"Uh... no, sorry," Matt replied. "Not gonna happen. We'll keep doing our shows the way we've always done them."
This refusal of course led to arguments, threats of contract breach lawsuits, profane declarations by Crow and Doolittle about how they (the band) would do whatever the fuck they were told to do and like it, but by now Jake and Matt, with the help of Pauline, knew the wording of their contract inside and out.
"You have the right to plan a tour for us," Jake told Doolittle during a meeting on the issue, "you have the right to compel us to perform on the tour, you have the right to schedule the tour any way you see fit, you have the right to choose the songs we play during our concerts and in what order to perform them in, you have the right to arrange for all this laser lighting and explosive crap, and you even have the right to make us pay for half of the expenses of all this. But nowhere in our contract does it say anything about you having the right to choreograph our actual performance on stage. So take your choreographers and shove them up your ass. We'll continue performing our songs the way we always have."
This led to another meeting, this time with National Records lawyers, who tried to tell Jake and Matt that they were misinterpreting the contract, that the order of musical performance clause gave National every right in the world to dictate just how the songs would be performed, up to and including the assignment of dance moves.
"Then take us to court," Jake said calmly, puffing on a cigarette while Matt, who had said little, was making a big production out of rolling a joint on the lawyer's desk.
"We don't want it to come to that, Jake," the head lawyer said. "It makes for bad publicity and hard feelings."
"We already have the fuckin' hard feelings," Matt said. He held up his joint for Jake's perusal. "What do you think of this one? Too tight for the greenbud to burn? You know how wet that shit is."
"Maybe a little less twisting on the end," Jake said. "And if you leave a big opening on the flame end it'll let in enough oxygen to get the bud burning instead of just the paper."
"Does that solve the clogging problem, though? I mean, with all the resin in this greenbud it chokes off the airflow by about the third hit."
"Gentlemen!" the lawyer said, exasperated, as, of course, had been the intention. "Could you put away your illegal substances so we can concentrate on the matter at hand?"
Matt shrugged and put the joint behind his ear. "Not much to concentrate on," he said. "I think our position is pretty clear."
"Your position is untenable," the lawyer said.
"Hey," Matt said, "that's a Nerdly word."
"A what?" the lawyer asked, appalled. "Are you calling me a nerd?"
"Look," Jake said, "it's very simple. We will not allow our performance to be choreographed unless you bring us a decision from a Superior Court judge proclaiming that we have to. So take us to court if you think the contract allows this sort of direction, but meanwhile that's going to delay the start of the tour, isn't it?"
"And that might affect album sales," Matt added.
National gave in. This didn't stop Crow and Doolittle and Greg and Janice from constantly whining and complaining about the decision, or from making snide little remarks about how much better the performance would be if it were only choreographed, but they gave in none-the-less. As Intemperance performed at the dress rehearsal before their audience of thirty their moves on stage came from their hearts, their souls, forged by their musical instinct and talent, and not from a choreographer's idea of what a rock audience was looking for in a show.
The stage effects, however, were something else entirely. The lighting was impressive, that was to be sure, but it both dizzying and occasionally nauseating as multi-colored spotlights spun back and forth, over and across, and flicked on and off. Individual spotlights would blare onto Matt while he was doing a solo, or Bill while he was doing a piano solo, or Jake while he was strumming out the opening acoustical portion of one of the ballads. When this happened the heat generated was almost unbearable and by the time they were halfway done Jake and Matt were both pouring sweat down their faces, their shirts saturated, their bodies screaming out for rehydration.
And then there was the laser show. At three points during the performance — during the ballads Point of Futility and Crossing the Line and during the hard-rocking Descent Into Nothing — a superfluity of blue and red beams crossed ten feet over their heads, whipping back and forth, forming patterns and pulsations that moved to the beat of the music. In order to make these patterns visible to the audience a sparse fog of carbon dioxide was created with dry ice and water and blown gently out over the stage. Though most of the gas stayed up above them, enough drifted down to fill their mouths with the biting dryness, their noses with the acrid aroma. And though it was the sort of thing that probably looked really cool when one was stoned, Jake and Matt both thought it did more to detract from the music than to enhance it. They tried their best to ignore it while the performance was taking place.
What they could not ignore were the explosions. The opening pyrotechnic was only the first of three detonations throughout the show. The closing song was Almost Too Easy, a hard-rocker from the Descent album that enjoyed copious airplay after the fade of Point of Futility from the charts but had that had only climbed to the low thirties itself. They did a crashing crescendo to end the song and then the second explosion went off just as the final chords were being struck. The third explosion came at the end of the two song encore set, as the finale to Who Needs Love? This set of detonations, they had been warned by Dave Warden, was to be nearly three times the size and length of the previous two. He was not exaggerating, they found. The cue came and four separate devices went off at the front of the stage, followed by six more on either side and then two more mounted just in front of Coops drum set. The concussions hammered into Jake's chest, into his ears, jarring his teeth and rattling his eardrums. But, as before, all band members remained in the safe zone and had come out of it no worse for wear.
"Thank you," Jake said into the microphone as the thirty people stood and applauded. "Thank you and good night."
And that concluded the dress rehearsal.
Jake and Mindy met that night at Flamer's Steakhouse on restaurant row. Flamer's was one of the most exclusive eateries in the greater Los Angeles region, with a waiting list for reservations more than three months long but Jake had gotten them a table with single phone call made less than four hours before. This was one of the perks to being a celebrity. Another was that they would not have to pay for their meal (although of course they would leave a hefty tip for their server). The reasoning for this was that Flamer's was one of those restaurants with a reputation for having the famous frequently dine there, which, of course, drew a steady stream of non-famous diners who were willing to spring for eighteen to thirty dollar entrees.
Their table sat in the middle of the main dining room, within easy view of most of the other diners. Jake wore a dark suit and a red necktie, Mindy a low-cut lavender gown. Though there were lots of whispers behind closed hands, nonchalant nods in their direction, and staring eyes cast upon them, no one actually came over to them. Apparently there was an unstated but well-understood rule that those granted precious seating at Flamer's were to treat any celebrities who happened to be present like museum artifacts in a display case. You could look and admire but not touch or interact with. Jake sipped from a glass of 1972 Merlot. Since the trip to Las Vegas he had developed a taste for both caviar and fine wine. Mindy munched on a cracker topped with goose liver pate while drinking a Long Island iced tea. Both had just placed their entrée orders.