Chapter 20: Providence (the one in Rhode Island)

Somewhere over northern Utah

February 28^th, 1994

The Gulfstream IV business jet cruised forty-one thousand feet over an endless expanse of high desert salt flats. Out the left side of the aircraft and slightly ahead, the gray-blue surface of the Great Salt Lake could be seen, as could the sprawling city named for it on the southeast shore. Beyond that were the snow-capped peaks of the Wasatch Mountain Range. The air was clear and calm, with not so much as a hint of turbulence since they had crossed the Sierra Nevada Mountains an hour before.

This private flight from LAX to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, just across the Hudson River from Manhattan, had cost twenty-eight thousand dollars for the eight passengers aboard. Since it was KVA Records business, however, the funds to pay for it had come out of the KVA account. Celia and Jake had both been nominated for several Grammy awards and the ceremony was at Radio City Music Hall in New York City tomorrow evening. Neither of them expected to win anything—business as usual, especially when Whitney Houston was the primary competition—but their presence at the venue was quite expected and, though they were an independent label and answered to no corporate masters, the media would have jumped to (and reported) all kinds of wild speculations had either or both failed to accept their invitation.

Celia, in particular, was unhappy to take time off from her tour rehearsals to participate in the farce that was the awards. She and her band—Coop and Charlie playing rhythm, Dexter Price on the horn, and the best of the best available Aristocrat studio musicians playing piano, synthesizer, violin, and lead guitar—had been putting in eight-hour days, six days a week in a rented warehouse in West Covina, dialing in the show she planned to put on. And it was to be her show, not what the suits and promotion managers of Aristocrat had been envisioning. At the very first meeting Celia had with them after signing the MD&P contract, they had laid out before her a meticulously planned set list they wanted her to do, complete with choreographed dance numbers that would feature professional dancers accompanying her, multiple costume changes throughout each performance (said costumes being ridiculously scanty and sexual), and, worst of all, they had actually had the gall to suggest that each performance would be lip-synched by her while she was wearing a headset mic that would be turned off during the vocals, but on for between song banter.

“Are you out of your fucking minds?” she asked, so appalled she lapsed into a Jake-ism. “I’m not doing any of this shit!”

“But Celia,” they insisted, “this what your fans want to see! This is what they expect to see! You’re a sex symbol. You need to embrace that and go out there each night and show them what you’ve got!”

“What I’ve got is my music,” she replied. “And that is what they are going to get: a musical performance. I am going to wear jeans and a sleeveless shirt for my stage clothes. I am going to play my guitar and sing live into a microphone that sits on a stand while my band provides the music to accompany me. I am going to have simple stage lighting that lets the audience see me and the band. I am not going to dance. I am not going to have dancers on the stage with me. And I most assuredly am not going to have anything I do up on that stage choreographed by your troop of brain-dead imbeciles.”

“You want to go up there in jeans and just play your guitar?” asked Vernon Crandall, the suit assigned as her tour coordinator. “That’s boring! Nobody is going to pay money to come see that!”

“I’m pretty sure you’re talking out of your ass right now,” Jake, who had been present at the meeting (along with Pauline), put in at this point. “People are going to love her show because she’s a talented musician, songwriter, and singer. The fact that she’s attractive is secondary to all that. She doesn’t need to shake her tits and show off her legs and belly in order to keep their attention.”

“We disagree,” Crandall informed them. “And your proposal is not what we had in mind when we signed the touring contract and agreed to finance this endeavor.”

This was where Pauline came in. “It may not be what you had in mind, Vern, but it’s what you’re going to get. That contract grants all rights for tour planning, composition, lineup, musicians, and production to KVA Records. The tour is what Jake and Celia say the tour is.”

“I believe,” said Gene Rickens, the Aristocrat lawyer, “that an argument could be made for misrepresentation of terms for that contract.”

The look he got from Pauline at this point actually made him back up his chair a few inches. If looks could kill, he would’ve been halfway to the Pearly Gates. “You go ahead and make that argument, Rickens,” she challenged. “Try to get a judge to agree that you have the right to dictate tour production to KVA Records when you signed a goddamn contract that specifically states in black and fucking white that KVA Records retains those rights for itself.”

“Well...” stammered Rickens, “I’m aware of the wording of the contract we signed. I’m just suggesting that an argument could be made that, since we were clearly anticipating a choreographed production when we agreed to finance this tour, KVA’s insistence on a non-choreographed, simple production constitutes misrepresentation and bad faith negotiation.”

“You can just cram that shit right up your ass,” Jake told the counselor.

“I beg your pardon!” Rickens said, outraged now at the lack of decorum.

“What my brother means to say,” Pauline put in, “is that you don’t have a leg to stand on. You’re just blustering for your clients and you know it, I know it, and I’m reasonably sure they know it as well.”

“I do not bluster!”

“Hmm, a lawyer who does not bluster?” Pauline said mildly. “You must have skipped the first year of law school?”

“I most certainly did not!” he assured her.

She shook her head a little and chuckled. “In any case,” she said. “Did you forget that I audio-recorded all negotiation sessions? I still have those tapes and they are legally admissible evidence that can and will be presented if necessary. At no time during the negotiation of this contract did Aristocrat express, in any way, that they were expecting a particular type of performance out of Celia other than the obvious one: that she put on a ninety-minute concert on a North American tour consisting of sixty-four dates in fifty-two cities. Choreography, dancing, costume design, lip-synching ... none of these things were brought up in any way. And now you’re trying to say that we misrepresented ourselves? That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve heard since ... well ... since the last time I negotiated something with you record executives.”

“I do the show my way, or I don’t do it at all,” Celia said firmly.

“And that is the final word on that,” Pauline said. “Can we put this subject to rest now?”

They had put the subject to rest.

Now, as the Gulfstream flew through the sky en route to their date with rejection, Celia was sitting in the rear of the plane, just in front of the door that led to the bathroom/shower area forward of the tail. She was by herself—she and Greg had arrived at the airport together in the same limousine but had been sitting as far apart as they could get ever since boarding—sipping out of a glass filled with ice and a clear liquid that Barb, their flight attendant, had brought her a few minutes ago. Jake was reasonably sure the glass did not contain water. Greg sat alone at the front end of the cabin. He was drinking scotch on the rocks and staring out at the passing scenery, a morose expression on his face. The Nerdlys were sitting across from Greg at another of the tables, both of them working intently on something that had to do with audio reproduction while Sharon sipped from a glass of wine and Nerdly from a vodka and prune juice.

Jake was sitting in one of the chairs arranged next to a table. Pauline, who was holding Tabby in her arms and rocking her gently back and forth, sat across from him. Directly across the small aisle from them was Veronica, the twenty-two year old UCLA Business major who Pauline used to babysit her little clump on those occasions she had to leave her house for business. Ronnie, as she liked to be called, had agreed to cut two days worth of classes so she could fly private across the country, be put up in Paulie’s suite at the Sheraton New York in Times Square, and be paid two thousand dollars on top of all that just to take care of Tabby during the hours Pauline was at the ceremony as Jake’s date. For the lower middle class girl who was going to school on an academic scholarship and working two jobs just to keep from sinking under water, it was a dream assignment on several different levels.

“Shouldn’t you be going over your speech?” Pauline asked Jake when she saw he had an old Sony Walkman—the kind that played cassette tapes instead of CDs—in his hand.

“What speech?” he asked.

“The speech you’ll have to give if you manage to win one of the three Grammys you’ve been nominated for,” she said, a bit exasperated.

He shook his head. “I didn’t even come up with one,” he said. “I’m not going to win anything. This whole thing is a farce, a little production put on by the big four to help promote their own albums and their own artists. They’re sure as shit not going to hand one of those things to an independent label’s act—especially not one who is known to sniff coke out of ass cracks on occasion.”

“I have no doubt you’re correct about the awards being a farce,” Pauline said. “But remember, National is making money off your first album and Aristocrat will be making money off of your second one. Did it ever occur to you that it might behoove them to throw you a little bone and at least give you Best Rock Performance?”

He shook his head. “Nope,” he said plainly. “It never occurred to me.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” she asked. “What if they actually do hand one of those gramophones to you? What are you going to say?”

“I’ll wing it,” he said.

“Wing it?”

He nodded. “How hard can it be? I’ll say some shit like: ‘Wow, I just can’t believe this, this is all so cool. First off, I’d like to thank my sister, Pauline, who has been my manager ever since the Intemperance days and was a real inspiration in getting this song and the album into production. I’d like to thank my mom and my dad, for encouraging my musical interests back when I was a child, and, naturally, I’d like to thank the judges for selecting me for this great honor, blather, blather, blather, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.’”

Pauline looked at him for a moment, as if considering, and then nodded. “All right,” she said. “I guess you can wing it if you need to.”

“Performing is what I do, Paulie,” he told her.

“Forgive me for doubting you,” she said. She pointed at the Walkman. “Is that the tape I listened to?”

“It is,” he told her. “I’m going to have Celia give it a listen, if she’s up for it.”

Pauline looked at the beautiful, yet obviously troubled Venezuelan singer/songwriter/guitarist. “She doesn’t look like she’s up for much of anything right now, except for swilling down those vodka and tonics.”

Jake sighed. “Yeah. She does not seem to be having a good time over there. Maybe the music will cheer her up.”

“I don’t think multiple orgasms would cheer her up,” Pauline said. “Do you know what the issue is between her and Greg?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I do,” he told her. He said no more.

“None of my business?” Pauline asked.

“The details ... no, not really. As her manager, co-owner of KVA, and friend, however, you should know that they’re in kind of a bad spot right now.”

“Well, no shit,” she said. “Any moron can see that. I haven’t seen them say a dozen words to each other since we came back from Oregon. They’re sitting as far apart as they can sit right now. How bad is it? Are we talking divorce here?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Jake said. “She’s extremely focused on getting out on the road. I think she’s using the stress of the planning to avoid thinking about what is really bothering her.”

Pauline nodded. “Let her know I’m here for her if she needs me.”

“I’ll do that,” Jake said.

“And as for that...” She pointed at the Walkman again. “I trust you, Jake. You know that. But you’re talking about a huge risk to KVA money. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“As long as they’re still in the groove they were in five years ago, yes, I’m sure.”

She sighed. “All right then,” she said. “As long as Nerdly and Celia are down with it, I guess I am too.”

“Thanks, sis,” he told her. “If Celia’s up for it, we’ll need to fly up to Providence after the ceremony, spend a few days there. Is Ronnie going to be up for that?”

“Probably,” she said. “She doesn’t need to be back to school until Monday. If I keep paying her, she’ll hang in there.”

“Fair enough,” Jake said. He stood, picking up his drink glass and the Walkman, and then said, “Here goes nothing.”

“Good luck,” Pauline said.

He made his way to the rear of the plane. Celia, dressed in jeans and a peasant blouse, her hair down and with no makeup upon her face, looked away from her perusal of the passing desert and put her eyes on Jake’s face.

“Time to offload?” she asked him, nodding toward the bathroom door.

“Not just yet,” Jake told her. “I was hoping to talk to you about something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Can I sit down?”

“Be my guest,” she said, waving to the seat next to her.

He sat, putting his drink and the Walkman on the table. Celia looked at the latter with amusement. “Wow,” she said. “That’s some retro technology you got going there.”

“I had to dig it out of storage in my attic,” Jake told her. “That and the tape that’s inside of it.”

“What’s the tape?” she asked.

“It’s a demo tape put together by a band from Providence called Brainwash,” he told her.

She raised her eyebrows up a bit. “A demo tape?”

“That’s right,” he said. “I don’t think I ever told you the story of Brainwash, did I?”

“I’m pretty sure you haven’t,” she said. “I would’ve remembered a band with a name like that.”

“They’re teachers,” Jake said. “Most of them high school teachers, but one is a middle school teacher.”

This brought a little bit of a smile to Celia’s face. “Teachers,” she said, nodding appreciatively. “Brainwash. Very clever.”

“I thought so as well,” he said. “Anyway ... the story of Brainwash. It was actually you who introduced them to me, in an indirect way.”

“Me?”

“You,” he confirmed. “I saw them perform in Boston the night after your wedding. Do you remember me telling you about the little aircraft incident Helen and I had as we were flying back home the next morning?”

She nodded. “Your plane lost an engine on takeoff,” she said. “You had to come back to the airport.” Another chuckle. “Shit like that sure seems to happen to you a lot, Jake.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know that two incidents in five years when one flies more than fifty thousand miles each year quite qualifies as ‘a lot’, but yeah. Perhaps more than your ordinary traveler. Anyway, Helen was not fond of flying commercial to begin with. That little mishap really scared her and she was afraid to go home right away. So, we decided to spend the night in Boston and go home the next morning on a different flight on a different kind of plane. That meant we had a night to kill. We went out to a club to catch some live music and that was where Brainwash was playing.”

“And they impressed you?”

“They impressed me greatly,” he said. “They’re kind of like a modern-day Fleetwood Mac. Three singer/songwriters—one male, two female—and they each sing their own tunes while the others back whoever is singing. Lots of three-part vocal harmony. The male singer used to be with the band Courage, which was a one-hit wonder group back in the early eighties. Aristocrat—lovely folks that they are—didn’t pick them up for their third option and the band broke up. When the contract term expired, he formed Brainwash with his wife—she’s the keyboardist and one of the singers—and three other teachers with some musical talent. The lead guitarist—she’s also the other female singer—can shred pretty good.”

“A female lead guitarist, huh?” Celia said, pondering that.

“She’s a lesbian,” Jake said. “The club owner I met the night they were playing seemed to think that is why she’s so proficient at the lead guitar position.”

“Well, of course,” Celia said with a chuckle. “It didn’t even occur to me that she might not be a lesbian.”

They had a laugh about this—the first genuine Celia laugh he had seen in a while—and then she turned serious again. “So ... why are you telling me all this? Why did you bring me their demo tape in a Walkman? I presume you have a reason?”

“I do,” he said. “You see, I thought so much of them after seeing them perform, that I went backstage to meet them after the show. They told me their story—how they met, who they were, how they got together, all that shit—and I asked them if they’d ever tried to go big. They said they’d made a demo tape a few years before—a copy of which is in this Walkman—but, despite the fact that they were pulling in more than five bills a show and were the most popular club band in New England, no agent would give them the time of day because they didn’t look good on camera.”

“Ahhh,” she said knowingly. “MTV syndrome.”

“Exactly,” Jake said. “I still think the music video is the first nail in the coffin of the music industry. It’s been in a steady, downward spiral ever since they first played Video Killed the Radio Star that fateful day.”

“August 1, 1981,” Celia said with a nod.

“I think that date will go down in history as the true ‘day the music died’,” Jake opined. “In any case, no one would give them a chance because they weren’t skinny sex symbols who could dance around in their underwear on a video. So, I offered to use the pull I had to get them heard by National’s suits.” He shook his head. “I really thought I was going to be able to help them go big. God, I was still pretty naïve back then, as much as I hate to admit it.”

“No deal, huh?”

“No deal,” Jake said. “I had them put together a complete portfolio to go along with the demo tape and I presented it to Crow and Doolittle, absolutely sure that they were going to be calling me up, demanding I get Brainwash in their office immediately for contract negotiation. I was going to have them use Paulie as their manager and we were going to make sure they didn’t get screwed into a typical first-time contract.” He gave a bitter bark. “None of that happened. The suits at National would not even listen to the demo once they saw what the band looked like in their publicity shots.”

“Are they ugly?” Celia asked.

“Not at all,” Jake said, “they just aren’t camera-friendly attractive. Marcie Scanlon is farm-girl sized; kind of like Helen was. She’s cute and curvy but she’s not a size zero, so Crow and the boys considered her too fat. Stephanie Zool, the guitarist, is in good shape and is kind of cute in her way as well, but she looks a bit masculine. The lesbian thing, you know. And Jim Scanlon and the other guys in the group, though not unattractive, look like what they are: a bunch of teachers. The suits didn’t give a shit how good Brainwash’s music was—that’s pretty much a direct quote, by the way—they just didn’t look right for music videos.”

“That’s a shame,” Celia said slowly. “And I think I’m starting to pick up where you’re going with this. You want me to give them a listen because you want to sign them to KVA Records.”

Jake smiled. “It’s like you’re a mind reader,” he said.

“That would cost KVA a lot of money,” Celia said. “More than it cost to produce one of our records.”

“That’s true,” Jake said. “We’d have to fly them all out here, house them, give them advance money to live on, and then pay for their studio time—hopefully up in Oregon, if Obie can get behind this. In addition, we’ll have to contract again for MD&P for the album, though we won’t be negotiating from a position of strength since Brainwash will be an unknown and I’m sure they’ll still be judged harshly for their appearance even before they give the master a listen. Promotion will cost more because of the unknown factor as well. In addition, I would refuse to exploit Brainwash the way any of the other labels would. If we sign them, they’ll have a fair contract that ensures that as long as we make money, they make money as well.”

Celia looked up at him. “You know something, Jake?”

“What’s that?”

“I think it’s fortunate you’re so musically talented and are able to make a living doing that, because you would have made a terrible salesman.”

He laughed. “Just being truthful,” he said.

“You should never be truthful when you’re trying to sell something,” she told him.

“Just my nature,” he said. “I wanted you to have all the facts and figures on the table. I know I’m asking a lot here. It’s a risky venture that might fail and cost us money. I don’t think it will, but it is possible. I’m asking you to trust my instincts for what quality music is and how to promote it. This can work. These guys have talent and, assuming they still sound as good as they did back then, I think we can pull at least a Platinum CD out of their asses.”

“You haven’t talked to them about all this yet?” she asked.

“Not a word,” Jake said. “I wanted to get everyone aboard first. For a decision like this, we all need to be unanimously in agreement to go for it.”

“I see,” she said. “Are the Nerdlys and Pauline onboard?”

“Nerdly and Sharon both loved the demo tape and can’t wait to get them into the studio and start ordering them around,” he said. “And Pauline, though not as enthusiastic, is onboard as well. She liked the demo well enough, but she’s mostly going on trust in me.”

Celia nodded carefully. “All right,” she said. “I can respect that. One thing though. If you haven’t talked to Brainwash about this yet, are you sure they’re still performing? It’s been five years, right? Bands break up all the time, especially when they’re not actually making their living by performing.”

“They were still touring around New England as of last summer,” Jake said.

“How do you know that?”

“The Nerdlys,” he said. “They spend all their time screwing around on their computer with this thing they call ‘the internet’.”

“The internet?”

“That’s what they call it,” he said. “Apparently this prophecy they’ve had for a few years about everyone connecting their computers together in this massive web of information is starting to come true. Right now, only nerds are using it, but ... well ... they’re the Nerdlys so they’re part of the club. Anyway, they were able to pull up recent reviews of Brainwash off some bulletin boards they were able to access from New England internet geeks. The reviews are all good.”

“Interesting,” Celia said. “All right. No promises, but I’ll give them a listen. I’ll let you know what I think when we land.”

“Fair enough,” Jake said, smiling. “I’ll leave you to the music.”

“You do that,” she said. “Oh ... and will you have that flight attendant bring me back another vodka and tonic? And tell her to go a little heavier on the vodka this time.”

“You got it,” Jake said.

Jake put in her drink order, as requested, and then went back to his seat next to Pauline. For the rest of the flight, as he played with little Tabby, his niece, drank a few more rum and cokes, and watched the scenery go by below, he kept half an eye on Celia. He saw her listen to the demo tape at least twice. Her face had no particular expression on it as she did so.

As they exited the plane into the chilly New Jersey night, she handed him back the Walkman just before they got into the limo for the trip to their hotel.

“If Brainwash is willing,” she told him, “I’m onboard. Contact them and run with it.”

“That’s awesome, C,” he told her, taking the device. “Thanks for listening. Thanks for trusting me.”

“Don’t let me down, Kingsley,” she warned.

“I’ll try not to,” he assured her.

“Oh, and one more thing?”

“What’s that?”

“When you meet up with them, can you score another copy of the demo for me? It kinda grew on me.”

His smile got wider. “I’ll see what I can do.”

After checking into his suite in the Sheraton of New York, it was almost 9:00 PM, although to Jake, whose body was still on California time, it only felt like early evening. He had the phone number for Jim and Marcie Scanlon in his notebook. It had not taken Pauline and her nefarious connections to acquire the number. Nor had it taken the Nerdlys and their so-called internet. The Scanlons were listed in the Providence phone book and a simple call to information had provided it.

He picked up the hotel phone, dialed for an outside line, and then punched in the number. In the earpiece, the phone began to ring.

“Hello?” a male voice answered on the fourth ring.

“Is this Jim Scanlon?” Jake asked.

“This is Jim,” the voice assured him. “With whom am I speaking?”

“This is Jake Kingsley, Jim,” Jake told him. “Do you remember me?”

A lengthy pause, and then, “Rob, is this you? Are you fucking with me again?”

“It’s not Rob, Jim,” Jake told him. “It’s Jake Kingsley. And I’m not fucking with you.”

Another lengthy pause. “Uh ... you’re serious? Is it really you, Jake?”

“It’s really me, Jim,” he said. “I’m in New York City at the Sheraton, here for the Grammys tomorrow night. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you, but I’m still pretty interested in you and the rest of Brainwash.”

“You ... you are?”

“I am,” he said. “And so are the other co-owners of KVA Records—that’s the label we own. Tell me, are you all still playing together these days?”

“Uh ... yeah! We are, as a matter of fact. We’ve been working on some new material for the summer tour.”

Jake smiled. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” he said. “Do you still jam together on weekends?”

“Whenever something doesn’t come up to prevent it,” he said. “You know ... kids, stuff like that. Marcie and I have a five year old and a three year old now, and Jeremy and Rick both have kids too. And Steph, she and her ex had a baby about four years ago and they share custody now.”

Jake wondered for a moment how two lesbians had had a baby, then dismissed it as irrelevant. “What about this weekend?” he asked Jim. “Are you planning to jam on Saturday and/or Sunday?”

“We are,” Jim said. “We rehearse in a storage unit in Warwick ... that’s a suburb just south of Providence. Did uh ... you know ... you want to come see us?”

“That is exactly what I want to do,” Jake told him. “I have Pauline, my sister, our manager, and part-owner of KVA with me—she’s my date for the Grammys. I also have Bill and Sharon Archer—commonly known as the Nerdlys—with me as well. They’re our audio engineering team and part owners of KVA too. They loved your demo tape and can’t wait to get their nerdy little hands on you. Are you all still interested in maybe throwing down some of your tunes on a CD and seeing if we can sell them?”

“Whoa ... wow, Jake,” Jim said slowly. “This is all a lot to process right now. I mean ... we all have kids now, most of whom go to school and all that.”

“If you’re onboard with us,” Jake said, “we can probably record over the summer when they’re not in school. I’m not asking you to commit to anything right here and right now. We just want to give you a listen and then maybe talk about what we can do. Low pressure. That’s the way I like to do things, the way we all like to do things.”

“Well ... I guess I’ll invite you to the jam session then,” Jim said. “We get together around ten o’clock on both Saturday and Sunday and then jam for three or four hours.”

“That sounds perfect, Jim,” Jake said. “How about this? The Grammys are tomorrow night, which is Tuesday. Celia and Greg are going back right away. Celia is rehearsing up her tour and Greg is getting ready for a movie premier. Me, Pauline and the Nerdlys are gonna hang out here in New York for a few days, take a little vacation, do some New York shit, and then we will fly up to Providence on Saturday afternoon. You and the group can jam together a little performance for us on Saturday and we’ll meet up with you to listen to it on Sunday at ten. Sound like a plan?”

“It sounds like a plan,” Jim said.

“Perfect. Now, what’s the address of the place you rehearse?”

Jim recited an address to the Rhode Island Storage facility in Warwick, Rhode Island. He then gave him a four-digit code that would let him in the gate. He then gave him his cellular phone number, in case he needed to call.

“I don’t have cell phone myself,” Jake said, “but Pauline and the Nerdlys all do. If there’s any issues, we’ll give you a call.”