by Jesse Jordan
Work like my current project. Sure, it's a cheesy action flick. Sure, the tracks that I've been handed were recorded in a total of two days by two different studio bands. But with a little bit of work, I've gotten something halfway decent out of the eight tracks of utter dogshit that I was handed. I managed to pull seven usable songs out, mixing it with some backing tracks from the studio sessions.A little mix-n-match, some tweaking, and I've got all but one of the ten tracks that the studio wants ready.
Best of all, I can do all the work for this on my home setup. If I turn in something that can be taken from a 128 kB/sec Mp3 compression and laid into the movie, the studio's more than happy with it. I even upgrade it a little, going with a better compression.
It takes a little searching, a little equalizing and some stretching, but by the time that eleven thirty rolls around, I'm happy with the results. I compile the song and save everything to the burnable Blu-Ray that I'm using for this project and back it up on my external hard drive. It’s a habit I picked up after I got stiffed by an indie studio for a project, saying that I didn't do what I said I did and disappearing with the data. Without data backups, I was out twelve hundred dollars, and Bella had to eat nothing but Grandma's leftovers and mac n’ cheese for a week. Never again.
I'm not tired as I stand up and I decide to turn on the TV. I don't watch much, but the cable is included in the deal for this place, so I sometimes catch the news or some of the late-night shows. I flip channels until I land on KNBC, where the guest host is in the middle of his introduction.
“All right folks, tonight we've got a killer, killer show lined up for ya!” the former NFL player says. “First, here to talk about her new movie where she's certainly showing a side of her that we've not seen before, we've got a sit down with the lovely and beautiful Emma Watson!”
The studio cheers and the host holds his hands up. “That's what I said too when I showed up for work today. In fact, I told my wife, and her reply was that if I didn't keep my hands to myself... well, let's just say there'd be a wizard short of his wand tomorrow morning.”
Okay, even I had to chuckle at that one. The host continues. “Also, straight off a season that has a lot of people comparing him to another handsome face who played in the NFL… seriously, I don't know who that could be... Christian McCaffery!”
Not as much of a round of applause, but I can understand. He played at Stanford, a lot of the New York audience probably wasn't familiar with him. Still, he's a good-looking, clean-cut player, the type of poster boy the League office loves. Okay, looking better.
“And finally, y'all, our musical guests tonight, taking over for the Tonight Show band while Jimmy’s on vacation. When I was asked to guest host, I asked NBC to line up something hot as you guys have seen. Something just a little bit different than what y'all might be used to. Something that rocks. And boy, did they deliver. So tonight, for one night only, our special guest band who has guaranteed me to play their hit single Slam the Floor, the Fragments!”
I sit up, nearly dropping the remote as Rocky and the other two members of his band are shown on screen. My God. Five years. Five years and barely a word from Rocky. I can't blame him really. After that promise to hang out all summer, he and the Fragments were working the roads hard. Not only playing gigs all over southern California but also out in Arizona, New Mexico... anywhere that they could get noticed. With all of that, getting together was impossible over the summer, and then once school started, I had classes. Daily e-mails became every other day, became every week or so, became... Well, the story's one that lots of people have told over the years, just the technology changes.
When I got pregnant with Bella, I wasn't even sure how to tell him. How do you tell the man that you wrote the best piece of work you've ever done for, that you went out a few months later, half drunk, and got yourself pregnant? So, after giving birth, I just kind of... stopped. But I didn't stop thinking about him. Every time he and the Fragments have gotten press, I've checked it out. A lot of it over the past two years or so have been scandals, Rocky's gotten himself a reputation, as one tabloid website calls him, of being 'rock's newest fallen angel.' There's something about all the press though that just doesn't jive with the Rocky Blake I went to junior high school and high school with.
Then again, five years can change people. The girl I was had been too afraid to show Rocky a sheet of paper with some poetry, poetry that in her dreams she wanted to set to music for him. I still keep that notebook in my backpack, in an inside pocket that I use to remind myself of who I was, to motivate myself to stick to my dreams. Also to remember the mistakes I made. The woman I am now, she's stronger and more cautious. Maybe Duane Phillips gave me a gift in addition to Bella.
“Up next guys, after the commercial break, Rocky Blake, Joey Rivera, and Ian Ivory sit down with us for a little bit before giving us a few songs off their latest EP along with their hit single Slam the Floor,” the guest host of The Tonight Show says, before Joey plays a little guitar riff that takes them out to commercial. Huh, I've been so focused on my reflection of the past, that I missed Emma Watson's interview. Ah well, I was never a Harry Potter fan anyway.
My phone buzzes and I'm glad that I've got it perma-set on vibrate. Music people run weird hours, and with that, they tend to forget that three-year-olds go to sleep when they're just starting work sometimes. At least I'm not in New York, I've heard that some of the West Coast people will call at one in the morning LA time, forgetting that on the East Coast that it's four. “This is Cora Clearwater.”
“Hi, this is Larry Olson, with Gashouse Records. How are you tonight, Miss Clearwater?”
Gashouse Records. I've heard of them, they're in the same 'cloud' as a lot of my projects. Despite the plethora of studio names running around Hollywood, the reality is that most of the studios, radio stations, movie makers, television and more are owned by the Big Six conglomerates. While I've never directly worked for Gashouse, we've shared 'clouds' before, a lot of the movies and the indie pop work I've done are under labels associated with the same cloud as Gashouse. I wonder what he wants?
“I'm doing okay, Mr. Olson. Just finishing up a movie project that someone asked me to do. How can I help you tonight?”
Olson's got a melodic voice, he sounds like maybe back in the eighties he used to be a radio deejay, although now he sounds like he's spent too many days sitting in an office and not behind a mic. “Are you watching TV right now, Miss Clearwater? An act of ours is playing The Tonight Show. The Fragments, have you heard of them?”
“You could say that,” I say, trying not to smile. I've never name-dropped Rocky in any professional conversation, but then again, you'd have to be pretty lazy to not recognize that I graduated from the same high school and in the same year as Rocky. “In fact, I've got the show on right now. Good group.”
“Well, we here at Gashouse think that the Fragments can be the next big thing in mainstream rock. Slam the Floor is good. It's gotten them noticed, but we really need to bring it and stop with this EP bullshit. I've greenlighted a full LP for them. And after listening to some the work you’ve done, I think you're the person that I want to produce the thing,” Olson says. “What do you say?”
“You... the whole thing?” I ask, shocked. “I mean, wow, Mr. Olson. How many tracks are you looking at?”
“Probably twelve to fifteen. The boys have two or three that they laid down over at Oceanside Studios, stuff that missed the cut for Slam, but they could be filler for the album. So, that means maybe ten to twelve tracks you might have a hand in. I'll be the executive producer of course, but it'll be your board, your name as the main producer. If you gel with them, of course.”
“Of course,” I say shakily. “Mr. Olson... wow. Sorry, I know I sound like an idiot, but this is a lot to lay on my plate at midnight. Gimme a minute to process. You want me to work as the lead producer for most of the album? Lead single too?”
“We'll make that decision later after the tracks are laid,” O
lson says. “But basically, yeah. I know it's a lot to put on your shoulders, Miss Clearwater, but the word from some of my friends is that you're looking for work in the rock genre, you've got the skills, and you are hungry. What do you say?”
“I say when?” I reply, grinning.
“How's two weeks from now sound?” Olson says. “I want to give them a few weeks off to make sure their batteries are recharged to really get this going. If this album takes off the way that I think it can, they're going to be going balls to the wall for the next six months to a year or more, and I want fresh stars, not burned out supernovas. So, you got two weeks with some house musicians to lay the basic background and dubbing tracks, then the Fragments do their first sessions a month from tomorrow.”
“That sounds absolutely great, Mr. Olson. Send me the address for Gashouse, and I'll stop by tomorrow to talk details with you. Thank you very much.” I'm grinning ear to ear, and as Rocky finishes up his last verse on Slam the Floor, I can't help it, I'm excited. This is my big break.
“Call me Larry, and thank you, Miss Clearwater. I'll see you tomorrow.”
He hangs up, and I look at Rocky on the television. A month. “I wonder…” I muse, looking at Rocky's handsome face, still so much like the face that I loved five years ago. He's even got that same half-smirk when he wraps up a song, the smirk that used to make my stomach flutter and make me very conscious of the space between my thighs. Actually, that hasn't changed all that much, he's still sexy as hell. And my stomach is fluttering some. “I guess we're gonna find out.”
Chapter 6
Rocky
The parking lot outside Gashouse Studios is, as always, about half full, with two types of vehicles there. On one side, what I've always called the money side, the vehicles of the acts or the people who have made their impact in music. Gashouse isn't quite as big time as some of the labels, so there aren't any Bentleys or Lambos, but still, the money side is rolling some pretty serious six-figure vehicles.
On the other side, you've got the 'hood. Used cars that look like they've got their mufflers held on with twisted coat hangers and rear windows closed with chunks of duct tape and clear plastic. These are the cars that belong to the folks who are just trying to make it, still hoping to make their impact. Of course, there's the third group, the folks who can't even afford a 'hooptie' at all and come in on the bus that stops a block away from Gashouse.
At least I'm good enough for the 'hood, my six-year-old Nissan which is solid, if not flashy. And it's got all its glass and paint still in working condition, although I can't say the same for the heater. Thankfully, Southern California doesn't need heaters in the car, the worst I had was one day I wore a sweatshirt and drove with the hood up over my ears.
I've spent most of the past month either back at home with Mom and Dad in Simi, walking through the canyon, or on the beach, watching the waves and just reflecting, recharging. I've been trying to lay low, and I've intentionally avoided everyone with the music business other than Joey, Ian, and once or twice Martha. I haven't visited any clubs, I haven't been to any jam sessions, and I've just been getting my head right after the good and bad of Slam the Floor.
Joey and I also did a lot of workouts over at Equinox and in Muscle Beach.
It was just what I needed, being able to reconnect with real people. Keeping a hat on, I could blend in most of the time, especially at Muscle Beach. Inside the cage, most of the homies don't do rock, rap is the name of the game, and a white boy from Simi Valley doesn't stand out around there except for the fact that I'm not from Venice. There were a few girls who recognized Joey and me at Equinox, but the staff there handled them well enough, and Los Angelinos have learned a certain sort of feigned nonchalance, most won't approach you in the gym unless you're in 'civvies'. Either way, I'm excited, and I'm ready to lay some tracks. I've got plenty of good ideas to add to the corporate-written stuff that they e-mailed me. Even that, some of it's good.
I find Martha in the lobby of Gashouse, amazingly not dressed in a pantsuit but instead in a skirt and fitted top. “Hey Rocky, how was the vacation?”
“Needed,” I reply, shaking her offered hand. “Where are the guys?”
“Got here early. Apparently, Ian's an early riser, no wonder he sleeps so much at night. They're in the studio going through sound checks with the producer. Larry was able to get the girl that he wanted. Were you able to go over the lyrics that I sent you?” Martha asks, and I show her the pile of printouts. “Great. What did you think?”
“There's some potential here. I really liked Gimme Danger and Pieces of Forever. What's the producer think?” I ask, walking down the hallway with Martha. A plane goes overhead, heading for the Burbank Airport, rattling the pictures on the walls, and I look up. “Jesus. They really record here?”
“The studios are totally soundproofed. If Godzilla decides to stomp around Los Angeles, the first sign you're going to get is when the wall explodes in on you,” Martha jokes. “But the producer said there's some decent potential. She wants to know if you've got some stuff, I told her you usually do, and Ian and Joey already said they have some ideas for composition too. Come on, let's get to work.”
She opens the door to the studio, walking in where I see Joey and Ian finishing up a little impromptu riffing, Ian nailing a pretty awesome double bass drum solo just as I step in. “Yo, guys.”
“If it ain't the Rock, back from the depths of hell,” Ian jokes. “Hey Rocky, meet our producer. Cora, this is Rocky, the ugly Fragment.”
I turn towards the producer's booth, shocked to see the same strawberry blond hair, pulled back into that high, sort of spunky ponytail I remember from five years ago. I drop my backpack and head towards the booth, Cora getting up from her chair to greet me. “Rocky... it's been a long time.”
I go with my gut, grabbing Cora's hand and pulling her into a hug, picking her up like I used to when things went right in the garage and swing her around in a tight little circle, squeezing tight. “Oh, my God. Cora, is it really you?”
“It's really me,” Cora says, pounding on my back. “Jesus, dude, you've gotten stronger. My ribs, my ribs!”
“What are you doing here? Martha said some young hotshot producer, but... really, you?” I ask, trying not to grin like an idiot. Our shot at the big time, and Cora's on board? This has to be karma.
“Really me,” Cora reassures me, then looks over my shoulders, blushing and grinning. “I guess you guys are wondering what the hell we're talking about?”
“Not really,” Ian grumbles, but his eyes are sparkling with amusement. “I wondered when you told me your name, but I wasn't sure.”
“Well, I'd like to know what the fuck you two are going on about,” Martha says indignantly, and I turn, seeing her standing with her arms crossed and her foot tapping. “I mean, that's one hell of an intro to a new producer.”
“Sorry,” I apologize, turning and putting an arm around Cora's shoulders. It's been five years, but damn if it doesn't feel like I had my arm here just yesterday. “Martha, Cora and I went to high school together. In some ways, you could say that she's the reason the Fragments even exists. Her promotion of my high school band on YouTube and a bunch of other stuff is the reason Ian invited me to hook up.”
Martha looks intrigued, but at the same time miffed. “You guys couldn't have told me?”
Cora shrugs, taking my hand off her shoulder. “Well, I wasn't really sure how to tell the label. Besides, just think of it like an old collabo remixed. Don't worry, I won't do the Sequoia High fight song anytime soon.”
I laugh, but Martha still looks unsure. “Seriously, Martha, this girl right here got some of the best stuff out of me when I was a teenager. You take her skills and put them together with Joey and Ian's licks and we're gonna have platinum on our hands and gold in our bank accounts.”
“All right, all right, I'll trust you,” Martha says, sighing. “Listen, I got some PR work to do anyway, I've gotta jet. If I find time, I'll stick my head in the
booth to listen in some later.”
Martha takes off, and I give Cora a look, grinning. “Don't sweat it, Martha's almost always two inches short of bitch mode with new people. It takes time for her to warm to people.”
“Yeah, she just started warming to Rocky himself last year,” Joey jokes, and the four of us laugh. “So, Rock, what do you want to work on?”
“Well, Gimme Danger looked pretty simple, and it's a hell of a good way to start a session,” I reply, looking around. “Also, I had a few of my own ideas that I'd like to go over with you when there's some free time in the schedule. What do you guys say? Cora?”
“I've got the backing tracks on Gimme Danger already, so why not?” Cora says, totally professional but with that same smile, I remember on her face. “You think you can remember the words, Rocky?”
I laugh, it's so Cora. The music biz is strange that way. When the Fragments was starting out, we literally carried our own gear backstage, and everyone treated us like we were nothing. But when we did The Tonight Show, a bunch of production assistants and others were running around like I was made of lead crystal, liable to shatter and go off at any second. But Cora... she's honest with me. She's real, something that I don't get often enough.
“Let's see if I can string a lyric or two together,” I say. “You got the house singer to do some prelim work? Pipe it up for us.”
Cora taps at her computer, and we listen over the speakers as the clean party rock sounds of Gimme Danger comes over the speakers. The house band isn't great, Joey's gonna definitely improve on the guitar work, and later, I'll lay my own guitar track, but the vocalist is okay. It gives me something to work with, and I find myself nodding my head when the track's finished. “Nice. Let's get to work.”
