On Monday morning, it was back to the routine. They woke up at 6:45 AM, showered, got dressed, and then went to the kitchen for coffee and the breakfast that Elsa had prepared for them (it was eggs benedict, Laura’s favorite). At 7:25, they left the house in Jake’s BMW and drove to San Luis Obispo Regional Airport, arriving there at 7:45 AM and parking the car in the hangar after using the electric tug to pull the Avanti out. The aircraft was preflighted and the flight plan filed by 8:00. They roared into the sky at 8:10 and landed at Whiteman Airport at 8:35, parking in the general aviation tie-down area and then retrieving the Ford F-150 from the hangar by 8:42. Jake then drove to KVA’s studio and dropped Laura off out front, watching to make sure she made it safely inside before beginning his drive out to Stonehurst and the rented warehouse where Matt and his band had been rehearsing. He arrived there at 8:55 and nodded in satisfaction that the timetable he had worked out for the days he would working with Matt had got him there on time.
Now the only thing left was to see if the two of them could actually work together.
Jake secured his car and walked to the man entrance that was guarded by a uniformed private security officer sitting in a chair and drinking coffee. The young guard looked at Jake in awe as he approached.
“Hey,” Jake greeted. “Matt is expecting me.”
The guard nodded rapidly. “He said you would be here today,” he said. “Does this mean ... uh ... you know ... that Intemp is getting back together?”
“No,” Jake said simply. “It doesn’t mean that at all.”
The guard’s face fell a bit. “That’s a bummer, dude,” he said.
“I suppose,” Jake said. “Is the door unlocked?”
“Oh ... yeah, go right in, Mr. Kingsley.”
“Thanks,” Jake said. “And call me Jake, if you don’t mind.”
“Right ... Jake,” the guard said.
“And ... you are?” Jake enquired.
“Huh? Oh, I’m Aaron,” the guard said. “Aaron Jackson.”
“Nice to meet you, Aaron,” Jake said, holding out his hand for a shake. “I appreciate the work you’re doing here.”
“Oh ... thanks, Mr. K—uh ... Jake.” They shook hands. Aaron seemed to be pleased by the gesture and by Jake’s expressed appreciation for what he was doing.
Jake opened the steel door and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The band’s equipment was still sitting in the same place it had been in when they had set everything up last month. The band itself was present but Matt was not here yet. Jake walked over and greeted Steve Calhoun, the drummer; Austin Jefferson, the bass player; and Corban Slate, the young rhythm guitarist. It was only his second time meeting them. All shook hands politely with him and treated him respectfully and with perhaps a bit of awe of their own.
“What time does Matt usually roll in?” Jake asked them.
“Nine o’clock on the button,” Steve said. “You can set your fuckin’ watch by him.”
“Fair enough,” Jake said. “How’s everything going with you guys? You getting by on the advance money okay?” KVA had fronted Matt and his band two hundred thousand dollars in advance money, which would be their only recoupable expense under the contract. Matt, of course, had not divided that up equally, but had given each of them twenty thousand to live on until such time as actual KVA royalty checks started rolling in.
“So far, so good,” said Austin. “I haven’t had to spend much of it yet. We’re still getting pretty good royalty checks from National—at least in our eyes.”
“Yeah,” said Corban, “we don’t have to give half of it to the IRS like Matt.”
“We also don’t live in mansions that have huge fuckin’ tax bills due every quarter,” added Steve.
“Good points,” Jake said.
The door opened a minute later and Matt stepped inside. He was dressed in a pair of denim shorts that hung to just above his knees and a faded Corona t-shirt that had its sleeves cut off. Jake glanced at his watch and saw that Steve had been right. It was nine o’clock, right on the button.
“Wassup, motherfuckers!” Matt greeted his bandmembers. They all returned the wassups with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Matt then looked at Jake. “Jake,” he said softly.
“Matt,” Jake returned. “Where’s Jim?”
“He doesn’t come in every day,” Matt said. “Usually only when we plan to go out and score some gash after the session.”
“I see,” Jake said.
“He gets better gash that way,” Matt explained. “If he goes to score some on his own, he can’t attract the high-class skank and has to settle for mediocre skank. When he’s with us, though, the bitches treat him just like a member of the band.”
“It’s good to hear you’re having a positive effect on his gash scoring,” Jake said. “What’s your normal routine for first thing in the morning?”
“We do a quick sound check and make sure everything is in tune and then get to work,” Matt said simply. “Usually, we’ll work on tunes we’ve already established in full for the first part of the morning and then work up some of the newer shit after lunch.”
“I’ll just watch from over here,” Jake said, pointing to a lone stool that sat twenty feet in front of the microphone stand where Matt would be playing. The stand had no less than eight separate effects pedals arranged at its base, all of them wired together and then patched into a master cable that led to the amplifier.
“Good deal,” Matt said. “We were just going to run through everything we’ve got for the morning session. That way, you can check out what we’ve come up with so far.”
Jake nodded. “Sounds like a plan,” he said.
Matt seemed a bit on edge but seemed to relax a bit now. He turned back to the band. “All right, motherfuckers,” he said. “Let’s get everything powered up and get started.”
Jake took his seat and opened up an eight and a half by eleven notebook he had brought with him. His plan was to write down the tunes as they were played and scribble down any thoughts he developed as notes. Matt went over and opened up a guitar case that sat on the drum platform. He pulled out a red Fender Stratocaster—a much newer model than the iconic black Strat he played on stage (that one was currently locked in a display case in his house). He slung it over his shoulder and then went to the sound board and powered it up. Once it was live, he picked up a guitar cord and plugged in. He then sat down on the stool before his microphone and began making sure the instrument was in tune. It was slightly off but this was quickly rectified.
Corban and Austin tuned their instruments as well and then Steve went through his drums and cymbals one by one, warming up and making sure all of his equipment was in tune as well. Matt then made a few adjustments to the sound board, tweaking the volume levels here and there and then directing adjustments to the individual instruments. In all, the entire warmup took about fifteen minutes, about a third of the time it would have taken had the Nerdlys been involved.
“All right,” Matt said, sitting back down in his stool. “I think we’re ready.”
“Let’s hear what you got,” Jake said, actually looking forward to what was coming.
Matt nodded and then turned to his band. “Let’s do Faithless first,” he told them. They all nodded in understanding. He turned back to Jake. “This is Faithless. It’s the first tune we started working on and the one we’ve nailed down the best so far. I’m thinking it might be the first cut on the new CD, maybe even the title cut.”