Mark Ronson Reads From Night People, On Ambition, Friendship & Early Mistakes

I saw the ad for Sweet Janes. You should put my band on the bill. What's your band called again? Mother Earth's Garden Bistro? We were called the Whole Earth Mamas, so that wasn't right. Sorry, Bill's fool, mate. Desperation kicked in. Uh, what if my friend Sean got up with us? I blurted, startled by my own guile. Sean who? he asked. Uh, Sean Lennon, I replied, a sticky sweat now breaking across my skin. If you do that, I'll put you on. The good news was I'd scored us our biggest gig ever. The bad news was I'd sold out my best friend to do it. Sean was home for the summer, so I headed to the Dakota to pitch him the idea. I got the band this amazing gig at the New Music Seminar. It'd be so cool if you got up and played a song with us, I said, skipping over most of the story. He mulled it over. Sean thought the world of me, but not as much the band I'd thrown myself into while he was away. Yeah, I guess we could play Release, he said, referring to the brooding closer from Pearl Jam's 10. Max can play guitar, I'll sing. I knew a nine-minute grunge opus was hardly what the jazzy giant step crowd came for, but I was just relieved to have him on board. On gig day, I showed up to sound check, but there was no sign of Sean or Max, and I began to panic. I called their homes, no answer. I paid Sean 911 and waited anxiously by the payphone in Sweet Jane's. When he finally called back, he explained that he and Max had dropped acid an hour ago and wandered off to Central Park. He didn't want to play the gig. My heart sank into my Doc Martens. Sean I really need you to play tonight It a big deal for us and now they expecting you too I said my baggy pants practically on fire Yeah it just feels weird he said picking up on something. It's your band. Why am I doing this again? I wanted to say, because I used your name to get the gig and I'm a bad friend. Instead, I hung up and bolted for a cab up town. Sheep Meadow, a vast 15-acre field at the southern end of Central Park, was the geographic and cultural center of our high school universe. Unlike the manicured lawns and kiddie carousels found in the rest of the park, the meadow was its own universe. Hippies with matted hair sung redemption songs so sincerely you almost forgave them. There were stoners in oversized oval sunglasses and silver peace sign pendants, hard rocks and baggy jeans and backpacks filled with Krylon graffiti markers planning their next boosting mission. and Catholic school girls in gray flannel skirts, white socks, and penny loafers who sat in circles flashing teenage thigh. The meadow wasn't just a patch of grass, it was our after-school meeting point, hang zone, and one-stop shop to score weed, acid, and overpriced Snapple. Most days, I bounce between clicks with my CD boombox playing Jesus Jones in Smashing Pumpkins, or Main Source in LL Cool J, depending on the crew. but today I carry no boombox, just guilt and despair. Luckily the park was nearly empty but for the hardcore dropouts and dealers I spotted Sean and Max right away. As I ran over they were laid out on their backs staring up at the clouds watching a dragon eat a pizza or two dolphins high-fiving or whatever shit you see when you're on LSD. My adrenaline was pumping so hard I have no memory of what I said but somehow I managed to bundle them both into Sean's caftan and hurried them into a taxi and down to soundcheck praying would still make the gig.