Your Love Pursues: A Memoir

By Jason Davis and Karen Koczwara

Your Love Pursues, a memoir by Recording Industry Executive Jason Davis, is more than another rags to riches tale. It is more than triumph and tragedy. It is the story of one man's incredible journey in the music industry, and how, in the midst of it all, he found something far more valuable than anything on earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483537474

Book preview

Afterword

Prologue - The Balcony

The devil took him up on an exceedingly high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory. And he said to him, ‘All these things I will give you if you will fall down and worship me.’ Then Jesus said to him, ‘Away with you, Satan! For it is written, ‘You shall worship the Lord your God, and him only shall you serve. Then the devil left him, and behold, angels came and ministered to him. (Matthew 4:8-11)

***

So this is where it all ends.

I sat on the balcony of my hotel room at the Ritz-Carlton, tears streaming down my cheeks as I watched the sailboats flit over the waters of Marina Del Rey. It was a gorgeous night, the sky perfectly clear. Yet I could scarcely breathe it in because the pain in my heart was too great.

Three bottles of sleeping pills sat on the plush king-sized bed inside my suite. The room where I intended to kill myself tonight because there was nothing worth living for anymore.

No one knows I am here. No one knows they will never speak to me again. The guy at the front desk had no idea when he handed me my key with his requisite smile that I would not make it out of this hotel alive.

The tears kept coming as the memories spun through my mind, one after another like fragments of a movie. My father’s hand flying across my body in anger as I struggled to keep my composure. The years I’d spent locked up in my room, pouring my heart and soul out to a guitar. My once-happy family split in two, reeling from the abuse and the lies. The years of poverty and loneliness that followed, leading up to what I thought was the American dream. How had everything gone so wrong?

For a while, I’d thought I had it all. Ten years ago I’d had a dream to rise to the top of the music business, and that dream had soon been realized. The world promised the mountain top, where life would be perfect and everyone I encountered would adore me. I had accomplished everything I set out to do. I had everything a young man could want—money, possessions, accolades, triumphs, glory, prestige. A gorgeous ocean-view house, complete with the finest furniture and decor. Assistants and staff at my beck and call. A mile-long list of celebrity contacts in my phone. Yet none of it mattered now.

I have made it to the top of the mountain, yet there is nothing here but emptiness. The man who has it all, in fact, has nothing.

At home, my wife and I slept in separate bedrooms. As our hearts drifted apart, I turned to other women to fill the void. The celebrities I’d once worshipped seemed only to be interested in a ride to the top. I had purchased everything I could possibly think of, down to the very last shiny fork and knife in my kitchen drawers. Even a $70,000 watch could not numb the pain.

At the end of the day, I felt unloved. At 32 years old, I had sought love in every possible corner of the earth, but my search had turned up empty. I was lost, living a double life, imprisoned by my lies and feelings of utter despair. Those on the outside saw a confident guy in expensive clothes and a fancy car, a guy who knew how to win deals like no one else. But the man I saw was a liar, a man without a single true friend, a man who did not know how to give or receive real love, a man out for himself. I saw the real me when I looked in the mirror. And the real me was hurting and ugly.

None of it is real. It’s all fake. A sham. I’ve tried it all, and there is nothing left.

I took one last glance at the marina, soaking up the serenity before me. Soon, I would drift away like those sailboats, checking out of this earth for good.

I’m ready to say goodbye.

I took a deep breath and headed back into my suite, where the bottles still sat on the king-sized bed. Waiting for me, beckoning me to get it over with.

And then my cell phone rang.

Chapter One - The Plastic Guitar

It all began with a yellow plastic guitar my parents bought me when I was two years old. I plucked at the tiny nylon strings and toted it with me everywhere, often dragging it to the dinner table while I ate. A plastic drum set soon accompanied my favorite toy. I did not know that music would someday save my life; that even after befriending some of the most prestigious singers in the world, the very songs I’d written would become the soundtrack for my pain.

I was born in Ogdensburg, New Jersey, a small rural town of 1,300 people. My sister Jessy arrived two and a half years later, just three days before Christmas. While my mother labored down the hall, my father ushered me into the hospital waiting room, where a decorative Christmas tree stood in the corner. He scooped me up and let me gently touch the shiny balls that dangled from the branches. I leaned against the warmth of his soft, large hands, my eyes wide with awe as his masculine fingers stretched toward the tree. It would be one of the last times I would ever feel safe in his arms.

Long before I arrived, my family’s heritage was marked with tragedy, perseverance and triumph. My mother’s parents were both Jewish Holocaust survivors, their love story a flickering spark in the midst of chilling circumstances. While suffering in German concentration camps, their eyes briefly met, and the bleakness disappeared. After escaping the camp, my grandfather got into the business of cutting hair. One day, a customer told him he’d seen his true love in Poland. My grandfather paid the man to go to Poland and bring my grandmother back to Germany. The man did as he requested, and my grandparents got married that very day. They arrived at Ellis Island, New York and settled in Brooklyn. Within a year, my grandfather learned fluent English. He then went on to start what would become one of the most successful barber shops in Brooklyn.

My father’s upbringing was wrought with tragedy as well. His father was a disturbed man who had discovered his own father hanging to death in his kitchen when he was a child. He attempted suicide several times himself to escape what haunted him, often landing in mental institutions. It was into this dark world that my father was born.

When he was 16, my father’s father retired in Florida and abandoned him at his grandmother’s house. Forced to support himself, my father delivered medical supplies by bicycle and eventually saved up enough money to put himself through computer programming school. He met my mother through a mutual friend, and her home became a place of refuge for him. My mother helped him with his homework, while her parents cooked him dinner at night.

When my father asked for my mother’s hand in marriage, her father was hesitant. He knew of the dysfunction my father had come from and was convinced my father had an attitude and a temper. He was also concerned my father lacked roots and would not be able to provide for my mother. But he relented and agreed to pay for the whole wedding. However, when my father learned certain guests he’d invited to the nuptials were not invited, he lost his temper with my mother’s father. Though generally a calm man, my grandfather deftly knocked my father to the ground, issuing him the surprise of his life. Years later, after tasting the sting of my father’s wrath, I’d admire my grandfather for that gutsy move.

As a very young boy, I decided it was my father who loved me best. Though he often expressed his affection with words of endearment and hugs, my mother was much more reserved. On a few occasions, she let me pick out an action figure I’d been pining for at a local toy store called Mars.

Now don’t tell your father I caved in and bought it for you, she whispered.

For a moment, she won me over. I liked knowing we shared a secret, just the two of us. But her affection was sparse. Though she often told me she loved me, she rarely doled out hugs. I stuck close by my father’s side, hoping, as most any little boy does, that I’d follow in his footsteps and be just like him someday.

Growing up as the only Jewish kid in a small town, I quickly learned that the world could be cruel and unfair. I watched with envy as the presents piled up under the neighbors’ Christmas trees, disappointed with the measly basketball Hanukkah brought my way. Against Jewish tradition, my mother put up a tree of our own so we wouldn’t feel left out.

Christmas is centered around Jesus, and we don’t believe in him, she reminded me.

Innocently, I replied, Well, I believe in Jesus. And at that, she had nothing to say.

Just before I started first grade, the board of education decided I could not attend the local school. Jews, as far as they were concerned, were of the Devil. My mother marched me before a panel of folks and showed them a Menorah, trying to explain our Jewish traditions as they scratched their heads. At last, they agreed to let me attend school, and thus began my miseries.

"Hey, you kike!" the kids at school called out, throwing sneers my way on the playground.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and tried to ignore them. When they marched up and punched me in the face, I held back the tears and walked away. I was not a fighter, but their words stung all the same, and a dark cloud followed me all the way home.

One day, my father and I walked into a lawn mower shop.

I heard you’re a Jew, said the owner, glaring at my father from behind the counter. We don’t serve Jews in here.

We left, and at that moment, I realized my father was a misfit with a dark cloud of his own. We didn’t belong in this town.

Though I soon outgrew the little plastic guitar and drum set, I remained fascinated by music. One day, my friend across the street invited me over. His brother had a shiny full size black drum set in the garage, and it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. I sat on the stool, my little legs dangling over the edge, and banged away. We made up songs on hot summer afternoons, and I imagined what it might be like to be in a real band. We then hunkered in his bedroom, studying the latest album covers. I was mesmerized by the artistic edge of the album covers, drawn to the outfits, logos, personalities, colors and entertainment elements displayed on them. Who were these larger than life people staring back at me?

Ozzy Osbourne’s Bark at the Moon cover especially intrigued me. Dressed and posed like a wolf in full make-up, he was more than just a singer or a songwriter-he was an actor, a fearless artist and a visionary, creating his own personality through his costumes. At 9 years old, I didn’t know much, but I did know there was something magical about music, and I wanted more.

I continued to navigate the prejudiced streets of my little town, confused by the division between my family and our neighbors. But two hours away, in the bustling city of Brooklyn, no one cared if I was a Jew. I lived for the summers, when my sister and I could escape to my grandparents’ place for a month. As my father drove toward their house, I curled up in the passenger seat, laid my head on his thigh and drifted off to sleep. His warmth comforted me, and it occurred to me that this was how it should be-a boy, safe beside his father, protected and loved. But this warmth would someday disappear, and those hands that once held me would soon become what I feared most.

The moment I walked into my grandparents’ house, I felt completely at ease. The place was filled with antique furniture and always smelled like mothballs. I spent time watching television in my grandfather’s den with him, sneaking nuts from the little crystal dish next to his recliner. At night, I slept in my mother’s childhood room, surrounded by that same warmth I felt in my father’s arms. On the wall was a pencil drawing of a clown that my mother had created as a child. I loved lying in bed and looking at the old photos of her on the wall, imaging what she must have been like at my age. Several barber chairs sat in the basement, and clients often came to my grandfather’s house for a haircut. My cousins lived upstairs, and we played ball in the fenced-in backyard. The place represented solace and security, two things I would struggle to find later in life.

My grandfather was a handsome, kind man who never once raised his voice. At night, before dinner, he recited several Jewish prayers and read from the Old Testament while we all listened. Aside from my family’s annual trip to the Jewish temple, I didn’t know much about God. But somehow, my grandfather made him come alive. I didn’t mind the boring parts he shared, as being in his presence was exciting enough. His blue eyes sparkled as he glanced over at my grandmother.It was obvious he adored her. I remembered the strained tones between my parents back home and tried to recall the last time I’d seen my father look at my mother like that.

Though he owned a car, my grandfather chose to walk the six miles into the city to run his shop each day. When I was old enough to make the trek myself, he invited me to come along. Though I could hardly drag myself out of the covers at home, I bounded out of bed before the sun rose to join my grandfather on his way to work. We left at 5 a.m. and trudged along the road, past the suburban houses and into the city, just the two of us, chatting about life. If storm clouds rolled in, my grandfather simply popped open his umbrella and marched on. Nothing would stop him from showing up for his customers.

As we walked side by side, my grandfather told me fascinating and elaborate tales about a character named Mr. Kiddidle Hopper. I grew to believe this wonderful character was real.

Grandpa, is Mr. Kiddidle Hopper really real? I asked him often.

Of course Mr. Kiddidle Hopper is real! he exclaimed heartily.

Grandpa, I want to meet him! I cried, my eyes growing wide with excitement.

Someday soon I will take you to meet Mr. Kiddidle Hopper, he told me.

When, Grandpa, when? I pressed.

Soon.

Okay, Grandpa, but I want to know more about Mr. Kiddidle Hopper!

On and on the conversation went until we reached our destination.

A quaint, old-time barber shop, the place boasted several red leather chairs that were always filled. Comfortable couches rested against the walls, and a woman set up a nail salon in the front. An old-fashioned gold cash register sat near the front door, its drawer popping out with a clang. My grandfather taught me to use it, and I carefully counted the coins before dropping the money in the till.

At lunch, we walked over to the nearby deli, where the locals milled around my grandfather to say hello. I beamed with pride as I watched him interact with everyone. It seemed he was known wherever he went. I vowed that when I grew up I would try my best to be just like my grandfather—hardworking. Likeable. Successful.

When the long summer days waned and school started up again, my stomach knotted with dread. I heard my parents fighting down the hall one night, and I was afraid they might get divorced. Between being bullied at school and being snubbed around town, I had enough to worry about.

One afternoon, my best friend across the street came over to play. We set up a game of hockey in my driveway, and when I scored a goal on him, he grew upset.

"Stupid kike!" he hurled at me.

The resentment that had been simmering inside me rose to a full boil. I hoisted my hockey stick over my head and charged at him. The stick landed on his leg with a whack. When I realized what I’d done, I stepped back, horrified. My friend limped home, and later that evening, his parents called to inform us he’d wound up in the hospital.

You need to go over there and apologize to him, my father said sternly. You put that boy in the hospital, and that’s not right.

Grudgingly, I trudged over to my friend’s house. When I arrived, I discovered him sitting beside his parents, his leg in a cast. Their faces were somber as my eyes met theirs.

I’m sorry for hurting you, I told my friend, instantly filled with remorse. I’d never meant for him to be the target of my pain. I’d simply had enough of the taunting, and I’d snapped.

Even my best friend knows I’m a kike. Am I going to spend the rest of my life feeling out of place?

Despite my small town woes, my early years included many fond family memories. My parents fought on and off, but my home still remained a place of refuge. My father often helped me with school projects, once teaching me how to make glue from flour and water. The glue project was a huge hit with my peers. In the winter, he took me to the nearby frozen lake, where we played a game of ice hockey. Once, when walking across the lake, my father found an old hockey stick and fixed it up for me; it became my first official hockey stick. In those precious moments, we were son and father, and all was right with the world.

In the summers, my family often took off to the nearby lake to swim, fish and picnic. As my parents set their towels down on the shore, I wandered off down a dirt path alone. I sat at the edge of a rugged cliff top and glanced down at the water below. Though just a kid, my mind was curious, always searching beyond the surface. I asked myself the deeper questions. What’s the purpose in living? I wondered as I took in my surroundings. Is there more out there? Why was I created to live on this planet, anyway? I looked up at the sky for answers, but there were none. Still, I was certain there was something missing—something I was meant to discover someday.

When I was 10 years old, my father announced we were moving to Marlboro two hours away. His job in the corporate arena had taken him