by Jesse Jordan
“Gimme Danger,” Ian says. “Call it a preview.”
It's a good idea, and Joey gives us a thumb’s up, so I turn back. “Okay, guys here's a little sneak preview slash world premiere of some stuff we're working on now, it's called Gimme Danger.”
The crowd hums as Joey starts his opening riffs, Ian joining in, and as I start singing, I'm feeling it. Sure, Cora maybe might have sold us out, but her arrangement and producing have given us a solid start to the album, and as we rip through the song, the crowd's on fire. It's tiny, it's intimate, and it's the sort of group that I got into music to play for. When we finish, the group of less than a hundred people roars, and the new guests in the bar are caught off guard at the wall of sound that greets them. I'm grinning from ear to ear, and we quickly go through two more songs, an older one of ours, PlayerRed, and then our own little studio remix of a rock classic, Light My Fire by The Doors. I see a few folks with their phones out, but that's okay, we knew that it was probably going to happen. We wrap, and the house band is some of the first to applaud us as we hand over the instruments and leave the stage, where our food is waiting for us, and Cindy's waiting for Ian. Somewhere, she's found a couple of friends too, and Joey gives me an elbow in the side, grinning. “More fun.”
“Maybe for you guys,” I reply, patting Joey on the shoulder. “No offense, just I'm not quite feeling like cleaning the pipe tonight. You boys have some fun with it though.”
The manager is true to his word, and the now six of us chat and relax, Ian downing another two beers while Joey and I sip at one each. Ian picks up the tab for the girls, and while Cindy's friends, especially the redhead, are disappointed that I'm not up for some fun, they're more than willing to share Ian and Joey between the three of them. They'll figure it out I guess.
“Okay fellas, I think I'm going to bounce,” I tell Ian and Joey when Mindy, Cindy's redheaded friend, climbs into Joey's lap, her tight backside firmly planted in between his legs. “You guys be safe, okay?”
“Sure you don't wanna stick around?” the currently unoccupied girl, Kylie, asks as she bats her eyes. “Even if you just want to talk?”
“No, I'm good. But thanks,” I reply, trying to be polite “I think I'm gonna head home. You guys take care.”
“Dude, that was like, so awesome!” the new corporate producer, I think his name is Gerry (with a G, cuz' he's certified) exclaims in his coked-out surfer dude accent. He's even wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and even though we're in late fall, he's got a fake tan. “Like... totally bitchin'!”
“It was dog shit,” I grumble, pulling my headphones off. “The balance was all off, you jacked my vocals all the way up while making Joey sound like a fucking whisper, and what the fuck was that with adding reverb to Ian's drums? We didn't record or practice it that way.”
“We were just thinking of trying something cutting edge,” Gerry whines in that same surfer dude voice. “You know, to keep you guys fresh.”
“Stop fucking with a formula that works!” I yell, storming out towards the door. I've had enough of this shit. “Ian... talk with this asshole, because... FUCK!”
I nearly tear the door off its hinges leaving the studio and heading out into the parking lot, trying to calm down. Two weeks with Gerry and his team of corporate assholes, and I'm about ready to lose my shit. We haven't gotten even one new track laid in the whole two weeks, and today Gerry came in with the retarded idea to rework the stuff we'd already laid down. So now, instead of having two and a half tracks laid, we've got a giant puddle of piss on tape.
I'm pacing back and forth in the parking lot when Martha approaches, a half worried, half pissed off look on her face. “Gerry's crying.”
“Better be glad that's all he's doing,” I fume, turning to her. “Where the fuck did you find this team of happy assholes, Martha? They can't produce their way out of a wet dream.”
“They've produced three platinum albums,” Martha counters, but I can hear in her voice, she agrees with me. “They've worked with plenty of good artists.”
“They've sold albums of shit then,” I shoot back. “What the fuck is Gerry in there doing sounding like he's spent most of the past six months listening to the Beach Boys somewhere off the North Shore? And what the fuck is this bringing in the overly Auto-Tuned shit?”
Martha shrugs her shoulders, looking back at the studio entrance. “They know what they're doing, Rocky. You knew that recording could be good days, it could be bad days. So, you're moving through a bad patch with some new producers. They're trying to make your sound more appealing to a wider audience, to make sure you guys crack the Billboard Top 100 in general and not just the rock sub-chart.”
“They're trying to make corporate cliché puke,” I growl back.
“It works, and every group they've done albums for has made a lot of money,” Martha says. “You can't deny that.”
“They know how to make bubblegum girl group pop, maybe,” I reply. “Jesus, they certainly don't know shit about rock. They're fucking around with things that shouldn't be fucked with, Martha. We need a real rock producer in there. Why can't we just bring Cora back?”
Martha starts shaking her head, her bob waving back and forth like an ebony ripple of negation. “Are you out of your fucking mind, Rocky? She leaked to the press! She betrayed your trust! And you want to bring her back, to bring her in closer?”
“We don't know if she sold out our date,” I protest, and Martha rolls her eyes, pissing me off some. “Goddammit Martha, we don't know! You can assume all you want, you can make educated guesses, and I'm not saying that you don't have reason to suspect her, but you don't know!”
“What I know is that you're letting an attachment to a high school friend and one date get in the way of your music and your career, Rocky,” Martha half yells in my face. She takes a deep breath and holds up her hand before I can protest or say anything back. “Wait right here, I'm going to go tell everyone we're taking an early lunch break, and then you and I can go for a walk. Help clear your head some, calm down so we can discuss this like professionals.”
Martha turns and goes back inside the building before I can reply, coming out two minutes later, her purse on her shoulder. She's also looking calmer, and I feel a bit bad about yelling earlier. “Come on, walk with me Rock.”
I don't really want to, but it's better than stewing with Gerry, the crying producer, and his team, so I follow Martha as we start down the sidewalk. “So, what do you want to talk about?”
Martha looks over, giving me a little half smile. “First I just wanted to get you some time to vent. Exercise helps me when you guys piss me off, I don't think you know how many miles of jogging you've caused me to do the past few weeks.”
“It's good for your legs,” I reply. “Still... Martha, this session is going to hell very quickly. Forget an album, we're going to be lucky we don't kill this guy.”
“I understand that, but it's part of the growth process, Rocky. Think about it, if U2 hadn't evolved, if they'd just stayed in their little Irish roots-rock style and playing what they started out with, they wouldn't be making the money they are today.”
I nod, turning with her when we reach the corner just to keep up momentum. “Yeah, but then they got too commercial and pretentious. And don't even start on me with Bono, that guy is letting his preaching about social issues get in the way of his music.”
“Yeah well, a hundred and seventy million albums sold can get you a shitload of preaching,” Martha counters. “I'm not saying that you don't have a point, but what I'm saying is that acts have to evolve. You can't just be the same three guys out there jamming rock for the next thirty years. Hell, can you imagine yourself out there at forty-five or fifty still trying to grind away in the jeans and jacket? You wanna be still singing at forty and looking like a pathetic loser doing it?”
“No,” I admit. “But Martha, that's the point. Mass produced pop-rock isn't going to give me a career in thirty years. Yeah, we've got to evolve, but first, we ha
ve to have a starting point. And right now, what Gerry and the Idiot Brigade are doing isn't even giving us that. We don't have a solid foundation, we've got a gigantic pile of shit. He even took the good work that we did before and has more or less wrecked it with his digital fuckery. You saw what that little bar performance of Gimme Danger did. Is that anything at all like what Gerry has it sounding like now?”
Martha sighs, shaking her head. The video was uploaded to Facebook by someone in the audience, and so far, it's one of the trending videos in the music category even a week and a half after it hit the ‘Net, getting shared and liked thousands of times. “He's just seeing if he can add to it, that's all Rocky.”
“Bullshit,” I fume, trying to explain myself. “Listen, do you like cookies?”
“Of course, I do. Who the fuck doesn't?” Martha asks curiously, then chuckles. “Never mind, this is California. Gotta watch my girlish figure.”
“My Mom, back when I was in elementary school, she went through a phase where she really wanted to get into that whole at-home chef thing,” I explain, stopping to think about how I exactly want to make my point. “And one of the recipes she latched onto was a basic cookie dough. Now, by itself, it was a little plain, kinda sweet, a little bit of butter flavor. Got what I'm saying?”
“Not yet, but go on,” Martha says, stopping and crossing her arms.
“Well, the first thing Mom did was what anyone would, she dropped some chocolate chips in the mix. Holy hell, were those cookies good. Me, then my buddies tried them, and by the end of the week I was the most popular kid in third grade for a while with Mom cranking out batches of those chocolate chip cookies for my lunches and for my friends.”
“I bet,” Martha comments, rubbing her stomach. “Speaking of which, fuck it, you owe me some Mrs. Fields' after this.”
I nod, pointing down the block. I know where the nearest cookie place is, it's not that far away. “Deal. Anyway, after the chocolate chips got boring for Mom, she added some peanut butter. I can seriously say that it was as good an experience as my first couple of orgasms, but then, Mom went a little wonky. Instead of trying different kinds of doughs, different combinations, she just kept adding more and more. Dried fruits, nuts, herbs, spices. At one point, she tried to bake a chocolate chip cookie with almond chunks and a bunch of other shit in it. The fucking dough wouldn't even hold together there was so much that was taking away from the basic cookie, it had to be turned into a crumble for ice cream topping. My friends learned to stay as far away from my lunch box cookies as possible. Mom finally figured it out when she took a tray of that shit into the office and literally not a single cookie was eaten, and she found a note that just said Can we get the plain peanut butter back? The home chef thing kinda petered out after that, but she still makes a kick-ass chocolate chip or peanut butter chip cookie.”
“So, you're comparing Gerry to your Mom,” Martha says, and I nod. “But Gerry's a pro.”
“Who's throwing shit at the wall and hoping it sticks, forgetting that the goddamn wall isn't even finished yet,” I retort hotly. “Martha, what I'm saying is... get rid of Gerry. Get rid of the team, get rid of the corporate bullshit. Cora knows how to get the most out of us. Let's build the foundation before we start fucking up the main ingredients of our success. Let's put out that basic chocolate chip cookie first, then we can see about trying out peanut butter and more. But we can't do that with Gerry.”
Martha turns pink, I know she's pissed. “What is it with Cora? Fuck, Rocky, she betrayed you!”
“Personally, yeah,” I shoot back, my voice going up a notch, “but she never, ever fucked with the music the way Gerry is! You keep Gerry in the booth, and I'm going to have a nervous fucking breakdown or slam his head through the fucking amp! I'm fucking serious, Martha! Dump Gerry, and get Cora back NOW!”
I don't think I've ever yelled at Martha before, not like this. I'm not yelling to be heard, or in excitement, I'm pissed. I'm pissed that she won't listen to me, that she's willing to sacrifice the good of the album and the group for some reason. “Goddammit Rocky, what the fuck is it with you and her?!” Martha yells back. “She's all in your fucking head, and you're screwing the team on this because of it.”
“Fuck that!” I yell back, stomping my foot. Holy shit, I'm in the middle of my first diva tantrum, and to be honest I don't give a fuck. I want Cora back. “I'm doing this for the team! I can keep my distance from Cora, I don't have to let her in this time! I can deal with that side without a problem, but what I can't deal with is a goddamn studio session where I'm about ready to kill the fucking production team because we can't even lay a single track in two goddamn weeks! This is the music business, seventy-five percent of us are assholes! But we get shit done!”
I'm panting, my breath whistling in and out of my nose as I stare a hole into Martha, who stares back, just as pissed. Finally, she throws her hands up, turning on a heel. “Fine, fuck it. You guys are costing Gashouse a shitload of money already as it is. You're going to need to do like, at least two more concert dates just to pay the company back for this shit as it is. Fine, you wanna be a bitch and have a piss party, you got it. I'll contact Cora and see if she's available. It's been three weeks since she was let go though, Rocky. She may have gotten another gig, you know.”
“She'll drop it if we invite her back,” I reply confidently, and Martha starts to storm away. I run after her and get in front, taking her by the arms and stopping her. I don't want Martha to be angry at me, I do like her most of the time. She's bossy, she's worried more about my bank account than about my artistry, and she's definitely got a sharp tongue on her... but she's been looking out for us for years, and I do like her, kind of. I let go of her shoulders to take her hands, giving her my most charming smile. “Come on Martha... look, I'm sorry I yelled at you. Just, this album means a lot to me, and you guys all mean a lot to me. Still friends?”
Martha looks up, sighing, then nods, giving my hands a squeeze. “You are a major pain in the ass, Rocky Blake. And just for that outburst, you owe me cookies tomorrow too.”
I grin and give Martha a quick pat on the back. “I'll give my mom a call, you can have some of her homemade goodness tomorrow.”
Chapter 15
Cora
“Guys... thanks for giving me another chance,” I shyly tell Rocky, Ian, and Joey when they come into the studio. The call from Martha couldn't have come at a better time, Duane's child support payment is a few days late, and the paid production work has been barely enough to call it work. The fact is, I'm not making ends meet this month, and I really don't know when I'm going to be able to pay for Bella's daycare for the rest of this session, the center needs payment Friday.
“It's good to have you back, Cora,” Joey says warmly, while Ian just gives me his normal surly grunt before he takes off his jacket and sits down behind his drums, checking his seat height.
Rocky doesn't say much but gives me a little nod, and I feel a twist in my chest. He's obviously still mad, but hey, they brought me back, right? “Okay... well, I went over the stuff that Martha forwarded to me, and not to sound like a jerk but... well, in my opinion, most of it is crap.”
Rocky finally smiles, giving me a short, sarcastic laugh. “You mean it's total dogshit. Did you find anything that is usable out of it?”
“Well, I was thinking we could take that reverbed drum track of Ian's, mix it with a tweaked guitar riff from Joey, and sell it to a horror movie soundtrack,” I joke, and the ice at least partially breaks, everyone's smiling. The expression on their faces when they came in had me worried that it'd take longer to get them in a good mode. “But no, Rock, I figured I'd ditch about ninety-nine percent of what Gerry and the team did. If it's okay with you guys, how about we start with the base tracks we had before, and we can start laying the instrumentals for Not the Time?”
We start work, and while it takes me most of an hour to get the guys back into the mode they were a month ago when we last worked together, we still get a soli
d three hours of work in. Ian's drums are as always powerful, and Joey's guitar wants to peel the paint off the walls, it's so hot. By the time that I call a lunch break, I have both of their tracks down perfect, I don't even think I'm going to need to do any tweaking at all to them, I just need to lay them together along with the backup guitar that Rocky's going to lay down this afternoon.
“Okay guys, that's a morning wrap!” I call, giving them all a thumb’s up. “Joey, Holy God boy, you got the angels shredding along with you by the end there!”
Joey blushes and rubs his head, smiling. “Thanks, Cora. Hey, what're you doing for lunch?”
“Same as I always do,” I reply, holding up my plastic bag with a PB&J. “You want some?”
“Nah, I think I'll check out the burrito truck,” Joey says. “Check you after lunch.”
Ian leaves with Joey, leaving just me and Rocky, who's looking over his stuff for the afternoon session. I grab my bag and head into the studio, feeling shy. Now's the time. “Uh, Rock, can we talk?”
“What about?” Rocky asks his voice level and professional. “The session this morning was good. It's good to have you back.”
“Thanks, but well... I feel like I owe you a personal apology too. I know there were things that got so screwed up last time and...”
“Cora, wait,” Rocky says, cutting me off. “Listen, stuff happened. And maybe we both made mistakes. I get that. Five years ago, we were friends. But that's behind us, Cora. So... while I'm not saying that we can't be friends, right now, I just want to get this album done. I demanded that you come back for that reason only. Not because of the date or anything like that. We can talk about that after the album's done and put to bed. For now, though, this is business only. Okay?”
I can see the hurt still in Rocky's eyes, and the anger that's still there too. My heart aches, but I nod, I know there's no way that I'll get him to understand my point of view right now. “Okay, Rocky. Just... I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I hurt you.”
