"Five hundred per set?" Shaver mumbled. If that was true than it was marginally impressive. Most club owners wouldn't pay more than $250 per set, no matter how good the band was. And that was here in Los Angeles. In a cow town like Heritage that was some serious dough. A club owner wouldn't pay that much unless a band was bringing in significant business.
Shaver read on, learning that the band was playing three times a week minimum, introducing new songs once a month on average. Tisdale described them as a hard rock band that utilized a classically trained piano player to introduce a unique sound to their music.
"A fucking classical piano player?" Shaver said. "That's insane." While it was true that many rock bands utilized pianos in their music-REO Speedwagon, Journey, and The Doobie Brothers all came immediately to mind-they weren't hard rock bands like these Intemperance jokers were claiming to be. Hard rock and piano just didn't go together. It was like oil and water. But then, wasn't that what a British colleague of his had once said when a group had come before him explaining how their flute-a fucking flute for God's sake-mixed in nicely with the hard rock? That colleague had ended up representing the band Jethro Tull and had been on easy street ever since.
He read some more. The letter told him that he would find, enclosed, a collection of media reviews from popular Heritage County publications and letters of recommendation from various club owners, attesting to the popularity and skill of Intemperance. Tisdale closed by saying that he and the band were seeking an established agent so that they might expand their popularity beyond the Heritage area and possibly secure a recording contract at some point in the future. It gave a contact number, an address, and, lastly, a list of venues where the band could be seen if he should happen to be in the Heritage area any time soon. He thanked Shaver for his time and consideration in this matter and closed by wishing him a nice day.
Shaver had to admit to himself that he was impressed by the cover letter. Whoever this Tisdale joker was, he had at least done his research on how to correspond with a potential agent. He set it down and picked up the sheaf of papers that had been beneath it. The first was a music review from The Heritage Register, which was apparently what passed for a newspaper in that town. It was an articulate and gushing endorsement of the band Intemperance, who could be seen playing at D Street West and Willie's Roadhouse on a weekly basis.
"The soulful singing of lead singer Jake Kingsley mixed with the grueling riffs and grinding solos of lead guitarist Matt Tisdale would be more than enough to catch the attention of any rock music fan. But when you throw in the glorious melody of pianist Bill Archer you have a sound that's unique and refreshing on the rock music scene. You could do much worse than to sacrifice the five-dollar cover charge to see this band play. It's an experience that makes me proud to say I'm from Heritage."
The next article was from a publication called the Heritage Weekly Review. It also contained a glowing approval of Intemperance and their music, this time going on about the depth of the lyrical experience.
"The lyrics are written by either Kingsley or Tisdale and it is not hard to figure out which is which. Kingsley's songs are about hope, about the agony of love, about politics, while Tisdale's are hard driving, angry tunes about the futility of love, about living life to excess."
There were several other articles, all from one or the other of these papers. All of them expounded upon how good the band was, telling the readers about the mix of acoustic and electric guitar with piano, about Kingsley's voice, about Tisdale's solos and riffs. All of them mentioned sold-out shows.
"Hmm," Shaver said, licking his lips thoughtfully. He turned to the letters of recommendation, reading them over one by one. There were five of them in all, each one from a club owner in Heritage, each one telling of dedicated and talented musicians who regularly packed their establishment with paying customers, each one stating the price he was willing to pay to have Intemperance perform in his venue.
Finally he reached into the envelope and pulled out the cassette case. It was an expensive name brand tape with the words: Intemperance Demo stenciled on the front. A song sheet named the songs that could be found on the tape. Shaver looked over the titles.
Descent Into Nothing
Who Needs Love?
Almost Too Easy
Living By The Law
He took the tape out of its case and stood up. Across the room, near the bar, was a stereo system. He popped out the Beatles tape that had been in there and put the Intemperance tape in. He shut the door and powered up the stereo. He pushed play and listened.
The tape was in mono and poorly mixed, probably done on the cheapest equipment available, possibly even rigged up entirely. Ordinarily he would have turned it off as soon as he'd heard the hiss prior to the first song starting. This time he didn't. It wasn't thirty seconds into Descent Into Nothing before he mumbled, "Holy shit," out loud.
He listened to the entire tape and then he listened to it again. After the second playing he walked to the door of his office and opened it. Trina was sitting at her desk, typing something on her IBM Selectric. She looked up at him guiltily.
"Sorry," she said. "I was supposed to bring you an ashtray, wasn't I?"
He hardly heard her. "What are you doing this weekend?" he asked.
"This weekend? I don't have any plans." She smiled in a naughty manner. "At least not yet."
"How would you like to go up to Heritage with me?"
Her look turned to confusion. "Heritage?" she asked. "What for?"
"There's something I need to look at."
Chapter 3
Heritage, California
October 4, 1981
It was Friday night and D Street West was packed with about as many people as it could physically hold. The air was hot and stale, choked with cigarette smoke, the odor of sweat and beer pervading every corner. The babble of hundreds of conversations and the shouts of drunken voices drowned out the recorded music playing from the overhead speakers. Behind the bar, six bartenders struggled to keep up with the hordes of customers pushing and shoving to get close enough to order another round. Occasionally, a fight would break out although they tended to be brief, mostly harmless struggles that were broken up by bystanders before they could escalate into something more dangerous. There simply wasn't the room to have a good fight. Not on a night that Intemperance was playing.
The opening band had been Airburst, a group that actually displayed something like talent. Jake had spent a few minutes talking to them before their set-something he made a point of doing with each band that opened for them-and had learned that their members were made up of the pick of the litter of three other bands that had been making the second-rate club circuit over the past year. They had a southern blues rock sound, sort of a cross between Lynard Skynard and Molly Hatchet, not exactly original, but not exactly a knock-off either since the lead singer was a woman. The crowd had cheered for them in a manner that seemed considerably more sincere than that displayed for most of the openers in this venue. But they did not ask for an encore. Intemperance remained the only opening act to have ever achieved that distinction.