Jake opened the front door using the code box and stepped inside. The receptionist’s desk was empty as it was her day off. Faintly, from the direction of the soundproof studio, he could hear the rhythmic thumping of Ben Ping’s bass guitar but little else. He put it out of his mind and walked down the hallway to Pauline’s office. She was sitting behind her desk, her hair down, wearing a blouse and a pair of jeans.
“Hey, Paulie,” he greeted. “Where’s Tabby?”
“Obie’s in town for a few weeks,” she said. “She’s with him.”
“Oh, that’s cool.” He walked over to the chair in front of her desk.
“Before you sit down,” Pauline said, “and before we talk, I want you to do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Go over to the studio door and pop it open just a little, so the sound can get out, but the band doesn’t know you’re there.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked.
“I want you to listen to them play for a few minutes,” she said.
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you after you do it,” she said. “Give it at least five minutes or so.”
He looked at her quizzically but saw that he was going to get no further information until he did what she asked. So, he did what she asked. He walked back to the studio and punched in the code for the heavy door that guarded access. The lock clicked. Slowly, he turned the knob and pulled the door open a few inches.
The moment he did so, the volume of the music increased significantly, enough that he could hear each instrument playing, could hear the words that Phil was singing. It was a fast-paced tune, going at about one-thirty beats per minute or so. The guitar was lightly distorted and being played in a drop-E tuning. Phil was singing in good voice. Jake listened to the tune they were rehearsing. It had a good beat and a good hook line. After hearing two verses and two choruses, he realized that the song was about suicide. Phil seemed to be pleading with the person contemplating this act not to do it, that life could be handled despite its drawbacks. He found himself tapping his foot and nodding his head to the beat.
They’ve gotten better since I last heard them, he thought appreciatively. Not that they were terrible before, but if this was an example of their latest work, it was significantly improved.
When they finished up the tune and started discussing the ins and outs of what should come next, Jake gently closed the door again. He walked back to Pauline’s office and sat down at her desk.
“They’ve gotten a lot better,” he said. “Is that what you wanted me to hear?”
“Yes,” she said. “And you’re right. They’ve gotten much better over the past year. They are very popular in the region now, headlining in the clubs from San Diego to Oxnard to San Bernardino almost every weekend. They are pulling in anywhere from fifteen hundred to twenty-five hundred dollars a gig now, and I’ve got club managers calling me up almost every day trying to book them. They sell out every venue that they play in.”
“Good for them,” Jake said with a smile. He remembered his own club days fondly, especially the part when they had really started to become popular.
“I’ve also gotten enquiries from National and Capitol Records asking me to send them demo tapes of Lighthouse’s material.”
“No shit?” Jake asked.
“No shit,” she confirmed. “It seems that Lighthouse is now on the radar screen.”
“What did they say when you told them about the demos?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I haven’t told them about it yet.”
“You haven’t told them? Why not?”
“Because I wanted to talk to you first,” she said. “I’m not the music expert like you are. I’m not as good at evaluating music on the consumer level like you are. But I do know that when National and Capitol sends out unsolicited enquiries, it’s because they have a good feeling about a band.”
“What are you suggesting?” he asked.
“Maybe it’s time for KVA to sign another act,” she said.
“You want to sign Lighthouse to a contract?” he asked, just to make sure he was on the same page as her.
“I want you to go out to their next gig—it’s at the Zebra Club in San Pedro next Friday night—and give them a listen and make that determination for yourself. If you think they have what it takes, you’ll have me onboard with the plan.”
Jake was shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter how good they are,” he said. “We don’t have time to record another act right now. We have Brainwash coming here in late May to start working on their next album. I have the TSF that I have to hire musicians for and then rehearse up. It just isn’t a good time.”
“I know that,” she said. “I was not suggesting that we start this project right away. It would have to wait until after the TSF in September at the very least.”
“That’s almost six months from now,” he said. “I guess we could consider this then, but...”
“We won’t be able to record them now,” Pauline interrupted, “but we still should get them under contract as quickly as possible.”
“Why?” he asked.
“The primary reason is to keep National or one of the other bigs from getting their greasy little hands on them first. I am ethically and morally bound to tell them about the demo requests. I have no doubt that they would jump at the offer. And if one of the bigs offers to sign them, you know what that means.”
Jake saw what she was getting at and nodded slowly. “A first-time contract,” he said.
“Right,” she said. “They’ll get screwed, blued, and tattooed, just like you and the rest of Intemperance. I do not want that to happen to them. I do not want to be pulling in my percentage off the top and fattening my bank account while they end up hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. I cannot and I will not be a party to that.”
“I understand,” Jake said.
“I thought you might.”
“That’s the primary reason,” Pauline said. “There’s a secondary reason as well.”
“What’s that?”
“You need musicians for the TSF,” she said. “In that room over there are four musicians, all of whom have played with you before, all of whom are veterans of live performance. If we told them that we would sign them to our label with the stipulation that they assist you with your TSF obligation prior to the recording of their own album, do you think they would agree to that?”
Jake thought about that for a moment and then smiled. “You know, I think they might; especially if we pay them what we were paying them back when we worked up and recorded the first albums.”
“Then you think it’s a good idea?” she asked.
“I’ll have to give them a good listen first,” he said. “I’ll go to their next gig, and I’ll take Nerdly with me. If they’re as good as you think and if Nerdly is onboard, we’ll talk to Celia. If she’s onboard as well ... well, I guess we do some paperwork.”
“All right then,” Pauline said with a smile. “I’ll hold off on telling them about the demo offers until next week.”
“Even if this works out,” Jake said, “I’ll still need a pianist and a violinist and probably a female backing singer for the TSF.”
“I understand,” she said. “And I’m confident we will be able to find such creatures.”
Chapter 3: Taxes, Trolls and Tribulations
Birmingham, United Kingdom
May 12, 1996
It was just past 11:00 PM in the Greenwich Mean Time Zone, which was defined by the planet Earth’s prime meridian. Just over an hour ago, the first of two Matt Tisdale concerts scheduled for Arena Birmingham had concluded. The band and Matt’s tour paramedic, Jim Ramos, had all had their post-performance food, their post-performance bonghits, and their post-performance blowjobs delivered by a gaggle of English groupies. They were now getting ready for some serious partying in Matt’s suite at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in the city center.