Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3

by Devon Hartford

  He’s so insistent.

  But from what little I know about him, I bet it’s part of how he got where he is now. He has a gigantic recording studio in his house. He can’t be all bad. Plus he’s got those emerald eyes that are beaming heat directly into me. I grab the guitar and roll my eyes, “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “Play it,” he smirks. At least he has a sense of humor.

  Duh. I fish a yellow Tortex guitar pick out of my purse. I always keep a few handy. Never know when you’re gonna end up in a fully equipped recording studio!

  Julian picks up a phone mounted to the wall beside the console and punches one button. “Colette? Please send Max to the studio. Thank you.” He punches a few buttons on the control console and turns to the computer keyboard to the side. “Have a seat,” he says, motioning to the couch behind the console.

  I feel like ignoring him, but what the heck. I was going to sit down anyway.

  “Listen to this,” he says and clicks the mouse on the computer.

  It’s some kind of clichéd twelve bar blues lick over bass and drums. It’s the kind of thing you would expect a robot to write if you asked it to play the blues. Without vocals, it’s boring. It’s over before I know it, maybe one minute long, a fraction of a complete song.

  The control room door opens.

  A young guy with shaggy dyed black hair walks in. Probably Max. He has a choker necklace of silver beads. Silver rings dangle from his ears. He’s dressed in black from head to toe. His black t-shirt says Sex Pistols in white print, and his fingernails are painted black. He has a smattering of tattoos on his forearms. He looks my age and is very cute. Do I detect a vague family resemblance between Max and Julian? I’m not sure. Max seems way too rocker goth to be related to Julian.

  Max smiles at me and mutters, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I smile back.

  “Max, meet Victory,” Julian says.

  Max and I shake hands. He has nice hands. They’re warm but not sweaty.

  He plops down on the couch near me and stretches his arms out on the back of the couch. He seems totally comfortable.

  Julian says to me, “Give it another listen.” He plays the short blues song again.

  Yeah, it’s lame.

  When it finishes, Julian says to me, “What do you think?” He’s smiling like he’s proud of it.

  I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to be rude. Did he write this? It sounds amateurish to me. “Well, uh, it’s nice?”

  Julian prods, “And?”

  I frown for a second, because he’s ordering me again. I pause to be rebellious before I say, “Sounds like the blues?” Like robot blues. I don’t know what else to say.

  “Be honest,” Julian encourages.

  “You really want to know?” I ask.

  Julian nods. “Don’t pull any punches.”

  “Uh, it sounds stiff—” Max snickers when I say stiff “—Like a machine played it. The chords are interesting, but it doesn’t have any heart.”

  Julian nods like that was the right answer, “Exactly.”

  “What is this for, anyway?” I ask.

  “It’s a commercial for an erectile dysfunction drug.”

  “What?” I chuckle.

  Max says sarcastically, “It’s for dudes with floppy dicks.”

  Julian rolls his eyes at Max’s comment.

  I can tell Max and I are going to get along fine.

  I ask, “Are you guys serious?”

  Max nods.

  Julian chuckles, “Very much so.”

  “Did you record this?” I ask.

  “No,” Julian says. “Someone else did. The advertising agency handling the account asked me to deliver something with more pizazz. Listen to this version.” Julian cues up another track on his computer. “This is my version,” Julian said. “Max did the guitar and bass work.”

  Oh great, I hope it’s better than the last one. I don’t want to sweat it out trying to tap dance if it sucks.

  Julian plays it.

  Fortunately, this version is much better. It’s snappy, has different chords, and a nice little hook right at the beginning.

  I’m relieved it doesn’t suck. I say, “That’s pretty good.”

  “But it could be better,” Julian says, “right?”

  I glance at Max. What am I supposed to say? Of course it could be better, but I don’t want to hurt Max’s feelings.

  Max holds up a hand, “Don’t worry about me. I’m not a blues player. But Julian told me to take a stab at it.”

  “It’s actually pretty good,” I smile.

  “But?” Julian prompts.

  “Um…” I stammer.

  Julian smiles, “Why don’t you give it a shot. With the gold top.”

  Confused, I say, “You want me to play it? On the Les Paul?”

  “Yes. Max, can you set up an amp for Victory?”

  “No problem,” Max stands up and glances at me, “You want to pick an amp?”

  I go with the flow. “Sure.”

  Max motions to a rack of guitar amplifiers in the corner. Bogners, MESA-Boogies, Marshalls, on old Soldano, every high end amp you could want. “Pick one,” Max smiles.

  “If we’re going for blues,” I say, “I’ll take the Soldano.” I’ve never played one, but I can name ten different albums recorded with one.

  Max pulls a coiled guitar cable off the wall and unwinds it, plugging it into the amp. “Do you want a strap for the Paul? Or you can sit. Up to you.”

  I like how casual Max is compared to Julian. “Oh, uh, I’ll take a strap.”

  Max grabs a black leather strap and hands it to me. I fit it to the guitar and sling it over my shoulder. It weighs a ton. I remember Kellan’s comment about girls playing Fenders because they’re lighter than Les Pauls.

  Kellan can suck it.

  Max connects me to the Soldano and flips the switches on the front.

  I turn up the volume knob on the guitar and no sound comes out. “Where’s the speakers?”

  “In the isolation booth,” Max says. He steps over to the control console and twists some knobs.

  Now I can hear the guitar coming through the studio monitor speakers. I start twisting dials on the front of the Soldano until I get a tone I like.

  I glance at Julian. He’s just watching. Does he do anything? Or just order people around? Who knows.

  Julian says, “I’m going to play back the song without Max’s guitar track.”

  “What key is it?” I ask.

  “The song is in A,” Julian says.

  It plays through one time. Mostly I listen, but I add some stuff at the end when I have a feel for it.

  I ask, “Can you loop it?”

  Julian clicks on the computer and starts the short song again. It plays through several times and I jam the entire time.

  I start by throwing in chords and fills to punch up what I’m hearing. Then my playing evolves into a funky blues riff with spunk, which seems fitting for a dick hardener commercial. After the tenth time, I’m totally into it. My body sways and my head bounces along with the music. Eventually, I get my idea nailed, and now I’m just going for it, putting everything into it, moving my body like I’m on stage. At the end of probably the twentieth take, I stretch my final note out, finished.

  I totally owned that song.

  Julian and Max both clap.

  “Yeah!” Max shouts.

  “Not bad,” Julian says.

  I smile, “Play back that last take.”

  Julian does. I sound awesome. I’m totally proud of myself. Without thinking, I reach out to Max for a high five, which he returns, as happy as I am.

  “Now,” Julian says abruptly, “let’s see how it plays.”

  “Huh? I thought we just played it,” I say.

  “With the commercial footage,” Julian clicks around on the computer and brings up video editing software on another monitor.

  It takes only a few seconds for me to see the problem.
I played too many notes for the slow vibe of the footage.

  The commercial features a good looking older guy with salt and pepper hair. He’s behind the wheel of a convertible Ford Mustang, looks like a ’64, somewhere on the open road. A woman sits in the front seat beside him. She’s beautiful, but probably too young for him. It’s a montage and they go from place to place like they’re on a driving vacation somewhere. Lots of long shots showing the Mustang cruising through scenic locations.

  My playing needs to be more laid back. Maybe relax the funk. A little slow hand will do the trick. I say, “Okay, I know what to do.”

  “Wait,” Julian commands, “you need to hear the voice over first. That’ll change everything.”

  “Okay, play it,” I order.

  Julian tosses me a surprised look.

  I arch an eyebrow. Julian’s not the only one who can tell people what to do. He needs to know nobody bosses me around, unless they want to be bossed back.

  Julian’s lips slip into a faint smile and he plays the commercial once again, now with the voice over.

  A male narrator with a smooth macho voice drops in at various points in the footage. “…It’s about having the freedom to do what you want…” The actor on screen kisses the woman on the cheek while driving the Mustang. Wind whips through their hair. “…When you want, because you’re a man who has worked hard…” The actor slaps the woman’s skirt covered butt as they walk across a motel parking lot. “…And you know how to play hard…” The actors sit in a jacuzzi and clink wine glasses (which doesn’t seem like hard play to me). “…And you’re not going to let all that hard work go unrewarded…” Laughing, the actors fall onto a king sized bed with a great view of the sunset behind them. They kiss romantically and the sun blows out the frame to gold then white.

  Julian looks at me.

  I blurt “That guy is cheating on his wife with that woman!”

  Max laughs, “That’s what I said!”

  Julian smiles, “I don’t judge. I get paid.”

  I’m not sure what to make of that comment.

  “So,” Julian says, “Do you want to give it another shot now that you’ve seen the footage?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Can you loop it with the video?

  “Yes,” Julian starts recording again.

  This time, I scale back what I play. I’m really liking the Les Paul. Not surprising for a $30,000 guitar. I just hope no skaters come along and smash into me. After a few takes, I stop, satisfied with my playing.

  Julian stops the recording and frowns, “I’m not feeling it.”

  I’m disappointed. I thought I played fine.

  He asks, “What happened to that soulful stuff you played at the guitar shop yesterday? That was perfect for this. Can you recreate that?”

  “I don’t know. I have to feel it. I’m not feeling it with this commercial.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess I think the commercial is lame? The guy is obviously cheating on his wife. Or he divorced her for a younger woman. Look how young she is compared to him. The advertisers are saying, ‘Buy our dick pill, and you’ll bang young babes.’”

  Max snickers.

  Julian asks, “What were you feeling yesterday when you played for me at the shop?”

  I’m totally not going to answer that because I’m not telling Julian I was flirting with him like crazy when I plugged in the gold top and my attraction to him all came out in my playing. He doesn’t need to know I got carried away yesterday because I’m not letting it happen here today.

  “Look,” Julian says, “Try to think about the perspective of the target customer. Imagine you’re some older guy, and for whatever reason…” he shakes his head and gestures with his hands like he’s covering up a dirty lie, which he is, “…and now you’re going on a road trip with a young woman who is going to rock your world.”

  “But he’s cheating on his wife!” I protest.

  Julian rolls his gleaming green eyes. At the moment, his handsomeness makes him smarmy. He says, “Victory, this is advertising. It’s all about telling people, ‘Buy our product and your life will be better.’ Our place is not to judge what they do with the product. Maybe the guy in the commercial lost his wife of twenty or thirty years in a car accident, went through a normal grieving process, then met a younger woman who is going to make everything better.”

  I shake my head, “That’s ridiculous. That’s a fantasy.”

  “Exactly. Sell the fantasy. Ready to record?” Julian’s hand hovers over the keyboard.

  I don’t have a choice. The recording starts. My first few attempts are laughably bad. I’m not buying any of Julian’s bullshit. But I try to focus on his rosy story, like the old dude in the Mustang lost his wife and his two adult kids are now out of the house. He’s all alone until this young woman comes along and she sees how the guy is still a loving dad and provider, but he needs a woman to give him back that love he lost…and all of a sudden, I’m totally into it. I play a fun, flirty, hopeful riff with some funky trills and hooky bends. I throw in some humorous accents at the right moments.

  Julian stops the recording after I finish and says, “That’s perfect. See how easy that was?”

  Actually, it was. “Can you play it back?”

  He does. After, he says, “What do you think?”

  I smile, “I like it. It’s sappy, commercial, and clichéd. But I like it.”

  “Good. I do too. And now you get paid. Handsomely. Because that’s how advertising works.”

  “Huh? Paid?”

  He nods and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. He counts out ten hundred dollar bills and hands them to me.

  “What’s this for?”

  “For your expert guitar playing.”

  I shake my head, “I can’t take your money.”

  “Why not? I want to use your track in the final mix. I have to run it by the ad agency for approval, but I think they’ll like your approach.”

  “Uhhh…”

  “We’re talking about a truckload of money from the agency for doing this,” Julian says seductively.

  I frown, “Wait. How much is a truckload?” I’m not going to be one of those musicians who gets ripped off.

  Julian arches an eyebrow, “Enough.”

  I smirk, “Then maybe I should get more than a thousand?”

  He looks at his watch, which is fancy and gold like everything about Goldenblond Julian and his expensive house. He says, “It took you, what, an hour to play through all the takes? I’m giving you a thousand dollars for an hour’s work. Sounds like good money to me. That’s two million a year if you worked full time. Does that sound fair?”

  “Take the money,” Max says, “Julian doesn’t pay me nearly that much.”

  Julian says sarcastically, “Poor lad, living hand to mouth, wondering where his next hot meal is going to come from at the orphanage.”

  Max shakes his head dismissively, but he’s smiling.

  I get the sense Max isn’t complaining about however much money Julian pays him.

  Max says, “Seriously, Victory, a grand an hour is way better than most studio musicians make. Take it.”

  Julian says to me, “You’ll have to sign a standard consent waiver that transfers ownership of your playing to the pharmaceutical company. Do that, and the money is yours.”

  The stack of bills sits on the edge of the console mixing board, begging me to take it.

  I could really use that thousand dollars.

  So what if the dick pill commercial is lame?

  Like a starving animal, I reach out for the money cautiously, barely aware of the gold plated bear trap waiting to snap shut around my wrist.

  Ah, what am I worried about? Nothing is going to hurt me. This is win-win all the way around.

  What’s the worst that could happen?

  Nothing I can think of.

  I snap up the money.

  That gold plated bear trap wasn’t quick enough to catch Victory Payne.
<
br />   Julian arches an eyebrow, “Excellent. Then we have a deal?”

  “Yup,” I grin.

  See?

  No golden bear traps.

  Chapter 47

  VICTORY

  We walk upstairs to Julian’s big living room. I glance at the attached test tube room with the piano and cellos. Why do I keep thinking of it as a test tube? Like it’s in a science lab?

  Whatever.

  Julian says, “I’ll have the ad agency email you a consent waiver tomorrow. You’re not in the AFM, are you?”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “The American Federation of Musicians. The musician’s union.”

  “Do I have to be in the union or something?”

  “No.”

  “Oh,” I smile, “that’s awesome.”

  “Regardless, the ad people may or may not choose to use your track. We won’t know until I hear back from them. In either case, I want to have things free and clear, legally speaking, before I send them your track.”

  I ask, “If they don’t like it, do I have to give the money back?”

  He smiles, “No, it’s yours to keep. You did the work.”

  “Are you sure?” I say with obvious doubt.

  “Very much so. And I believe they’re going to like your work best of all the takes I send them.”

  A random thought suddenly occurs to me, “Wait, don’t tell me Slash was playing for the commercial before I got here?”

  Julian smiles, “Oh, no. Slash was here to talk about a record I’m working on.”

  “The gold top Gibson isn’t for him, is it?” I ask excitedly.

  Julian grins and arches an eyebrow.

  “It is! I played the guitar you’re giving to Slash!”

  He nods.

  “Wow, that’s awesome! I mean, it’s like the reverse of getting to play Slash’s guitar, but it’s still awesome!” I sound like a teenager, but we’re talking about the Slash.

  “Think of it this way. Slash will be playing the guitar you played.”

  I don’t see how that’s special. Oh, I get it, Julian is complimenting me. I do my best not to blush.

  “By the way,” Julian says, pulling out his wallet. He removes another stack of bills.