Gordon was laughing, but Jake could tell it wasn't at his joke.
"What?" he said.
"You think you're going to earn twenty-eight grand off a double platinum album?" Gordon asked him.
Jake was embarrassed. "I know it's not much but that's what we calculated it out to. Maybe the next album we'll get a little better royalty rate. Especially if it sells as well as this one is doing."
Gordon's laughter trickled off and became a look of pity. "Jake," he said. "You ain't gonna make shit off this album and I mean that quite literally."
"Huh?"
"We've put out three gold albums in the last four years. And this album, which is our fastest seller yet, is probably going to go platinum. I'm the primary songwriter. And do you know how much I've made in royalties all this time?"
"How much?"
"Not a fucking dime," he said. "I have never seen a royalty check. Not even one. In fact, our recoupable expenses clause has got us more than a quarter of a million dollars in the hole."
"Jesus," Jake said. "How the hell did that happen? What kind of contract did you sign?"
"Pretty much the same contract that you signed," Gordon told him. "Twenty percent for Shaver, recording and promotion costs one hundred percent recoupable, tour costs and video costs fifty percent recoupable. That sound about like what you signed?"
"Yeah," Jake replied, not mentioning that Shaver was actually getting twenty-one percent out of them. "That's what we signed. But when we calculated it out we came out to fourteen grand apiece if we went platinum. Nerdly did the math on this and he never screws up math."
"I'm sure his math is correct," Gordon said. "He just didn't calculate in some of the incidental clauses in the contract."
"Incidental clauses?"
"All that pot you smoke, all that booze you drink, all that coke you stuff up your nose, all that coke your tour manager is stuffing up his nose. Who do you think is paying for all that?"
Jake's eyes widened a little. He had never really thought about who was paying for all of it. He had always just assumed it was part of the perks of being on tour. "That's all coming out of our recoupables?" he asked.
"Yep," Gordon confirmed.
"But isn't it included in the estimates of the tour costs?"
"Nope. It's completely separate. It doesn't fall under the category of 'tour costs'. It is considered part of the 'entertainment costs' clause and that, as you may or may not know, is one hundred percent recoupable."
"You're telling me that we're paying for that fuckhead Greg to snort coke day and night. We're paying for all of that?"
"Well, you're not physically paying for it, but it's being deducted from your royalties. You're also paying for all of that crank your roadies are snorting. You could make an argument that, since the roadies rely on that shit to put the show up and then tear it back down day after day, it is an operational cost and therefore subject to the fifty percent recoupable rate. Unfortunately, and unsurprisingly, National doesn't quite see it that way. The consider the crank part of the 'entertainment costs' as well."
"So it wasn't included in the estimate either," Jake said numbly.
"You're starting to see the light," Gordon told him. "My guess is that you're about fifty grand in the hole at this point. It'll be close to a hundred grand by the time you're done touring for this album, maybe even a little more. You and your guitar player got arrested and thrown in jail didn't you? The bribe money they used to get you out, the cost of the helicopter they rented to fly you out here, the lawyer fees, the limousine rides, all of that shit falls under the 'legal costs' clause of your contract. That too is one hundred percent recoupable."
Jake was shaking his head. "I'm not gonna put up with this," he said. "Paying for Greg's fucking cocaine? Fuck that!"
"There's no way around it, Jake. There's absolutely nothing you can do about it. If you quit the tour, you'll be in breach of contract and the record company will sue you for everything they're losing, and they'll win. No lawyer would even take your case. And if you demanded that Greg snort less coke, all they'd do is jerk you off and say they'll have a word with him and nothing will change."
Jake was fuming now, his happy feeling of earlier shattered into a million pieces.
"Welcome to being a rock star," Gordon said. "Ain't it a glamorous life?"
"Jesus," Jake said, shaking his head.
"But look on the bright side," Gordon said.
"There's a bright side?"
"There's always a bright side. It just depends on how you look at things. Forget about the recoupable expenses. Forget about being in the hole. It doesn't matter."
"What do you mean, it doesn't matter?"
"You're a star, Jake, and you're going to be treated like one as long as you play their little games. So you don't have any money in your wallet? So you don't even have a fucking bank account? Who cares? The record company will take care of you as long as you're still hot."
"Take care of me?"
"You get to get wasted all the time," Gordon said. "You don't have to worry about going out and finding your dope or buying your booze. They do it for you. They get women for you - some of the most beautiful women in the world and they're just dying to fuck you. How many times have you been laid on this tour?"
"More than I can count," Jake admitted.
"And when the tour is over, they'll set you up in a nice pad somewhere in LA and keep you supplied with drugs and booze and broads and even some spending money for when you want to go out on the town. You'll get limo service wherever you want to go. You'll fly first class - or maybe even private - whenever you have to travel to another city. And you'll have a premium sound studio that you and your boys can rehearse in for your next album. Is that really all that bad?"
"But what about when you're not hot anymore?" Jake asked him. "What then?"
Gordon sighed. "Well, that's kind of when it all falls apart," he admitted. "If you stop selling albums and making money for them, they drop you like a rock and you'll be out on your own."
"Uh huh," Jake said.
Gordon shrugged. "It's the life we choose, Jake. It's the life we choose."
The rest of Earthstone emerged into the backstage area at that point. They cast hostile looks at Jake but said nothing to him. They gathered over on the other side, near the stage entrance, and their tour manager began crunching up some cocaine for them.
"Oops," Gordon said. "That's my cue." He stood up and clapped Jake on the shoulder. "Don't sweat it, Jake. Just go with the flow. You're a fuckin' rock star, man. It may not be what you thought it was, but it ain't that bad either."
Jake made no reply and Gordon walked away, heading for the table and the cocaine.
Jake watched the Earthstone members as the lines on the mirror were formed. They were all looking eagerly at it, reminding him strongly of dogs salivating as their canned food was being opened and dumped into a dish by an attentive master. He looked at their faces. They all looked years older than they really were, like men in their mid-forties instead of their late twenties.
"The life we choose," he muttered. "The life we choose."
Chapter 7: Coming Home
March 25, 1983
Portland, Oregon
A soft spring rain was drizzling down as the band walked from their hotel room to the tour bus. As usual, they were looking a little haggard, their faces unshaven, all dealing with varying degrees of hangover. By this point in their careers, however, being hungover was an almost normal state, something that a few more hours of sleep on the bus and a few lines of coke and a few beers upon awakening would take care of. Their humor was good since they were not only starting an extended travel day off but the extended travel day was taking them home for the first time in nearly a year. They were scheduled to perform for two nights in Heritage.