“I really dig your place, brother,” G told him with obvious sincerity. “I can see now why you go to all the trouble of flying back and forth all the time.”
“It’s worth it,” Jake said. “Worth every penny I spend on fuel and maintenance, every dollar I spent on this land and this house, and worth every minute I lose from my life making the commute.”
“Fuck yeah,” G said. “I get it now. You got this big-ass crib sitting on this cliff over the ocean. There ain’t no fuckin’ smog here, no fuckin’ neighbors putting their nose in your business, and you go to sleep at night in a place that ain’t fuckin’ LA.”
“To ain’t fuckin’ LA,” Jake said, raising his beer bottle for a toast.
“Ain’t fuckin’ LA,” Gordon said, clinking his own bottle against it.
This was G’s first visit to Casa Kingsley. He had read an article in the LA Times this morning in which the noise complaints from a small but vocal number of San Luis Obispo County residents about Jake’s new plane had been detailed and sensationalized and then cross referenced with complaints on the same subject from various Coos County residents. G had called Jake’s cell phone to check in with him and give him a little good-natured shit about disturbing the peace. After receiving said ration of shit, Jake had invited him to fly up with him after he finished TSF rehearsal for the week to check out the plane and the house. With nothing else to do, G had agreed and met Jake at Whiteman at 4:30. The two of them had the house to themselves. Elsa had weekends off and Jake had flown her to LA this morning so she could use Laura’s car to drive to Orange County and visit her family. Laura, along with Celia and the rest of the band, were now in England, playing the first dates of the European tour. Neesh was in San Francisco attending a two-week orientation course for her new position as a junior lawyer for the firm of Brannon, Smith, and Harlow, an upper-end group that specialized in securities, equities, and derivatives. Jake had given him the grand tour of the house and then made them a couple of ribeye steaks on the grill for dinner. After cleaning up, they made their way out to the deck to watch the sunset. The hot tub remained closed and latched shut, however, since there were no women present and it was therefore forbidden under the rules of being a guy that they get into it under such circumstances.
“How goes your next album?” Jake asked him. “Getting any work done?”
“Still in the composition phase,” G told him. “I got six tunes I’ve been working up on the piano so far, but I haven’t got together with my homies yet to start taking them to the next level.” He shrugged. “I’m not really in much of a hurry. Still getting lots of airplay from the last album and still selling enough copies to keep me in beer money.”
“That’s pretty much the boat I’m in,” Jake said. “I’ve only got a few basic tunes strummed out so far and I’m not even sure I’m happy with them. Most of my time is being taken up with trying to get my set together for the TSF. It’s coming up soon.”
“How’s that going for you?” G asked.
“It’s kind of a two steps forward and one step back kind of thing,” Jake said. “Every time we start to make some progress, something happens to throw a cock-block at us. We were able to nail down Natalie as our violinist—remember her?”
“The Russian bitch that home-wrecked Celia’s pilot?”
“That’s her,” he confirmed. “It was kind of a stroke of luck, really. She moved to Texas to be with him and married him there after both of their divorces were final. She had told us when she made the move that she might be agreeable to doing some studio sessions in the future but would not go out on tour. So, I told Pauline to give her a call and see if she might help us out for the TSF. Pauline couldn’t get ahold of her though. Her number was no longer in service. And so, I was starting to think about maybe asking my mom if she would step up.”
Gordon chuckled at this. “That would’ve been something,” he said. “Your momma steppin’ up on the stage and playing with you at a heavy metal festival.”
“Hey,” Jake said. “I think she could’ve pulled it off. My mom knows how to rock when she has to. Besides, none of my tunes with violin in them are really hard rockers anyway.”
“True,” G said. He had listened to all of Jake’s solo albums and did, in fact, particularly appreciate the cuts with Mary Kingsley playing her fiddle.
“But before I could even think of a way to ask her, Natalie just up and calls Pauline out of the blue. She tells her that her husband just got a gig flying for United Express out of John Wayne and they’ve moved back to So-Cal and was there maybe any studio sessions she could do? And, just like that, violinist problem solved. She’s not quite as good as Eric or my mom, but she’s pretty damn close and she’s already familiar with a good portion of my tunes.”
G nodded appreciatively. “I like it when shit just works its way out like that.”
“Yeah, me too,” Jake agreed. “And then, just after Nat joined the team, I found a keyboardist I liked. Ron Sailor.”
“I’ve heard that name before,” G said. “I’m not sure where, but I’ve heard it.”
“He used to play with Tubular back in the late eighties,” Jake said. “After they broke up, he mostly did session work and the occasional live gig as a support player. He’s worked with Bob Seger, Neil Diamond, Stevie Nicks, and Joe Satriani. Impressive resume, right? He auditioned for me and fuckin’ nailed it. The dude is amazing on the instrument. He can play the synthesizer and the piano and he agreed to work for the basic session wages that I pay.”
“Sounds like you scored,” G said.
“Sounded like it,” Jake said. “As it turned out though, I should have talked to Bob and Neil and Stevie and Joe before I brought him onboard. He only lasted a week and a half and then I had to fire him.”
“What happened?”
“He’s a fuckin’ alky. And I mean a hard-core alky. He missed two sessions completely and was drunk at all the others. And even if I didn’t have a rule against that sort of shit, his skill on his instrument decreases proportionately with his intake.”
Gordon shook his head sadly. “That’s a damn shame,” he said. “Far be it from me to judge someone for their drinking—I’m pretty much a functional alcoholic myself—but to let it fuck up your livelihood? I just don’t get that shit.”
“Me either,” Jake said. “And I’m a man who spent a good portion of 1990 and early ‘91 drunk and wallowing in self-pity.”
“The South Island Blur,” G said. He was one of the few people on Earth who realized that Jake’s most popular solo tune was not about partying in the tropics, as was commonly believed.
“Fuckin’ A,” Jake said. “So, anyway, I still need to find a keyboard player who can lay down the piano and the synthesizer tracks, or one of each. And the TSF just keeps getting closer and closer. Hopefully, Pauline will have some auditions for me this week.”
“You know something, homey,” Gordon said, “I’m a little disappointed in you.”
“Why is that?”
“Why the fuck didn’t you ask me to lay down the keyboards for you?”
“You?” Jake asked, surprised.
“Me,” he confirmed, grinning slyly. “Is it the color of my skin or something?”
“What?”
“Don’t want no darkie playin’ on your stage and making the rest of y’all look bad?”
Jake looked at him and then shook his head in amusement. “Yeah, that’s exactly what it was,” he said.
They shared a laugh. “Seriously though, homey,” G said. “Why didn’t you ask? You know I play a mean piano and you know I do all the synthesizer tracks on my cuts.”