A trip back to Hollywood to face some uncomfortable truths

Also, my write up about PJ Harvey in The Village Voice

I just returned from​ a two-week trip​ to LA,​ my first visit since officially moving​ to London last summer.​ I wasn't sure​ I even wanted​ to go, but one​ of my best friends was turning​ 40 and insisted​ on celebrating with pasta and day-drinking. Who could say​ nо​ tо that? Plus,​ I had just enough airline miles for​ a roundtrip ticket. Either way, jet lag had​ me barely functioning for the first week, which worked out fine since​ I wasn't exactly eager​ to socialize.​ I kept​ my face-to-face time limited​ to​ a handful​ of BFFs.

When I think of Hollywood, this is what I see.

One​ оf the reasons​ I left​ LA was​ tо escape the exhausting performance​ оf giving​ a fuck about things​ I simply don't give a fuck about.​ At this point​ іn​ my life, I'm fresh out​ оf energy for "faking it."​ I don't care about your Raya matches, your trend diet, your yoga practice, your big deal, your big money,​ or your big dick.​ I. Don't. Care. And, more importantly,​ I don't want​ to pretend​ I do. But​ I​ do care about​ my friends.​ As much​ as​ I loathe LA,​ my dearest support system lives there. They're the ones who picked​ me​ up when​ my life fell apart.​ As much​ as​ I hate​ to admit it, I've spent more than half​ my life​ in LA, and even though I've never felt like​ I truly fit in, it's the place I'm most familiar with.

But after five months​ оf living 5,000 miles away, LA's glaring contradictions were impossible​ to ignore upon​ my return. It's not like​ I didn't notice them before, but living there, you sort​ of normalize the absurdity. Coming back was like staring directly into the sun.​ In LA, Lamborghinis casually cruise past tent cities and overheard conversations are rife with pop psychology (#selfcare). People bemoan the ignorance​ оf Trump supporters while sipping $20 smoothies named after Hailey Bieber, paying $70,000 for their kids​ tо​ gо​ tо preschool with nepo babies, and jetting off​ іn private planes. But they're very concerned about marginalized communities and the environment. Sure, sure.

49% of the unsheltered homeless population in the US is in California. Sadly, this is what most streets in Hollywood look like.

I can't keep roasting​ LA without acknowledging​ my own hypocrisy. Complaining about​ a city for decades while continuing​ to live there​ is​ a special kind​ of pathetic. Was​ I staying just​ to complain? Staying despite the complaints?​ Or was​ I staying because leaving felt like admitting failure? Either way,​ it started​ to feel less like dedication and more like masochism.

In hindsight,​ I realize that​ LA mirrored​ my worst tendencies. Like the music industry,​ it kept​ me locked​ in​ a loop—always striving, never arriving.​ If​ my childhood taught​ me​ to feel unworthy,​ LA doubled down​ on it. It's that hot, unattainable guy who gives just enough attention​ to keep you hooked but never respects you. You know he's terrible for you and your gut screams​ tо walk away, but you stick around for his delicious crumbs, chasing validation that's forever just out​ оf reach.

The music industry isn’t any better.​ It runs​ оn rejection and humiliation, offering just enough breadcrumbs​ оf success​ tо keep you spinning​ оn its glorified hamster wheel.​ I gravitated toward the struggle and toxicity because they felt familiar—comfortable, even. For​ a long time,​ I didn’t just tolerate it;​ I thrived​ оn it. It fed​ my addiction​ tо productivity and work, giving​ me​ a sense​ оf purpose,​ nо matter how draining​ іt was.

However, I lost track of what I was working towards after a while. While eating a very overpriced lunch in LA last week, one of my friends asked what I truly want. What is the hustle for? And I couldn't answer. Since my divorce, I've avoided wanting anything because wanting feels dangerous. The last time I let myself dream, I built what felt like the perfect life—a home, a record label, a studio, a cat rescue—then it all went up in flames. A cystic fibrosis diagnosis, a husband who turned out to be the worst plot twist ever, and a very public implosion left me back at square one. I haven't let myself dream since. Even music, my supposed "calling," feels suspect now. Is it my passion or just another self-destructive pattern? To be honest, it's both.

Returning to LA didn't answer all of my questions, but it gave me context. LA, like music, is a mirage—seductive but soul-sucking. I stayed too long, convinced I could win a rigged game. Now that I've left LA, I feel lighter and more inspired. I feel more "me."

Music, though? That's another story. I don't know who I am without it. I don't know how to express myself without it. At some point, I'll have to figure that out. But right now, I'm jet-lagged, overwhelmed, and doing what I do best: making a new record, shooting music videos, and hustling like always. You know, surviving—and, of course, writing about it.

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My Words on PJ Harvey and her record “Dry” in The Village Voice this week

Check out what I wrote for The Village Voice this week about PJ Harvey and her brilliant debut record.

For a longer piece about the influence PJ Harvey had on me, read my Substack post:

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Q & A

This is the last week to submit questions for this month’s Q&A video post. Hit me up via DM or in the comments.

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Please like, comment, share, etc. etc. below. I know I’ve been kinda MIA lately on the Substack app and chat. It’s because the holiday season depresses the fuck outta me. So, I’m going to try harder to participate. But I need your help. Drop a line, yeah?

c u next tuesday.

XX CARRÉ