Girl, you came three times
You came three times
You’re chasing a
Hate sex high
The song cycles through a few more choruses, until, finally, in an outro at the very end, Savage speaks conversationally over the music, his voice purring sexually above the sex-laden beat: “Did he make you come three times? Yeah, didn’t think so.” And I know, without a doubt, that’s absolutely one of the “kernels of truth” Savage admitted were buried in the song. Unless, of course, he was making every groupie he screwed come three times, the same way he did to me on the night of the hot tub, and was also totally obsessed with his achievement in regards to them, as well.
I listen again, from the very beginning, and, once again, I can’t help hearing my name at the end of the “la la la” section. Granted, Savage didn’t pronounce it like he normally would, almost as if he was pronouncing my name in a purposefully vague sort of way, like he was trying to reserve himself some deniability. Like he was pretending to sing “la la” in that part, while secretly singing “Laila” with a smug little smirk on his handsome face. In fact, I can almost picture Savage in the vocal booth, smirking wickedly while recording that part, as if he thought he was getting away with a fast one.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and open my eyes.
“All done,” the makeup artist mouths, and I pull out my earbuds and look in the mirror.
“Beautiful,” I say. “Thank you.”
“You’re an easy canvas.”
She begins cleaning up her station, getting ready for whoever is coming next. But I’m too lost in thought to move a muscle. Savage admitted he wrote “Hate Sex High” based on “kernels of truth” which he then spun into “popcorn lies.” Like I told him, that’s a concept I can fully understand, in general, since I’ve done the same thing in my own songwriting, too.
However, in reference to this specific song, a song called “Hate Sex High,” in which my name sure seems to be buried artfully among a string of “la la la’s”—a song about a woman chasing a “hate sex high” while Savage makes her come “three times”—a song about a woman falling into hate with Savage while he feels “something” he doesn’t “want to feel”—I can’t help wondering, in regards to this specific song: which parts are the admitted “kernels of truth” . . . and which are the supposed “popcorn lies”?
TO BE CONTINUED
Look for “FALLING INTO LOVE WITH YOU,” the conclusion of “THE HATE-LOVE DUET,” releasing April 19, 2020.
To find out how to stream or download “HATE SEX HIGH”, go to www.laurenrowebooks.com/music-from-the-hatelove-duet
And while you’re there,
