Get Out of Your Own Way Guide to Life. Justin Loeber

up water on a kitchen counter. Because I had these pipes that could belt out a tune all the way from Jersey to Times Square (really!) I had the honor of being accepted to and attending the Manhattan School of Music Preparatory School for voice and the HB Studio for drama—not to mention the Alvin Ailey School for modern dance, Henry LeTang for tap, and Jo-Jo Smith and Phil Black for jazz (where I learned my moves with the other JLo—Jennifer Lopez—who also studied at Phil’s). In those days, the doors of the greats were wide open, and for about $2.50 a class, one could walk in and learn from them. My parents also let me apply for the National Music Camp in Interlochen, Michigan; not only was I accepted, but I stayed and “starred” in shows for three summers. At camp, I was a ballsy and competitive SOB. One year, I was the first person in the state of Michigan to come down with chicken pox (as a teenager—not attractive), right at the time when campers were auditioning to be in the big productions of the summer. Unhappy with being quarantined for the pox and sitting on the sidelines, I “demanded” that the directors come to the infirmary to audition me behind a window (because I was still infectious). I’d be damned if I was going to watch others on a stage that should be starring me!

      #Don’t let a little infection

      stand in the way of your spotlight.

      After those great summers at NMC in Interlochen, I studied more and more drama, dance and voice in NYC. During one summer, I dropped sixty pounds eating cottage cheese and lettuce while I was learning how to tap, getting my vocal chords in shape, and learning how to act. Talk about coming of age! What I lost in fat, I gained in confidence, shedding a bit of that pompous asshole-ness and becoming a nicer person to be around. Adios, squeaky little girl! (And a big adios to my biological father, who met a waitress and her older daughter on the highway, divorced my mom, and apparently moved to Florida with this brood.) Incidentally, I learned my dad moved to Florida when I dialed his number and the auto-attendant said, “The number you have reached has been changed....” Really classy, dad.

      #When you lose weight, you celebrate.

      #When an uninterested parent leaves you, you celebrate.

      Everything didn’t go my way, though. Fast forward to my first year at NYU Undergraduate Drama. I was accepted to the school after my audition, but then rejected because my SAT scores were abysmal: 390 (Math) and 420 (English). (OK, so I’m tremendously flawed when it comes to taking standardized tests.) I got some help from a family friend who knew someone in Admissions, and simultaneously I pitched many of my teachers, from first grade through high school (except for Mrs. Ernst), to write me a character reference. Voila! I guess this was the first time I became my own publicist. I was re-accepted to the university. Through the school’s undergraduate drama program, I was lucky to study acting under the great Stella Adler; but the academic curriculum I chose to earn some sort of degree (which, BTW, I didn’t get) sucked for me. I wanted out. I didn’t have the patience to go through four years of the “I’m not sure why I’m here” mode that many college students seem to go through.

      So I dropped out of NYU and shifted gears again, both professionally and geographically. My focus turned from acting to recording pop music...but not in New York! After seeing an MTV interview with the Stray Cats—an 80s rockabilly band whose members kept yowling about how they “couldn’t get arrested” in the States, but were all the rage in the UK—I set my sights on becoming a pop recording artist in England. Sadly, my dad (the one who exited stage left for an “ultra-fabulous life” in The Sunshine State), refused to help support my leaving NYU in favor of “career” in show business. That was fine by me (no hard feelings!) because my will to be a pop recording artist superseded my biological father’s approval.

      #If your dream doesn’t fit into someone else’s, screw them.

      When the plane landed in the UK, I put my gut life strategy in motion. I said to myself that I was going to get a recording contract before my visa expired. I was going to pretend that I was Mickey Rooney with Judy Garland, put on a show out of my garage, and never take the word “no” for an answer. I decided I was going to use my “Americanisms” as a plus—to be a bit odd to the Brits and become a character in my own real-life performance.

      So, here’s the wrap-up: one day I was Fat Larry, the next I was a college dropout, and the next I left for England and morphed into “Larry Loeber,” the first signed solo artist on Gary “Cars” Numan’s record label, Numa, debuting with a single called “Shivers Up My Spine,” which was starting to get airplay on BBC’s Radio 1 in London. Friends asked me why I didn’t call it “Shivers Down My Spine.” Yup, even back in the 80s, I always thought up, not down—and my visualization of having a recording contract in hand before my Virgin Atlantic flight took off from Heathrow to JFK really paid off.

      My dreams continued to grow: while I was recording the demos that eventually turned into singles, I almost passed out when I saw the sign “Sting” in the next room at Shepperton Recording Studios in England. And that’s not all: imagine my reaction at meeting the likes of the late George Michael, who was on the cusp of becoming a household name with his band, “Wham!” Within a few months, I conceptualized and filmed a music video for “Shivers..,” which incidentally, a fan posted on YouTube. Oy. (In the video, I put on a turban and Raybans, flew around in a magic carpet, and the rest is up to you to find out!) This was back when MTV was a network that only played those things.) I was recording more songs, including a rendition of Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky,” for an album. I also got word that I was to be one of the openers on Numan’s multicity “Berserker Tour” across the UK. The deal was for me to perform to the backing tracks of my upcoming album, alone, and in front of the proscenium, which in many of the arenas, were only a few feet deep and wide.

      On that tour, I had a lightbulb moment—another visualization—but this time, it didn’t include Rooney or Garland. It happened at a gig (I think it was in Wales), where the stage was at the same level as the mezzanine, so high up you couldn’t see those in the orchestra unless you looked way down. According to the venue, if the audience hated my performance, they would literally throw glass beer bottles at me—hence the reason why the stage was so high up. What the fuck?! Being hit by hurling glass in front of thousands wouldn’t be a nice welcome for an American (or anyone), I’d say, and seemed much worse than hearing that I was Fat Larry who wanted to marry Miss Vancheri. In fact, getting hit in the head by a glass beer bottle is, to me, the absolute most humiliating thing in public that could ever happen to anyone. My pop star dreams got a nasty wake-up call—but I can proudly say that I would never, ever, ever get a beer bottle thrown at me. From that day forward, I figured out a way to always dodge the glass beer bottle—on the stage, with my clients, and generally in life.

      One day, I heard the news that Mike Read, a famous DJ at Radio One in London—the guy who started playing “Shivers...” across the airwaves, had wanted to interview me. (Apparently, the interview was predicated on Gary Numan joining in, but I heard he declined.) Hmmmm.

      Just as if you’d turned off your radio, my music career in London abruptly came to a halt because of a stupid work permit debacle. I didn’t realize that when I was offered the chance to open for Numan’s tour and the label gave me the necessary paperwork to do so, I needed to leave the country for a few days and enter back in with said permit so that the officials at the airport could stamp a date on it. (What? Yeah, I was confused too.) Airport security said I was in breach of my original entry as a tourist: I took a job (as a pop recording artist) away from an English citizen. But I had the work permit, I just hadn’t reentered to get it stamped! What a shock. God help any Brit (whom I apparently “stole” a job from) who decides to write another single called, “Shivers Up My Spine!” Really? Apparently, it didn’t concern anyone at Numa because no one from the label, including Gary, showed up to bail me out of this mess. I was really heartbroken and totally frustrated. (Honestly, I think Numan was more interested in flying antique airplanes than running his record label, leaving the task at hand to his mum Beryl, and his dad, Tony—genuinely nice people who seemed to be a bit naïve—like me—when it came to working in the music business.) Who runs a record label, hears that one of their acts is stuck at customs at the airport, and doesn’t bother to simply show up—or send a rep. After being “denied entrance” from London (the police, though, gave me seven days to