“When you nearly ran over me outside,” she said. “Not good at paying attention, are you?”
“What do you think I was distracted by?” he said. He paused. “The guitar, of course. Like I said, great decoration.”
Webb could see both of them in profile. He could see Suit Guy’s grin, like he was thinking he was sharp and witty and she was totally into him and his BMW and his implying that he’d been looking at her butt but was charming enough to say it was her guitar. Like saying “nice pair of… sunglasses” to a girl with cleavage and thinking she’d dig you for it.
Elle reached up to her guitar strap and with a deft movement spun the guitar around from her back and into her hands. She walked to the band area, plugged in and did a test riff to make sure she had sound. Then, without taking her eyes off Suit Guy’s face, and definitely without any hint of humor, she ripped into the opening chords of Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water,” riffed on a Coldplay tune, settled into something haunting, intense and totally original, and finished with an amped-up version of Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode.”
When the last chords faded into silence, spontaneous applause broke out from the trendies scattered through the coffee shop.
Elle unplugged and spun the guitar around and onto her back again.
“Dude,” she said to Suit Guy, “if you could drive your decoration half as well as I play mine, you’d be NASCAR championship material. But I doubt you can even parallel park.”
Elle pointed at Webb.
“And you,” she said with that scowl. “I wouldn’t bother to cross the street for the audition.”
Eleven
The band was set up in a large, open warehouse. The walls were painted black. Lightbulbs dangled on cords from the ceiling.
At the back of the room, a low stage had been constructed from four-by-eight-foot sheets of thick plywood resting on concrete building blocks. Drums were at the back, stage left. Microphones rested on stands. Cables with quarter-inch jacks snaked across the plywood, giving band members easy access to plugging in their instruments. Monitors were placed in front of each chair so the band members could hear the sound mix as they played.
The band consisted of a guy on drums, a young woman at a keyboard and another guy on bass guitar. All three wore black T-shirts showing the name of their band, Deus Ex Machina. Off to the side, a soundman stood in front of a mixing board.
The bass player riffed on his guitar. While not a melody, the sound was not unpleasant.
The drummer watched Webb and Elle approach.
“You guys sent in emails about the audition, right?” he said, touching a drumstick to his head and raising it in salute. He had a round face, short ginger hair and a goatee. “Then you’re our last two.”
“Last one,” the bass guitarist said. “Just the girl.”
He was skinny. Not skinny weak, but the kind of skinny that had grown up learning how to fight in alleys. He stared at Webb. “Sorry, dude. This won’t be your gig.”
“I’ve got the email giving me the audition time,” Webb said. “So if the spot isn’t filled—”
“Won’t be by you.” The bass player crossed his arms.
“Is the spot open?” Webb said. “I mean, if you’re giving her a shot, I don’t understand.”
“Maybe return those guitars to Gerald Dean,” the bassist said.
Webb squinted in confusion, but the guy was already looking past him.
“Come on up,” he told Elle. “Let’s hear what you have. Dean said you rocked.”
She shrugged and without looking back at Webb stepped onto the stage. She plugged in her Stratocaster.
“Give us a solo,” the bass guitarist said. “Then we’ll try you with a couple of our songs. You gave them a listen, right? Or do you want charts?”
“No charts,” Elle said. “Up-tempo solo?”
“Dean said you were working on something that had a lot of potential. Said if we did it right, the song could take us all a long way. He said something about getting a label behind you and taking us along for the ride.”
Elle grinned. Webb had to admit she had a great grin. Lots of charisma.
“Just a little something we’re batting around,” she said.
“Dean sent us some charts, and we’ve had a chance to rehearse. How about we give that a shot first? If you sound as good as he promised, that’s all we’re going to need. We can break for lunch and all of us can get to know each other a little better.”
“Cool,” Elle said.
The bass guitarist looked at Webb. “You still here?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“I’m wondering how you know you have the best guitarist before you hear both of us.”
“They know,” Elle said flatly to Webb. “Trust me. Even if they didn’t, who would want you anyway? Gerald told me all about you.”
Told you what? Before Webb could croak out the question, the bass player set down his guitar and took a step toward Webb.
“Take a hint,” he said. “You’re not welcome here.”
Webb’s face burned. He’d received an email invitation to audition, but now it seemed rigged. He’d done nothing to deserve this hostility. Or the humiliation. But clearly, nothing he could do would help the situation.
He picked up his guitar case to leave.
The bassist spoke to the woman behind the keyboard. She had a pinched face and blond hair in a long straight ponytail.
“How about you get us started?” he said.
She gave a quick nod.
“Then,” the bass guitarist said, turning to Elle, “you jump in with guitar and vocals. You know the song better than we do, so that should be simple.”
“Ready to rock,” she said.
Webb was halfway to the door when the first simple notes of the piano reached him. Catchy beginning, he thought. Clean and simple.
He was almost at the door when the bass guitar and drums kicked in, and he reached it as Elle jumped in on guitar and hit her opening vocals.
You gonna have to know we’re gonna mess up
You gotta know we might wreck stuff
Webb froze. Those were his lyrics.
He didn’t turn, but listened.
You’re gonna see us learn our lessons
But it’s gonna be our best of…
Webb felt blood rush to his face again. This time it wasn’t from embarrassment or humiliation but from anger. Those were his lyrics.
He spun around, anticipating the chorus, and the white heat of his anger took him back toward the stage as he heard, feeling a combination of disbelief and certainty:
Yeah, we’re gonna rock the boat
That’s the only way to know
We’re gonna have to rock the boat
Yeah, that’s the only way to go.
Webb kept marching. He stopped in front of the stage. He didn’t flinch as the bass guitarist put up a hand to stop the music.
“What’s it going to take for you to figure out you’re not welcome here?” the bass player said. Once again he put down his guitar and took a threatening step toward Webb.
“Step off that stage,” Webb said, “and you’re going to regret it.”
Something in the coldness of his voice must have sent a clear signal. Webb was in no mood for anyone to mess with him.
“That’s my song,” he said to Elle. “My lyrics. My music. Every note, every word, every chord.”
“Shocker,” she said. “Like the two Gibsons missing from Dean’s studio were yours too?”
The bass guitarist held up his cell phone. “Check it out. I’m five seconds away from calling 9-1-1. You’ve been asked to leave, and you’ve threatened us with physical violence. When the cops come, you’re going to have to explain a lot more than missing guitars.”
“That’s my song,” Webb said again.
Elle shook her head, her face laden with scorn.
“Go away,” she said.
So Webb did.
Webb felt his blood surge as he walked into the recording studio and stared at Gerald Dean, who didn’t bother to get up from his chair behind the mixing board.
Yet Webb did his best to show no emotion.
“So,” Gerald sneered, “I hope you’re here to make things right.”
The sneer nearly drove Webb beyond control. He wanted to break Gerald’s nose and smear the blood across Gerald’s lips. Webb had had training in martial arts. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but his body hadn’t forgotten the moves.
He took deep breaths. He wasn’t going to let Gerald control him.
“Absolutely,” Webb said. “I’m here to make things right. That means—”
Gerald cut him off. “Let’s start with the bounced check then. I got a call from my bank. Your check didn’t clear. So I’d like it in cash. Plus fifty more bucks for bank charges.”
Webb had five hundred bucks in his back pocket. The first thing he’d done after walking out of the audition was hit a bank machine and withdraw the cash.
“That’s not going to happen,” Webb said. “When I realized you were cheating me, I wanted the check to bounce. What we’re going to do to make things right is—”
“You’re going to bring back my guitars?”
Webb felt his nostrils flare as he sucked in more air. His forearms trembled with desire to lash out at the man in front of him.
“Maybe you could explain that to me,” Webb said. He moved closer and stood over the mixing board. “That’s another reason I’m here. You’re telling people I stole from you?”
Gerald responded by pulling out his iPhone and pointing it at Webb. Gerald spoke loudly. “Sitting here in my studio. The guy in front of me with a stupid yellow double E on his green shirt is Jim Webb. Rip-off artist who looks like he’s on the verge of becoming violent. I’m videoing this as proof for possible criminal charges if he attacks me.”
Webb didn’t back away, but he did stop.
“Keep the video going,” he said. “I’m here because you’re the rip-off artist.”
“Two of my best guitars,” Gerald said. “Gone. I’d like them back.”
“Then talk to the person who took them,” Webb said. “And stop spreading rumors about me.”
“Sure,” Gerald said. “When I see my guitars. Back in my studio.”
“That’s not the issue,” Webb answered. “You know it. And I know you know it.”
“I’d say ten grand’s worth of missing guitars is a major issue.”
“Not as major an issue as you ripping off my song.” Webb lifted his right hand and slowly and deliberately pointed at Gerald. “Yes. You. Producer. Ripping off my song. ‘Rock the Boat.’”
Webb dropped his hand and stared at the phone that was videoing him.
“What’s going to happen,” Webb said, looking past the phone to Gerald, “is that you are going to send me a link to the songs you produced for me. You’re going to take out a pen and paper and write that Jim Webb wrote the music and lyrics to ‘Rock the Boat.’ If you do that, I won’t go out there and tell people that you ripped me off.”
“Go ahead,” Gerald said. “And please keep track of the people you tell. Slander is a serious issue. I’ll be able to use them as witnesses when I see you in court.”
Webb couldn’t help himself. He slammed the board with an open palm. Hard enough that Gerald flinched.
“You’re telling people I stole two of your guitars! That’s slander!”
Webb regretted his actions immediately. Slamming the mixing board and raising his voice. He had just lost control.
Gerald smirked.
That’s when Webb realized Gerald had been goading him, hoping for something that verged on violence. Something on video.
When Gerald spoke, however, there was no trace of a smirk in his voice. As if he knew it wouldn’t sound good on the video.
“You don’t understand what slander is,” Gerald said. “What I’ve told people is that two of my guitars are missing. I’ve also told them I left you alone in the studio. And that later I noticed the guitars were gone. I didn’t once tell anyone that you stole my guitars. However, I do find the coincidence troubling, and I would like them back. If you can arrange it.”
“Unbelievable,” Webb said. “You’re going to hear from Jordan Marvin, my attorney at Bing and McGee. You’re not going to get away with this.”
“What’s unbelievable,” Gerald said, “is that you are here, clearly making slanderous charges. You. Someone who hasn’t yet paid for the production work I did. Someone who bounced a check. The same someone who was alone in the studio the day my guitars disappeared. And you are accusing me of being the rip-off artist?”
“I played you that song. In this studio. You told me it wasn’t worth producing. You asked me if anyone else had heard it or if I’d recorded it anywhere. You told me not to bother because it would embarrass me. And then I hear it at an audition. Played by an artist that you are developing.”
“No,” Gerald said. “You’ve been in my studio. The same studio where you stole guitars. You heard the song. And now, after failing to pay for my production, you’re trying to run a scam on me.”
Gerald put the phone down and stood. He looked directly into Webb’s eyes.
“Dude, whatever game you’re playing isn’t going to work. And you shouldn’t have made me mad. When you leave, I’m going to erase every bit of music I produced for you. I suggest you leave here and never return to Nashville. It’s a small town. I’m going to make sure no one is going to work with you. Ever.”
Thirteen
An hour later, Webb was back at Bing and McGee.
“Hello, Mr. Webb,” said Jordan Marvin. “I’m glad I was able to fit you in on such short notice. It’s nice to meet you.”
Webb decided that paying $250 an hour for someone’s time also earned you the right to be called mister.
Jordan stepped out from behind her desk. Her office was down the hall from the reception area. Unlike the foyer, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, her office had one small window that showed the backside of a brick building across the alley.
And unlike the motherly receptionist who had carefully counted Webb’s five hundred dollars and as carefully handed him a receipt, Jordan Marvin was tall and slim and wore a dark blue pantsuit that managed to seem both feminine and businesslike.
“It’s nice to meet you too,” Webb said. He still couldn’t get her fee out of his mind—$250 an hour. No wonder it was nice for her to meet him.
She pointed at one of two leather chairs in the corner of her small office. There was a coffee table between the two chairs. On it were a notepad with leather binding and a pen. Beside the notepad sat a white carafe and two white coffee cups on saucers. Nice china.
“Coffee?” she asked.
Webb nodded.
“Cream?”
Webb nodded again.
She poured the coffee and added cream. The coffee tasted great. But then again, when a person was paying—
Webb told himself to get over the cost. He had decided to spend the money and come here, so there was no sense whining, even if it was silent whining.
Jordan picked up the pen and notepad. She opened the pad and lifted the pen, poised to take notes.
“I understand,” she said, “that you believe a music producer named Gerald Dean has not fulfilled his legal obligations to you?”
“My grandfather made a provision in his will for Gerald Dean to be paid to produce some of my songs,” Webb said. “When I asked Dean why he hadn’t finished it by the time he promised, he told me he’d hired studio musicians who charged him more than expected and that I owed him more money. When I asked to see the invoices they gave him, he dragged his feet. I still haven’t seen them.”
She jotted down a few sentences. “You have a contract to show me?”
Webb dropped his head. “No. My grandfather set it all up before he died. Dean said it was cool. Told me he had lots
of references. That I didn’t need to worry.”
She tightened her lips.
Irritated at Webb? Or irritated at the producer? Or both?
“It gets worse,” Webb said. “That’s why I knew I had to come back here. I played a song for him earlier this week. On Tuesday morning. A song that I wrote. Music and lyrics. In his studio. This morning, an artist he’s developing played the song at an audition I was at and said the two of them wrote it yesterday.”
Saying this brought back the emotions, and Webb had to set his coffee cup down because he felt an urge to throw it through the window.
“You have my sympathy,” Jordan said. “This is a difficult situation. Can you prove you wrote the song? Lots of musicians make rough demos. If you did, and the time stamp on the electronics shows you wrote it before Mr. Dean says he wrote it, that will go a long way toward solving this legally.”
Webb shook his head. “It was just something that came to me on Monday night. I was so excited about it, I wanted to play it for someone, so when I was in his studio on Tuesday morning, I played it.”
“Just to confirm. You played it live. Not from a demo tape.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me the time.”
Webb did. She wrote it down.
“And to confirm, you said you heard it at an audition two days later, and the artist told you that she and Mr. Dean wrote it.”
“That’s right.”
Jordan tapped her front teeth with her pen. Webb noticed a smudge of red lipstick on one of her teeth. “The difficulty is that it’s going to be your word against his.”
“You need to believe me,” Webb said. “That’s the way it happened.”
She gave him a grim smile. Webb noticed the lipstick smudge was now gone.
“It doesn’t matter whether I believe you,” Jordan said. “What matters is what we can prove.”
Webb noticed that she dodged saying whether she believed him. That mattered to him. But he didn’t push her on it.
She spoke again. “It’s even more complicated than you think. Just before you showed up this afternoon, our receptionist received a letter from a law firm across town. They are representing a producer named Gerald Dean who wants to initiate a legal action against you.”
Rock the Boat Page 4
