"You may be seated," Remington grunted once he was settled into his own chair.
They sat, their grouping the same as the previous hearing — Jake, Matt, Bill, and Pauline at one table, Frowley and his entourage at the other. Remington did not greet anyone or welcome anyone to his courtroom. He did not engage in any banter, friendly or unfriendly. He simply read his summary of the case and the purpose of this emergency hearing and asked Frowley if the information was correct.
"Yes, Your Honor," Frowley replied.
"So you are alleging," Remington said, "that these... musicians here, who are under contract to provide you with new material for the next contractual period, have deliberately submitted sub-standard material with the intention it would be rejected?"
"That is correct, Your Honor."
Remington nodded, made a brief note on a pad before him, and took a sip from his water glass. He looked at Pauline. "Ms... Kingsley, is it?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Are you related to the Mr. Kingsley who is listed as one of the principals in the case?"
"Yes, Your Honor. He is my brother."
Remington frowned in disapproval at this. "I see you are at least a member of the Bar," he said. "Are you the least bit familiar with the subject of entertainment contract law?"
"Not entertainment contract law as such," she said. "But I do specialize in corporate contract law."
Remington yawned, seemingly tired of this subject. "All right then, I guess you'll have to do. Let's get to the meat of this little spat. Are your clients deliberately making sub-standard music?"
"My clients emphatically deny this, Your Honor. They worked long and hard and under constant pressure by National Records executives in order to compose this new material, record it in base form, and submit it to National Records by the deadline imposed upon them. The work on the tape they submitted represents their very best musical efforts. They are shocked and dismayed that National believes it is not a good faith effort."
"Uh huh," Remington grunted. "So your clients are not deliberately making sub-standard music then?"
"No, Your Honor, they are not."
"That is all I asked. Next time I ask a yes or no question, spare me the long-winded explanation and just answer yes or no."
Pauline flushed a little. "Yes, Your Honor."
Remington looked back at the plaintiff's table. "Mr. Frowley, what is it that makes your clients believe the music the defendants submitted is not a good faith effort?"
"Your Honor, it is quite obvious if you listen to it. There are songs full of unacceptable profanity, songs about defecation and mucous removal from the nostrils. There is even a song about picking out a can of soup in a grocery store."
"What is wrong with a song about picking out a can of soup?" His Honor enquired.
"It is a marked deviation from the sort of material the fans of Intemperance have come to expect."
"Uh huh," Remington grunted again, making a few more notes. He sighed. "Well, as much as I was hoping to avoid this, I guess we'll have to take a listen. I trust you brought a copy with you?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Frowley said. "I have a copy of the demo tape the defendants submitted and copies of the lyric sheets. So that you may compare the recently submitted material with their previous material, I have also brought cassette tapes of the first two Intemperance albums."
"Your Honor, if I may?" said Pauline.
"Yes, Ms. Kingsley. What is it?"
"The cassette tapes that Mr. Frowley is offering for use as a comparison with the efforts my clients have recently submitted — they are commercial audio cassettes made from the master recordings produced in the National Records studio. In other words, they are the high-quality tapes the fans purchase."
"Yes, that is my understanding," Remington said. "What about them?"
"If it please the court, I have brought copies of the original demo tapes my clients submitted to National Records for those first two albums. It is my belief that these tapes would be a better comparison to the current tape since both were produced using the same primative equipment."
"I fail to see why the recording method would make a difference, counselor."
"The difference, Your Honor, is that the commercial tapes were produced with all the resources of the National Records studio equipment and technicians over a period of months. They were subjected to mixing, re-dubbing, filtering, and re-mixing of each individual instrument and vocalization. It is only natural that this will sound much better than a demo tape created in a matter of days on a small mixing board."
Jake thought this was an ironclad argument. His Honor, however, did not seem impressed by it. In fact, he seemed insulted.
"Are you suggesting," he asked, "that I would allow myself to be swayed in judgment by a few fancy flourishes thrown in by studio technicians?"
"No, Your Honor," Pauline replied. "Not at all. I was merely suggesting that comparing a commercial quality album release and a crude demo tape is like comparing apples to oranges. To compare a demo tape with a demo tape is comparing apples to apples."
"And I disagree," Remington said. "I am a great lover of music, Ms. Kingsley, and I hardly think I would be swayed by the type of recording technique used to present that music to me. You can keep your demo tapes in your briefcase."
Jake saw Matt tense up, saw his mouth open to shout something out. He quickly and circumspectly elbowed him in the side, keeping his mouth stapled shut.
"Yes, Your Honor," Pauline said professionally.
"Okay," said Remington. "Let's get this over with." He turned toward the uniformed sheriff's deputy. "Tim, let's hear the new demo tape first."
Tim collected the tape from one of Frowley's associates and carried it over to a small stereo cassette player on the witness stand. He popped it in and turned it on. All that came out for a moment was hissing. Then came the intro to Fuck The Establishment.
Jesus, thought Jake as the instrumental intro kicked into high gear. This isn't a copy of the demo, it's a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy — at least. It sounded horrible indeed, much worse than they'd originally intended, the obvious victim of multi-generational recording. Remington listened to the first two minutes of the song, long enough to hear the word "fuck" twenty-four times. He then made a throat-cutting gesture at Tim. The stop button was pushed.
"Which one of you wrote that song?" Remington asked, his eyes glaring at the musicians.
"I did, Your Honor," Jake replied.
"And you are? Identify yourself for the record."
"Jake Kingsley, Your Honor. Lead singer for Intemperance."
"You consider this to be an honest effort at producing music, Mr. Kingsley?" he asked. "And I might remind you that you have been sworn and are under oath."
"Yes, Your Honor," Jake said with a perfectly straight face. "I consider Fuck The Establishment to be one of my best efforts."
The glare continued. "You will refrain from using profanity of any kind in my courtroom, Mr. Kingsley," he said. "If you do it again, I will cite you for contempt of court and throw you in the county jail for thirty days where you can cuss all you want."
Jake blanched. This did not seem to be going well at all. "My apologies, Your Honor, but that is the title of the song."
"I hardly think that 'song' is the proper word for that ranting, obscenity-laced composition. That was quite possibly the most horrible effort at music I have ever heard."
Jake said nothing further. It seemed safer. Presently, Remington ordered the next song played. He listened to this one until the last verse before making the throat-cutting gesture again.
"At least it wasn't profane," he said. "Although calling it music is still quite a stretch. Next."