“It’s not Rob, Jim,” Jake told him. “It’s Jake Kingsley. And I’m not fucking with you.”
Another lengthy pause. “Uh ... you’re serious? Is it really you, Jake?”
“It’s really me, Jim,” he said. “I’m in New York City at the Sheraton, here for the Grammys tomorrow night. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you, but I’m still pretty interested in you and the rest of Brainwash.”
“You ... you are?”
“I am,” he said. “And so are the other co-owners of KVA Records—that’s the label we own. Tell me, are you all still playing together these days?”
“Uh ... yeah! We are, as a matter of fact. We’ve been working on some new material for the summer tour.”
Jake smiled. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” he said. “Do you still jam together on weekends?”
“Whenever something doesn’t come up to prevent it,” he said. “You know ... kids, stuff like that. Marcie and I have a five year old and a three year old now, and Jeremy and Rick both have kids too. And Steph, she and her ex had a baby about four years ago and they share custody now.”
Jake wondered for a moment how two lesbians had had a baby, then dismissed it as irrelevant. “What about this weekend?” he asked Jim. “Are you planning to jam on Saturday and/or Sunday?”
“We are,” Jim said. “We rehearse in a storage unit in Warwick ... that’s a suburb just south of Providence. Did uh ... you know ... you want to come see us?”
“That is exactly what I want to do,” Jake told him. “I have Pauline, my sister, our manager, and part-owner of KVA with me—she’s my date for the Grammys. I also have Bill and Sharon Archer—commonly known as the Nerdlys—with me as well. They’re our audio engineering team and part owners of KVA too. They loved your demo tape and can’t wait to get their nerdy little hands on you. Are you all still interested in maybe throwing down some of your tunes on a CD and seeing if we can sell them?”
“Whoa ... wow, Jake,” Jim said slowly. “This is all a lot to process right now. I mean ... we all have kids now, most of whom go to school and all that.”
“If you’re onboard with us,” Jake said, “we can probably record over the summer when they’re not in school. I’m not asking you to commit to anything right here and right now. We just want to give you a listen and then maybe talk about what we can do. Low pressure. That’s the way I like to do things, the way we all like to do things.”
“Well ... I guess I’ll invite you to the jam session then,” Jim said. “We get together around ten o’clock on both Saturday and Sunday and then jam for three or four hours.”
“That sounds perfect, Jim,” Jake said. “How about this? The Grammys are tomorrow night, which is Tuesday. Celia and Greg are going back right away. Celia is rehearsing up her tour and Greg is getting ready for a movie premier. Me, Pauline and the Nerdlys are gonna hang out here in New York for a few days, take a little vacation, do some New York shit, and then we will fly up to Providence on Saturday afternoon. You and the group can jam together a little performance for us on Saturday and we’ll meet up with you to listen to it on Sunday at ten. Sound like a plan?”
“It sounds like a plan,” Jim said.
“Perfect. Now, what’s the address of the place you rehearse?”
Jim recited an address to the Rhode Island Storage facility in Warwick, Rhode Island. He then gave him a four-digit code that would let him in the gate. He then gave him his cellular phone number, in case he needed to call.
“I don’t have cell phone myself,” Jake said, “but Pauline and the Nerdlys all do. If there’s any issues, we’ll give you a call.”
“All right then,” Jim said happily, nervously. “I’ll see you Sunday at ten.” A pause. “You really aren’t Rob fucking with me, right?”
“I’m really not Rob fucking with you,” Jake assured him once more.
“All right,” Jim said, “but just know, if you are Rob, I’m so gonna kick your ass for this.”
The Thirty-sixth Annual Grammy Awards ceremony was held at Radio City Music Hall on March 1, 1994. It was hosted by Gary Shandling. Celia Valdez was nominated for Record of the Year (for Why?), Album of the Year (for the entire album, The Struggle) and Best Pop Vocal Performance – Female (also for Why?). Jake was nominated for Best Rock Vocal Performance – Solo (for Insignificance), for Best Rock Song (Insignificance again), and for Album of the Year (for Can’t Keep Me Down, the album).
As expected, neither won anything. Celia was edged out (again, as expected) by Whitney Houston and I Will Always Love You in both the Record of the Year and Best Vocal, and by the Bodyguard soundtrack for Album of the Year. Jake was edged out by Meatloaf (of all fucking people, he thought bitterly) and David Pirner, and Whitney Houston. Neither shed any tears. They had been rejected too many times for that.
Just after eleven o’clock in the morning, Mountain time, the day after the Grammys, the buses and trucks that carried the crew and equipment for the Matt Tisdale Hard Time North American Tour of 1994 rolled into Denver, Colorado, where they would be playing for three nights in McNichols Sports Arena while the Denver Nuggets were on a road trip.
While the trucks and the roadie buses drove to the arena to begin setting up for the first show later that night, the buses with the band and the management personnel in them rolled into the parking lot of the Hilton Hotel near the airport. It took forty minutes to check everyone in. Matt, of course, was the first.
“I’m gonna go grab a shower,” he told Greg Gahn, the tour manager, once he had his passkey in hand. “I still smell like those groupies I fucked last night in Santa Fe.”
“Uh ... yeah,” Greg said. “That’s probably a good idea then. Make it a quick one though. We have to leave for the autograph session by one o’clock.”
“I’ll be ready,” he assured the Mormon. “How about you start working on a coke deal for me? I’m getting low. There’s only about six grams left in the stash box.”
Greg nodded sourly. “I have some connections here in Denver,” he said. “I’ll get one of my people working on it.”
“And make sure it’s good shit,” Matt said. “No fucking cut. That shit you got me back in Cleveland was at least half cut. I ain’t some fucking ghetto motherfucker who don’t know the difference between good shit and bad shit. I want my coke to be pure.”
“I had to use an unknown dealer in Cleveland,” Greg said. “I’ve told you that. Such people are unreliable.”
“No shit,” Matt said. “I’m lucky there was any fucking blow in that shit at all. You have a reliable guy here?”
“I’ve known him for years,” Greg assured him. “He is completely above reproach, particularly when one is purchasing twenty grams at a time.”
“He fucking better be,” Matt warned. “If you bring me that fucking teething powder shit again, I’m flushing it right down the toilet and demanding they take the money out of your fucking salary.”
“It’ll be quality product,” Greg promised.
“And don’t forget,” Matt warned. “I’m weighing the shit when you bring it to me. I better not be so much as a microgram short. Not a single flake of my shit is to go up your nose, or in your lungs, or up your asshole, or whatever else you might think to do with it.”
“I’ve told you a thousand times,” Greg said. “I no longer use the devil’s powder.”
“Uh huh,” Matt said. “But I have no fucking doubt you’d climb right back up on that ride if you thought you could score some without having to pay for it. So, keep that shit in mind. Your ass is on one hundred percent audit when it comes to my blow. You dig?”
“I understand,” Greg said, not letting the sadness he was feeling show.