Treehouse Special: "I'm Not Going" to Apologize: Would You Join a Boyband If You Knew Your Debut Single Would Be a Punchline?
Okay, so let me paint you a picture.
Six months ago, I was living in a studio apartment in North Hollywood with two roommates—and I'm using the term "apartment" generously here. It was more like a glorified closet with a hotplate. I was hustling, grinding, doing the whole starving artist thing. Auditions every week. Student films where they paid me in "exposure" and cold pizza. Indie projects that never saw the light of day. I was building my reel one unpaid gig at a time, telling myself that this was the path, that this was what real actors do.
Non-working commercial actor? That was my official title. I had exactly three commercials on my resume—two were never aired, and one was a regional spot for a mattress store where I played "Guy Who Can't Sleep Number Three." My agent stopped returning my calls. My survival job was serving overpriced acai bowls to influencers who didn't tip. I was invisible. Forgettable. Just another face in the cattle call.
Then I got the call.
"Thomas, we're putting together a new boyband. It's called Crimson Red. They want you to come in for a final callback."
I almost laughed. A boyband? Me? I'm a serious actor. I studied Meisner. I can cry on cue. I've done Shakespeare in the park, for God's sake. But then I looked at my bank account—$147 and some change—and I thought, you know what? Pride doesn't pay rent. So I went.
The callback was surreal. They had us sing, dance, answer questions about our "brand." They asked what our favorite color was. They measured our jawlines. I felt like livestock at an auction.
But I smiled, I performed, I told them I was a team player. And somehow, miraculously, I got in.
Crimson Red.
Four guys, all blonde, all clean-cut, all desperate in our own ways.
Fast forward to today.
We're on the set of our debut music video for "I'm Not Going." It's this massive production—nature-themed sound stage, fake trees, fog machines, the works. There are cameras everywhere, lighting rigs, a crew of maybe fifty people running around. This is the big moment. Our launch. Our introduction to the world.
Before we start filming, our manager—this guy named Derek who wears too much cologne and talks too fast—pulls the four of us aside. He's got this serious look on his face, like he's about to tell us someone died.
"Listen," he says, leaning in close. "Don't talk to the male extras today. Just... don't engage. Stay focused on the performance. Stay in your zone."
We all kind of look at each other, confused. "Why?" I ask.
"Just trust me on this one," Derek says, and then he's gone, barking orders at someone about lighting.
So we're walking through the set, heading to our marks, and we pass this group of male extras. Maybe ten of them, all dressed in flannel and jeans, looking like they just rolled out of a dive bar. And immediately, I feel it. The energy. The vibe.
One of them snickers as we walk by. Another one mutters something under his breath—I can't make out the words, but the tone is clear. Mocking. Dismissive. Then I hear it, louder this time: "Look at these boys."
Someone else laughs. It's not a friendly laugh. It's the kind of laugh that makes your stomach tighten.
We keep walking, trying to ignore it, but it's impossible. One guy in the corner—shaggy hair, ripped jacket—pulls out a blunt and lights it right there on set, like he's making a statement. Like he's saying, I don't give a damn about your little pop project. The smell of weed drifts over, and I see him smirking at us.
Another extra, this tall guy with a beard, is cursing loud enough for us to hear. "This is what music's come to, huh? Four pretty boys in matching outfits."
They're not even trying to hide it. They're mocking us. Under their breath, sure, but loud enough. And the worst part? I get it. I understand it. Because six months ago, I would've been one of them. I would've been the guy rolling my eyes at the manufactured pop act, the guy making jokes about how soulless and corporate it all is.
But now I'm on the other side. And it stings.
We get to our marks, and I try to shake it off. I try to focus. But all I can think about is the title of our song: "I'm Not Going." And I realize—*oh God, this is going to get destroyed.* The jokes write themselves. "I'm Not Going... to listen to this." "I'm Not Going... to take this seriously." "I'm Not Going... to survive the first week on the charts."
I can already see the comments section. The TikToks. The reaction videos. The memes. We haven't even released the song yet, and I can feel the punchline forming.
So here's my question, and I want you to really think about it:
Would you do it? Would you join a boyband—or any project, really—if you were in my shoes? If you were a non-working commercial actor, a struggling singer, a dancer waiting tables between gigs, barely scraping by, invisible to the industry... would you take the gig if you knew your debut single was going to get punned? If you knew people were going to mock you, make jokes, dismiss you before you even had a chance?
Because here's the thing: I said yes. I'm here. I'm wearing the jeans and the colored shirt and the hairspray and the whole package. And yeah, it's humiliating. Yeah, those extras are laughing at us. Yeah, the internet is probably going to tear us apart.
But I've been broke. I've been invisible. I've sent a thousand self-tapes into the void and heard nothing back. At least now, people will know my name—even if it's attached to a punchline. At least I'm working. At least I'm seen.
Pride doesn't pay rent. And maybe, just maybe, we'll prove them wrong.