My Day at the Grammys with Hunter Hayes
Hunter Hayes performs onstage at the 55th Annual GRAMMY Awards.
Thanks to a new novel I'd written, The Love Song of Jonny Valentine, about an 11-year-old pop star, I was given the opportunity to attend the Grammys last Sunday. The idea was to get a taste of what the momentous, chaotic day is like for a real-life young nominee. And so I packed my bags for Los Angeles, leaving behind, as per CBS's widely circulated memo about sartorial restrictions, my crotchless tuxedo.
The performer in question was Hunter Hayes, the 21-year-old country-music wunderkind who was up for three awards, including Best New Artist, and who also performed live. Hayes, from Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, is a musical prodigy. He began picking up instruments at age two, played onstage with Hank Williams Jr. two years later, and recorded two amateur albums by the time he was 10. He moved to Nashville when he was seventeen and co-wrote a Rascal Flatts song a couple of years after. His eponymous debut, for which he played all thirty-odd instruments (not a typo), wrote or co-wrote every song, and was co-producer, has racked up widespread acclaim, and the single "Wanted" has sold over two million copies. It made him the youngest male solo country artist ever to top Billboard's Hot Country Songs chart.
Hayes' team wanted to ensure that I understood he was no Justin Bieber. He was a real musician who had worked hard not to let a teeny-bopper image subsume him, they pointed out, despite his overlapping demographic appeal with some of Bieber's fan base. I was curious to see how non-manufactured he really was – or if this (relative) absence of packaging was itself the most cynical form of packaging.
I arrived at Le Parc Suite Hotel, in West Hollywood, at 10 in the morning to meet Hayes' publicist, three managers and a two-man crew from the entertainment-news program Access Hollywood that would be filming his preparations. Hayes' core team all hails from Nashville and flouts industry-shark stereotypes. Ansel Davis, one of his managers – "I'm a recovering lawyer," he told me, and his shoes, adorned with a skull design, suggested the extent of his rehabilitation – said he discovered Hayes playing in a flatbed truck at a festival in Lafayette, Louisiana.
As we waited outside Hayes' hotel room for him to finish his ablutions, the entourage, Grammy veterans all, good-naturedly lamented the grueling day ahead of them. His gregarious publicist, Tree Paine, predicted she would be on-duty until two in the morning. (She's been coming to the Grammys since 1996 and seemed to be on good terms with every media member in attendance.) "Hundreds of thousands of people would pay anything to be here," Davis said. "But it's work."
"Yet there's an energy to it when you walk in," he continued, carrying in a large coffee for the nominee. Hayes was sitting on the couch in his average-sized room, wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt, jeans and scuffed black leather Converses. A compact five-foot-six, he has the unthreatening, telegenic looks of a primetime teen-soap-opera actor, and bears some resemblance to a mash-up of Chad Michael Murray from One Tree Hill and Neil Patrick Harris (who later presented an award).
His suite betrayed no signs of egomanical accoutrements. A Grammy worker I met later in the day told me of a diva's legendary request for rose petals in her toilet, as evanescent a luxury as I could imagine. The sole indulgence Hayes had permitted himself for his nominations was a Bell & Ross aviation watch – he's working on getting a pilot's license. "It was my biggest splurge," he said. "It took three people to talk me into getting it."