Chapter 2: Wheeling and Dealing

Coos Bay, Oregon

July 4, 1991

North Bend Municipal was the largest airport on the coast of Oregon. Even so, it was not very big and the only commercial passenger service it supported were daily flights to and from Portland. Situated on a peninsula of flat land that protruded out into Coos Bay—the largest natural harbor between San Francisco Bay and Puget Sound—it was just south of the large cantilever bridge where Highway 101 spanned the neck of the bay.

Jake overflew the town of Coos Bay itself and then brought them in for a gentle touchdown on Runway 22 at 11:43 AM. The weather on the Oregon coast was clear and pleasant, with only a light onshore breeze blowing and the temperature sitting nicely at sixty-two degrees. As they stepped out of the plane in the general aviation parking area, everyone took a moment to enjoy the contrast between hot and sticky inland California and where they were now.

No sooner had he secured his aircraft for an overnight stay than Jake heard the high-pitched whine of jet engines approaching. He looked up to see a Lear jet on final approach, its landing gear down, its flaps fully deployed. It touched down on the same runway Jake had just used and then taxied over to park near the GA terminal. The engines shut down and, a moment later, the side door of the aircraft opened. Out stepped Greg Oldfellow, washed up character actor and Celia’s husband. He was dressed in a custom tailored three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase. He was the only passenger on the plane.

Greg looked a little older than he had back when he’d made The Northern Jungle. His hair was a little thinner, his cheeks a bit hollower, his eyes a little more tired. Still, he was an extremely good looking man and, like most professional actors, in fine physical shape thanks to a stringent diet and regular workouts. Though he had no prospects in sight for making more films, he made a point to keep himself in Hollywood form in case something did pop up.

Celia rushed over to him as he emerged. The two of them shared a warm embrace and a lengthy kiss. It was quite obvious they were happy to see each other.

“I missed you,” Greg told her as he touched the side of her face.

“I missed you too,” she said. She then whispered in his ear: “I told you Jake wouldn’t kill us.”

“That’s good to see,” he returned. “Still, I’m much happier knowing you’ll be flying back with me.”

“Fair enough,” she said with a shrug. She did not enjoy flying on a Lear any more than she enjoyed flying in Jake’s plane, or even a commercial jetliner. All of them scared the mierda out of her.

Jake waited until their embrace broke and then headed over himself.

“Good to see you, Greg,” he greeted, holding out his right hand.

“You too, Jake,” Greg returned, shaking with him.

“Nice suit. Do you always fly dressed like that?”

“Only when I’m to attend a business negotiation,” Greg said. He looked Jake up and down, taking in his casual pair of slacks and a button-up short sleeved shirt. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“That is my plan,” Jake said. “I’m told that Mr. Blake isn’t much for putting on airs.”

Greg nodded thoughtfully. “Hopefully that information is correct,” he said.

“Hopefully,” Jake agreed. “How was the flight in?”

Greg gave a sour look. “A little bumpy and a little cramped. I’m not a big fan of private aviation. I’d much rather fly first class commercial, if given a choice. It’s cheaper, there is more room, and you can actually sit down in the toilets without breaking your kneecaps on the door.”

“I don’t know,” Jake said, thinking of some of the exploits he had enjoyed on private jets in his time. “There is a lot to be said for having the plane to yourself.”

Greg picked up what he was laying down. He nodded appreciably. “I do see where you’re coming from with that. You’ll have to tell me some stories about it over a drink or two.”

Jake laughed. “Deal.”

Greg looked around at his surroundings for a moment. “A quaint little place, I suppose,” he said. “The weather is certainly nice. Where is the limo? Is it running late?”

“There is no limo,” Jake told him. “This entire area only has twenty or thirty thousand people in it. It’s too small to support a limo service.”

“No limo service?” Greg said, shaking his head. “Barbarians. How are we going to get around then?”

“I rented a couple of cars for us.” He pointed over to the terminal parking area, where two 1991 Lexus 400s were parked. “You and Celia can have one, I’ll take Pauline and the Nerdlys in the other.”

“Cars,” Greg said, as if he had never seen such a thing. “I guess that’ll have to do.” He looked at Jake suspiciously. “What about the hotel? Do they have decent lodging in this place?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Jake told him. “I booked us rooms at what is reputed to be the best place in town. It’s right on the bay.”

Greg gave a sigh. “I can’t wait to see it,” he said. There was little enthusiasm in his voice.

Jake thought the Ocean View Hotel and Resort was a pretty good place. Everyone had suites that did indeed enjoy a view of said ocean, and they were nice enough to let the group check in early. Greg, however, sniffed a little when he saw the Presidential Suite he and Celia were to share.

“I suppose it’s adequate,” he commented.

“Quit being such a snob,” Celia told him, slapping at his shoulder.

“I can’t help it,” he returned. “It’s in my makeup.”

They all gathered to have lunch in the hotel’s restaurant. Greg’s mood seemed to improve a bit when he and Celia were recognized by several of the other diners. Two of them even came over to ask for autographs. Neither mentioned his role in The Northern Jungle, which improved his mood even further.

“What are you doing here in Coos Bay?” one of the autograph seekers—a mid-thirties woman with tremendous breasts—asked him.

“Just a little trip to the coast with some friends of ours,” Greg answered, waving toward the friends in question. Jake and Bill went unrecognized.

“That’s cool,” she said, awe still showing in her eyes. “I hope you like our town.”

“It’s a beautiful place so far,” Celia told her.

She made her way back to her table, leaving them to themselves once again. Jake, now that Greg seemed happy, decided the time was right to broach the subject that needed to be broached.

“So ... Greg,” he started. “The rest of us all had a chance to talk about this on the plane coming over here, but maybe we should share some of our thoughts with you.”

“Thoughts about what?” Greg asked.

“About how we’re going to run this negotiation,” Jake said. “You see, this guy Oren owns what is perhaps the most advanced recording studio in the United States right now. It’s a completely digital, fully computerized facility capable of almost immaculate sound reproduction. It is truly state of the art, and we need him to agree to let us use it.”

Greg nodded thoughtfully. “That is my understanding,” he said. “And that is why I’m here. To help you negotiate the use of the facility.”

“Uh ... yeah,” Jake said. “And we appreciate that. I know you have lots of experience negotiating movie contracts and things like that, and that can be helpful to us.”

“Exactly,” he said confidently.

“The thing is, however,” Jake went on, “our information is that Blake will only provide studio time to those he signs to his record label, and even if he did want to sign rock and pop musicians to his label—something we’re inclined to believe he does not want to do—we are independents and plan to stay that way. He’s an obscenely rich man, so financial pressure is not the way to gain ground with him. We need to have a united front and a clear game plan when we go in there to talk to him.”

“Absolutely!” Greg said enthusiastically. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Jake took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “So ... with that in mind,” he said, “I need to point out that we are going in there as a team—a mutually supporting group of people all working for the same goal.”

“Right,” Greg said. “A team.”

“And every team,” Jake went on, “has to have a leader. The leader of our team is Pauline.”

Greg’s eyes flitted over to Pauline for a moment and then back to Jake. “Well ... naturally Pauline is the leader,” he said slowly. “She is the manager of both you and Celia.”

“Exactly,” Jake said. “That means we follow Pauline’s lead and we support her whether we agree with what she is doing or not. I just wanted to make sure we were all on the same page with that.”

Greg seemed to sour a bit, but he nodded. “I understand completely,” he said.

Oren Blake II was a large man, standing a full six feet six inches and weighing in at close to two hundred and fifty pounds. He was forty-four years old on the day he met Jake and Celia and their entourage and he looked exactly as he did on his album and CD covers. He sported a full beard and mustache, both of which were speckled with a subtle amount of gray hair. The dark brown hair on his head was long, falling almost down to his shoulders. He was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a button-up flannel shirt. His jeans were secured by a belt that was closed with a fourteen-karat gold buckle in the shape of the state of Oregon, the beloved locale where he had been born and raised.

OB2, as he was called in the popular media, was to country music what Intemperance had been to rock music, which was to say he was wildly popular among fans of the genre, but more than a little controversial. His father, Oren Blake, had been a popular honky tonk singer back in the fifties and early sixties—a contemporary of Hank Williams, Bob Wills, and Ernest Tubb—who had died in an alcohol related automobile accident just when his career was really starting to take off. His son, who had only been twelve at the time, eventually picked up the reins of the family legacy and ran with them, achieving much more success than the father had ever imagined.

OB2’s music was technically in the category of Outlaw Country, made popular by the likes of Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings. His version of outlaw, however, made their version seem tame in comparison. Fond of writing songs about alcohol and drug abuse, cheating on one’s spouse or girlfriend, fighting in bars, and, in one memorable song, taking one’s girlfriend to the abortion clinic, he was the only country musician to have earned himself a Tipper sticker on his albums. Several radio corporations actually refused to play his tunes on their stations and OB2 himself had once been arrested for obscenity after a live performance in Memphis—just as Jake had in Cincinnati.

What this all meant, of course, was that his albums and singles sold like mad whenever they were released. It helped considerably that he was an excellent musician with a strong voice perfectly suited for country music vocals. He had also proven to be a shrewd businessman. He had never been subjected to a first-time contract that exploited him horribly as Intemperance and most other new acts in the United States faced. Knowing that his family connection with his father was a valuable tool, he managed to negotiate his first release contract with Mason-Dixon Records out of Nashville for a significant amount of positive revenue and only three option periods. When those first three albums went multi-platinum, and with each spawning two to three multi-platinum single releases, his second contract was even more lucrative and he became a multi-millionaire before the age of thirty.

There had been no third contract for Oren Blake II. He went independent two albums before and produced yet another multi-platinum album that made him rich beyond his wildest dreams. Using that revenue, he founded Blake Family Records, built Blake Studios in his hometown of Coos Bay, and used these assets to sign acts and record albums for up and coming country musicians that caught his eye. So far, four of those he had signed to his label had gone platinum as well. One of them—Jeffery Appalachia—had pulled in a Grammy the previous year and was considered to be the best young country musician of his generation.

Blake Studios was an unassuming building that sat in an unassuming section of Coos Bay. There were no views of the ocean or anything else that was interesting. The building itself was only two stories and looked like a government facility more than anything else. There were only a few windows in the structure and the parking lot was small and surrounded by chain link topped with razor wire. Entrance was accomplished an intercom box before an automatic gate. Blake himself met them at the front door after they had cleared the security checkpoint. His eyes went immediately to Celia, where they looked her up and down unabashedly.

“Celia Valdez!” he greeted. “It is so nice to meet you.” He held out his hand to her.

She gave him a small smile and stepped forward to shake with him. “It’s nice to meet you as well, Mr. Blake,” she said.

“Oh, screw that Mr. Blake shit,” he said. “Call me Obie. That’s the name I answer the most to.” He chuckled. “I’ve certainly been called a lot worse.”

Celia laughed as well. “Haven’t we all?” she asked.

Blake turned to Greg next. “And I have no trouble recognizing you, my friend. Greg Oldfellow, Celia’s husband and actor extraordinaire. How the hell are ya, Greg? May I call you Greg?”

“Uh ... of course,” Greg said, holding out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you as well, uh ... Obie.”

They shook. Obie then asked: “What the fuck was up with that Northern Jungle flick? Why the hell did you ever agree to be in that atrocity? Didn’t you read the fucking script first?”

This threw Greg for a considerable loop. “Uh ... well ... it’s a long story,” he stammered. “Let’s just say it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Obie nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I know where you’re coming from with that. Same thing I said when I got the fuckin’ Asian clap over in Hong Kong.”

Jake couldn’t help but let a chuckle come out of his mouth. This attracted Obie’s attention. He looked at him for a moment, his eyes probing. Finally, recognition seemed to creep in.

“Hole-ee shit,” Obie said. “Don’t tell me you’re Jake?”

“That’s me,” Jake confirmed. “It’s nice to meet you, Obie.”

“What the hell did you do to yourself, boy?” Obie demanded. “You look like a cross between a fireman and a San Francisco faggot.”

Jake raised his eyebrows a bit. “An interesting description,” he said. “It’s kind of a disguise. I find I can walk around in public without being recognized this way.”

Obie continued to look him up and down. “Yeah,” he said. “I suppose you have a point there. How do you get yourself laid if no one recognizes you?”

“The old-fashioned way,” Jake told him. “I have to earn it.”

This seemed to pique Obie’s interest. “Wow,” he said. “Going out and trying to get your weenie wet on your own merits, without being able to use your celebrity status. I haven’t done that in twenty years. Intriguing.” His eyes bored into Jake. “Does it make the conquest more satisfying when you succeed?”

Jake nodded. “Absolutely,” he said.

“Hmm,” Obie said thoughtfully. “Something to think about.” He turned to Bill and Sharon, who were standing just behind Jake. “And you two need no introductions.”

“We don’t?” asked Bill.

“Of course not,” Obie said. “Nerdly and Sharon Archer. You two are rumored to be the best goddamned audio engineering team currently operating in these United States. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

“Uh ... I was also the piano player for Intemperance, and I’m one fourth owner of KVA Records,” Nerdly said.

“Yes, yes,” Obie said. “That too.” He held out his hand. “Shake with me, Nerdly. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Bill held out his hand and shook.

“And you, Sharon,” Obie said next. “It’s an honor to meet you as well.”

“Uh ... thank you, uh ... Obie,” Sharon said shyly, holding out her hand timidly.

“And,” Jake said, “I know you’ve talked to her on the phone, but let me introduce Pauline Kingsley, my sister and the manager for both myself and Celia.”

Obie then turned his attention to Pauline. He looked her up and down as appreciably as he had done for Celia. “It’s nice to meet you at last, Pauline,” he said. “You never mentioned in our conversations that you had a body that could stop a goddamn express train in its tracks.”

Pauline smiled. “I guess it never came up,” she said. “Thank you for seeing us today. Hopefully we’ll be able to do business together.”

“Perhaps we can,” Obie allowed. “I’ve heard a few tales about you, you know?”

“Have you?” Pauline asked.

“Little tales about how you managed to get a new contract for your brother and his boys a few years back. That would take some shrewd negotiating indeed.”

Pauline gave a little shrug. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Obie,” she told him. “You know that National Records would never renegotiate a first-time contract with a successful band.”

“Oh, they might,” Obie said. “They would have to have a compelling reason though.”

“Perhaps,” Pauline allowed.

Obie smiled. “Come on inside, all. Welcome to Blake Studios. How about we start this little shindig off with a tour?”

To Jake, the studio looked pretty much like every other he had been in, though perhaps a little more modern looking, and with nicer furniture. To the Nerdlys, however, it was a combination tour through the Taj Mahal and Disneyland combined. There were three complete studios on the ground floor of the building. Two of them were in use, but the third was not. Obie took them into the empty studio to show them around.

“The primary setup, as you can see, is essentially the same as in an analog studio,” Obie told them. “This is the control room, naturally, where the engineers and the mixers play.”

The control room was the biggest in the studio and contained most of the electronics. It was semi-circular in shape, with large windows set into the circular half. In the middle of the room was a mixing console full of dials, switches, levers, knobs, and, interestingly, computer terminals, all of which were dark at the moment. It looked more complex than the cockpit of a 747, and arguably was.

Nerdly ran his hand over it in awe, caressing it as if it were Sharon’s naked thighs in the bedroom. “The AudioMaster 9000,” he whispered.

“It’s beautiful,” added Sharon, who seemed afraid to actually touch it. She turned to Pauline. “This is the latest in audio recording technology,” she told her. “It’s completely digital and equipped with a MIDI interface that is hard linked to the DAWs and the input generation equipment. Do you know what that means?”

“Uh ... no,” Pauline said. “Actually, I don’t.”

“It means we could use this equipment to isolate each individual instrument and vocal track perfectly, without so much as a squeak of extraneous sound,” Jake explained. “The digital nature allows the engineer to filter out all but the sound desired, or to mix in other sounds from a MIDI synthesizer.”

Pauline nodded slowly. “And ... that’s good, right?”

“It’s more than good,” Nerdly said. “It’s exactly what we need. The things we could do in here. Laying down the initial tracks would still be an exercise in tedium, but once that is done, the true advantage of digital and MIDI becomes apparent. Overdubs would be nothing. An extra guitar or a violin overlay could be recorded and then custom altered to fit into the section desired. Vocalization overdubs would be much easier as well. We could use this equipment to mix perfect songs, with every audio nuance under our control.”

Obie was smiling. “Your boy knows his audio,” he told Pauline. “That is exactly why I spent so much fucking cabbage equipping this place. Country music is going through a resurgence, some of which I like to think I am responsible for. It gives us a distinct advantage to package our product in the best manner possible. Thus, I seek out and find the best musicians and young talent I can and bring them in here to hone their output like one would polish a diamond.”

“That sounds very lucrative,” Pauline said.

“It is,” Obie assured her. “And for that reason, I’m very selective about who I grant studio time to. I am particular about who I sign to my label, and I’m not in the habit of renting my studio out to those who are not signed with me. It’s a business decision, you see.”

“We see,” Pauline said. “And I will even say that your policy makes perfect sense.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page here, darlin’,” Obie told her.

“But,” Pauline added, “I cannot help but point out that you did invite us here to tour your studio. You must be considering our offer on some level or you would have just told me to fuck off when I contacted you.”

Obie smiled. “Maybe I just wanted to show off,” he suggested.

“Nonsense,” Greg said, speaking for the first time inside the building.

Everyone turned to look at him. Obie raised his eyebrows up. “Nonsense?” he said. “Where I come from—which is here, by the way—that could be construed as a fighting word under these circumstances.”

“Forgive me for speaking plainly,” Greg said. “It seemed that was your favored method of communication. In any case, you did not invite us here just to show off. You’re a businessman, and a busy one at that. Your time is valuable. I hardly think you would waste it just to show off for the sake of showing off. You wanted us to come here and see this studio. There is something you want from us. How about we go sit down somewhere and talk about whatever that might be?”

Jake and Pauline were now glaring at Greg. This was exactly what they were afraid would happen. But Obie did not seem the least bit upset. He was actually chuckling.

“Well, all right then,” he said, clapping Greg on the shoulder nearly hard enough to knock him over. “Why don’t we go upstairs to my office and have ourselves a little jaw?”

Obie’s office was actually quite modest. He had a simple oak desk with a computer terminal and a calendar on it. A plaque on the desk read: THE BUCKS START HERE. On the walls behind him were a series of platinum and gold records, neatly arranged in an aesthetically pleasing pattern. The carpet was plain earth tone. On the wall adjacent to the desk was a small wet bar with a refrigerator. A spread of chairs was arrayed before the desk, six of them. Exactly enough for the guests he had invited up. Jake suspected that was not a coincidence.

“Help yourselves to drinks, everyone,” Obie told them, waving to the bar. “I find these things usually go a lot smoother with a little lubrication.” He then proceeded to drop some ice cubes in a glass and pour himself four or five fingers of Jack Daniels.

Taking that as a command, everyone went over to the bar and poured themselves a little something. Jake, taking Obie’s lead, went with JD on the rocks. Though he hadn’t planned on putting alcohol into his system this early, he figured it was a business decision.

Once the drinks were poured, everyone took their seats. Obie then raised a toast.

“To negotiations,” he said, holding up his glass. “May they be fruitful and profitable for all concerned.”

“Negotiations,” everyone echoed in unison before taking sips of their respective beverages.

Jake felt the smooth whiskey slide down his throat, warming him. He nodded appreciably. Though there certainly was better bourbon in the world, you couldn’t beat the distinctive taste of Jack Daniels.

“All right then,” Obie said. “Let’s begin by me telling you what is not open for negotiation. I will not sign either of one you to my label. Blake Records specializes in country music only and having a rock or a pop act would not be conducive to our image.”

“We understand and agree,” Pauline said. “Both Jake and Celia have had more than enough of record labels. Their overriding desire is to be independent. That is why KVA Records was formed. We are simply looking to rent studio time from you.”

Obie took a thoughtful sip of his drink. “I am not in the business of renting out my studio,” he said. “I believe I mentioned that earlier. There is no profit in it. This studio exists to produce recordings for my label and that is its only reason for being.”

“Are there no exceptions to this rule?” Pauline asked.

“There are exceptions to every rule,” Obie allowed. “And I might be inclined to grant one here, but y’all need to make it worth my while.”

“We are prepared to pay you three hundred dollars an hour for studio time,” Pauline said. “And we would not require the assistance of your sound engineers. We have the Nerdlys for that. All we would need is a techie for basic equipment operations.”

Obie chuckled. “Three hundred an hour?” he said. “That’s where you open negotiations, Pauline? Come now. That’s what an ordinary analog studio would charge you. I would accept nothing less than five hundred an hour with a minimum commitment of two hundred hours, paid in advance.”

Pauline nodded thoughtfully. “That’s pretty steep,” she said. “How about four hundred an hour and a hundred and fifty hours of commitment?”

“How about five hundred an hour and two hundred minimum, paid in advance,” Obie countered. “That part of the deal is non-negotiable.”

“Everything is negotiable,” Pauline said.

“Not that price,” Obie said. “I have what you need and, if I’m not mistaken, you do not have much else in the way of options. I’m kind of sensing that you want to keep these projects secret until you have masters ready. That eliminates all of the major record label studios—even if they would do business with you. That kind of gives me a monopoly, doesn’t it?”

Pauline sighed. “I suppose it does,” she admitted.

“It does,” Obie said. “I am a reasonable man, however. I could have named six or even eight hundred an hour and you would have had no choice but to accept it, right?”

“I don’t know,” Pauline said. “That would be something we would have to talk over.”

“But you don’t have to talk over five hundred an hour and two hundred minimum?”

The six of them looked at each other. They all nodded, even Greg, who was usually the most fastidious about what things cost. Pauline turned back to Obie. “I guess we have a deal,” she said.

Obie was shaking his head. “We do not yet have a deal,” he said. “That was just the negotiation on price for studio time if I do decide to grant it to you. There are several other aspects to this deal I’m proposing.”

“There are?” Pauline asked.

“There are,” Obie said with a smile. “You see, even five hundred an hour and two hundred hours of commitment is paltry compared to what I could make by actually having one of my artists use that studio time for the production of a new album. I would be losing money—an assload of it, in fact—by renting out time to an act I do not receive primary royalties on. In order to agree to something like that, there needs to be something in it for me.”

Greg spoke up before Pauline could. “Why don’t we just cut to the chase here, Obie, and you tell us what you’re after?”

Again, Pauline and Jake shot a glare at the actor, but again, Obie actually seemed to appreciate his candor.

“Very well,” Obie said. “First of all, I’m going to have to ask for royalties on any album you produce in my studio.”

“Royalties for simply renting studio time?” Pauline said.

“That is what the bigs would have asked of you, isn’t it?” he countered.

“Possibly,” Pauline admitted. “We never actually approached them.”

“They would have asked for five percent minimum,” Obie told them. “Trust me on this, y’all, I used National’s studio for my first independent album back when I broke free. They charged me five percent royalties on top of the fuckin forty-two percent royalties they got for distribution and promotion. Now me, I’m a reasonable man, not prone to unrelenting greed...”

“So, your greed does relent at some point?” asked Nerdly.

Obie stared at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. “That’s pretty fuckin’ good, my friend,” he told him. “Does my greed relent.” He shook his head and laughed a little more, then, suddenly, turned back to serious. “I’ll charge you three percent royalties on all albums and singles produced in my facility in perpetuity, and, the accounting of which will be subject to random and unscheduled audits by a firm of my choosing at my expense whenever and however many times I deem it necessary. This figure and those terms, like my price of studio rental, is non-negotiable.”

Again, Pauline looked at her crew. They all nodded their agreement to her.

“Agreed,” she told Obie. “Do we have a deal now?”

Obie was shaking his head. “Not yet,” he said. “We haven’t negotiated the most important part of the deal yet. All the rest of this shit is just ticky-tack financials that don’t really mean shit when you come right down to it. The most important part is the reason why I didn’t just hang up on your ass when you contacted me, Pauline. Y’all have something I need.”