Chapter 17B: Balance of Power

The twenty-seventh annual Grammy awards took place on February 26, 1985. Intemperance once again hot-boxed the limousine with marijuana smoke as they made the trip and were stoned out of their minds as they walked up the red carpet and entered the building.

In all there were three nominations associated with Intemperance. The band itself and Crow, the producer, were both nominated for Record Of The Year for Crossing The Line. Jake was nominated for Song Of The Year for writing Crossing The Line. And the band alone was nominated for Best Rock Performance By A Duo Or Group With Vocal for Crossing The Line.

In general, Jake found the ceremony incredibly boring and endless. For hours they sat through such mundane awards as Best Spoken Word Recording, Best Reggae Recording, Best Production and Engineering. Only the frequent trips to the restroom to improve their marijuana high kept him sane. And in the end Intemperance didn't win a single award. Though he'd known in his heart this was going to be the case, Jake was surprised to find himself on the edge of his seat when the envelope was opened during each of the awards they were nominated for. He was also surprised by the black disappointment he felt when Prince and The Revolution took the Best Rock Performance By A Duo Or Group, when Terry Britten and Graham Lyle took Song Of The Year, and when Tina Turner and Terry Britten took the top award of Record Of The Year for What's Love Got To Do With It?

"Fixed," said Matt, who was sitting next to him, each time they weren't announced as the winner. "This whole thing is nothing but a big fuckin' fix."

"Yep," agreed Jake.

Cyndi Lauper took the Best New Artist award, barely acing out La Diferencia and completely smashing the last hope of the members of Birmingham. La Diferencia had also been nominated for Record Of The Year and Album Of The Year. Celia Valdez had been nominated for Best Pop Vocal Performance — Female. Their songwriting team had been nominated for Song Of The Year for I Love To Dance. They walked away with nothing as well.

The two bands ran into each other after the ceremony while waiting in the queue to board their limousines. It started out civil enough when Celia and Jake greeted each other and commiserated on their mutual losses. She and Matt glared at each other but otherwise kept their comments to themselves, at least until she introduced the rest of the band.

"This is Eduardo, my brother," she said. "He's our lead guitarist."

Eduardo, like his sister, was quite tall, standing quite close to six and a half feet. "Nice to meet you," Jake said, shaking with him.

"Nice to meet you as well," he said and then turned to Matt. He held out his hand to him. "You need no introduction, Mr. Tisdale. I am a great admirer of your technique."

Matt didn't shake with him. "Then maybe you'd like to hear one of the secrets of the electric guitar," he said. "Check this out, this is way cool." He leaned closer, as if passing on confidential information. "There are more than two chords you can play on a guitar. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. You should look into this and someday you might qualify as a full-blown hacker."

Eduardo's face darkened but he said nothing. He turned the other cheek and stepped back a bit.

Celia frowned and shot Matt another glare. She turned to a shorter man standing next to her. "This is Miguel," she said, speaking to Jake. "He's the bass player. We went to high school together and formed our first band."

"You're the bass player?" Matt spoke up, stepping over. "I'll shake with you, my friend. You are all right."

"Uh... thank you," Miguel said, surprised. They shook.

"You're welcome," said Matt. "Hey, the word on the street is you're sliding your chorizo into Miss Pop Queen here. That true?"

Miguel's face turned beet red. His eyes actually bulged out of their sockets for a moment. "You are a disgusting pile of shit," he told Matt, his words heavily accented.

"Yep," Matt agreed. "So anyway, how is she in the sack? Does she swallow like a good little senorita?"

This pushed Miguel over the edge. "To voy a romper el orto!" he yelled angrily. His fist came up, heading for Matt's head. Matt blocked the punch easily but before he could launch a counter-strike another fist, this one belonging to Eduardo, came flying in from his blind side. It struck Matt on his left temple, snapping his head to the side and sending him reeling into Diana Ross and her entourage, who were in the queue behind them.

"Motherfucker!" Matt yelled, shaking himself free from Diana. "You're dead!"

"Matt!" Jake, Crow, and Janice all yelled at the same time.

Matt didn't hear them. He waded in and threw a punch directly into Eduardo's stomach, doubling him over. Before he could land another, Jake was grabbed him from behind, pulling him backwards. Celia and Bobby grabbed Eduardo, keeping him from attacking Matt again. But nobody grabbed Miguel. He stepped forward and threw another punch at Matt's face. Matt ducked down and it hit Jake instead, crashing in just above his right cheek with enough force to momentarily daze him. Stars erupted before his eyes and he fell backwards, his grip on Matt releasing. He hit the floor with a thud.

"All right, chili-picker!" Matt yelled. "That's your ass!" He went after Miguel and landed two punches on the side of his face before three security guards grabbed hold of him and pulled him off. Another two grabbed Miguel and dragged him in a separate direction.

"Chinga tu madre, cabron!" Miguel yelled at Matt. "Chinga tu madre!"

"What the fuck does that mean?" Matt yelled back. "You're in fucking America, asshole! Speak fucking English!"

"It means 'fuck your mother'," Celia shouted at him. "You don't want to know what 'cabron' means, cabron!"

"I'll fuckin' kill his ass!" Matt yelled. "Let me go, you fucks!"

They didn't let him go, he was dragged off in one direction and Miguel was dragged off in another. Soon they were out of sight. Several more security guards had arrived by this point and adroitly positioned themselves between Jake — who was just pulling himself to his feet — and Eduardo, who had been released by Celia and Bobby.

"It's cool," Jake said, holding up his hands appeasingly. "I ain't going after anyone."

Eduardo glared at him for a few moments and then finally nodded that he was cool as well. He turned and headed for the door, where a corridor had been cleared to allow them outside and out of sight. Bobby and the rest of the band and their entourage followed after him — all except Celia. She walked over to Jake.

"Are you okay?" she asked him.

"I think so," he said, rubbing his cheek and wincing a little. "It's not the first time Matt's mouth got me punched in the face and it probably won't be the last."

"He's an asshole," she said. "You know that, don't you?"

Jake shrugged. "He does have his moments. Your boyfriend there packs a pretty good punch. Not as good as the NYPD, but respectable."

"He's not my boyfriend," she said forcefully. "He's always had a crush on me but it never went anywhere. Bobby is my boyfriend."

"I see," Jake said. "Maybe you should reconsider your choice. I notice Bobby was the only one who didn't defend your honor."

"He's a lover, not a fighter," she said.

Jake chuckled. "Of course," he said. "Well, it's been nice seeing you again, Celia. Well... not really, but you know what I mean."

"Yeah," she said. "I know what you mean."

"Celia!" barked Bobby. "Get away from that... that man! Come on. They brought our limo out front so we can get out of this madhouse."

"I'm coming!" she yelled back at him. She turned back to Jake. "I'll see you here next year?"

"You bet," he told her. "We'll get rejected together again. It'll be fun."

She smiled and turned away.

"Hey," Jake called after her. She turned. "What does 'cabron' mean anyway?"

"It has many different meanings," she said, "none of them polite. I believe that Miguel was using the one that tells your friend he is an incestuous cuckold who cannot obtain an erection."

"Wow," Jake said. "All that in one word?"

"It's a very versatile insult," she said. "Goodbye, Jake."

"Goodbye, Celia," he said.

She gave him one last smile and then turned away. A moment later she was gone.

Pauline's flight landed at LAX at 7:05 the next morning. Jake — dressed in his dark shades, his hair tucked under a baseball cap — was there to pick her up. He noticed right away that she was toting two large suitcases instead of the normal carry-on.

"What's with the baggage?" he asked her.

"I'll tell you in the car," she said. "Here come some of your fans."

Like usual, the hat and sunglasses routine only kept him from being recognized for a short period of time. Within minutes adoring fans and hostile religious types swarmed him. He signed a few autographs, deflected a few insults, and finally extricated them and led them out to the parking area. Pauline's luggage barely fit into Corvette but somehow they managed it.

"Sorry you didn't win a Grammy," Pauline told him as they pulled out onto the access road. "What happened to your eye?"

He removed his sunglasses and showed her the black and blue shiner Miguel's punch had produced. "It's a good one, isn't it? Not as impressive as the one in Texarkana, but up there."

"What happened?" she asked.

"Oh... you know, the usual," he said. "We got in a fight with La Diferencia after the Grammy Awards."

"You got in a fight with a pop band?" she asked, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Matt did actually. I just got caught in the crossfire. But it's cool now."

"It's cool?" she asked incredulously. "Jake, what the hell happened?"

"It'll be in all the gossip columns this morning if you want to read about it. Let's talk about you for a minute. What's with the luggage? Are you staying awhile?"

"Looks like it," she said. "I was called to a meeting with three of the partners yesterday. They gave me an ultimatum. Either I stop my outside work and go back to devoting all my energy to the firm or I'm fired."

Jake sighed. "And you chose the second option?"

She nodded. "The time came to burn that bridge behind me. Do you think I can stay with you until we work this thing out?"

"Pauline, why don't we stop this?" he said. "You go back to your job, right now, today, and we'll find an entertainment lawyer to represent us in the negotiations."

She shook her head. "You would be violating the agreement we have just by consulting another lawyer. I'm in for the long haul, Jake. Nothing has changed except the time I'll have to devote to you guys."

"But..."

"No buts," she said. "I made my decision and I don't regret it a bit. This will work out and I'll get my reward when it does. Besides, they didn't just kick me out on the street. I got a severance package. Six thousand dollars and benefits paid until June 1. You can't beat that, can you?"

"Employment beats that," he said.

"Not in my eyes, little brother. Now can I stay with you, or what?"

"Yeah," he said. "You can sleep in the office. The couch folds out into a bed."

It was not surprising to find out that National already knew Pauline had moved in with Jake by the time they made it to the negotiation session that morning at nine o'clock. After all, Manny had seen her carry two suitcases into the condo and set them up in the office and Manny was still a pipeline of information. What was surprising, and a little disconcerting as well, was the fact that they also knew why Pauline had moved her stuff in. They scoffed at the explanation that she had taken a leave of absence until the negotiations were complete and told her point-blank that they knew she'd been fired.

"You have very good sources," Pauline replied, keeping her poker face firmly affixed. "But none of that has any bearing on our negotiations. So how about we get down to it?"

They didn't get down to it. Instead, they spent the first four hours arguing back and forth about whether the current contract allowed Pauline to stay in Jake's condo. National claimed that she couldn't, that Jake allowing her to stay overnight in the past had been a technical violation of the rules they'd been graciously willing to overlook but that moving in was absolutely out of the question. Pauline countered by telling them there was nothing in the contract about guests in Jake's condo and therefore, under the law, what was not forbidden was implicitly allowed.

Back and forth they went, sometimes politely, sometimes rudely, never coming close to anything like an agreement on the issue. It was obvious that Frowley and his sharks smelled blood in the water and were hoping to bankrupt the band's lawyer by forcing her to stay in a hotel and burn up her savings. It was Jake who finally managed to break this particular impasse.

"Look," he told Frowley and Casting, "we have already established that my condo is my home. We established that back when your spy tried to take all the shit out, remember? Now since that condo is my home I have the right to invite anyone I want into my home. I have invited my sister there and she will be staying there whether you like it or not."

"She will not!" Frowley said. "If she establishes residence there you'll be in violation of..."

"If you don't like her staying there," Jake interrupted, "then call the cops and try to have her thrown out. When that fails you can try to evict her through the normal legal process. That'll take what? About six months? Assuming that you're even successful? So why don't we take it as a given that she'll be staying there for the next six months and get on with the negotiations in the meantime?"

After only twenty more minutes of discussion they finally decided that what Jake said made sense. They took a short break and then resumed negotiations. As had been the case at every meeting before, they went nowhere.

For the next two weeks they continued to go nowhere even though they increased the meeting days to three times a week instead of two. Ridiculous demands were thrown down on the table by both sides, rejected, and then countered with equally ridiculous demands.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Jake yelled as they entered the National Records building on the last Monday in March. "We are getting nowhere! Eight fucking weeks of this shit and we're still at square one!"

"It takes time," Pauline said for perhaps the thousandth time. "Trust me. We'll get there."

"When?" Jake asked. "Not a goddamn thing has been done yet. You keep putting the same figures on the table and they keep putting the same figures on the table. Why don't you just cut the bullshit and give them a legitimate offer on something? On anything?"

"We can't," she said. "Not until they do it first. That's what all of this is about."

"What?" Jake asked.

"Whoever throws down the first legitimate compromise in the negotiations will be surrendering the initiative."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Matt asked. If Jake's patience was being tried, Matt's was being burned and skinned alive.

"Yes," said Bill. Even he was starting to get a bid edgy about the lack of progress despite the fact that each session kept him in close contact with the woman whose image he most frequently masturbated to. "I fail to see the benefit of sitting in here day after day without advancing our agenda in any way."

"Look, guys," Pauline said. "It's like a staring contest here, okay? National and us are both looking at each other, eyes open, trying to stare each other down. Whoever blinks first is ceding the advantage in the rest of the negotiations. We cannot be the ones to blink first or they'll know we're more desperate than they are."

"And aren't they in there saying the same goddamn thing?" Jake asked.

"Yes they are," she said. "That's what makes the game so interesting. It's corporate law at its finest."

"Blink?" Matt said. "Is that what you want them to do? I'll make 'em fucking blink! I'll throw a goddamn fist in their faces! That oughtta do it!"

"Patience," Pauline said. "Keep playing the game with me and we'll get through this in no time."

"Fucking lawyers," Matt muttered. "All of you should've been outlawed by the constitution back in the beginning."

They went upstairs and spend another day accomplishing nothing. The next session was pretty much the same. But finally, on Friday, April 1, 1985 — April Fools Day — National blinked.

It wasn't much of a blink. Jake, Bill, and Matt didn't even notice it when it happened. It was late in the session, just before they called an end to the day. They returned from a break and Frowley asked for and received the floor.

"On the subject of royalty rate," he said, "National Records is prepared to offer Intemperance the rate of twelve percent."

"Twelve percent?" Pauline said, rolling her eyes upward. "You've offered this before, Frowley, but always in conjunction with wholesale album rate for calculation. As I've told you, this is unacceptable. It's less than they're making now."

"We'll give them twelve percent royalties and keep the calculation rate where it's at, at an assumed retail rate of five dollars per album."

Pauline gave no facial expression. "We'll take that under consideration," she said. "Now about the tour costs. Let's go over that again. We want National to pay one hundred percent of the costs, including band and crew entertainment expenses, and give eighty percent of tour profits to the band."

"That is not a good faith offer," Frowley said. "How many times do we have to go over this?"

They spent the remainder of the day arguing about tour expenses and achieving nothing. When they called an end to the session Pauline kept her game face on until they were in the elevator. At that point she cheered in triumph.

"Yes!" she said. "We did it. We fucking did it!"

"We did what?" Jake asked. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"They ceded the advantage to us," she said.

"They did?" asked Matt. "When did that happen?"

"When they offered us twelve percent royalties at five dollars an album," she said. "They changed their offer! They blinked!"

"Twelve percent royalties ain't shit," Matt said. "Not on a five dollar an album wholesale rate."

"That's not nearly enough to reverse the debt cycle we're in," said Bill.

"Of course it's not," Pauline said, "but that's not the point. They changed the offer! It's still not a good faith offer, of course, but it's more than they were offering before. It's the first chink in their armor. Now we can start prying at it."

"So things will start to move now?" Jake asked.

"That was the hard part," Pauline said. "The rest of the negotiations will practically fly by."

Jake should have known that practically flying by was a relative term that meant something very different to the lawyer mind than it did to the professional musician mind. At the next session Pauline, acting in accordance with an unwritten set of rules that governed such negotiations, countered National's blink with a blink of her own. She allowed that the band would be willing to accept twenty-five percent royalties on going retail album rate plus one dollar. This led to another two sessions of back and forth arguing before National upped their offer to thirteen percent on a four dollar and fifty cent retail rate.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Jake said. "We're back where we started!"

"This does seem entirely counterproductive," Bill agreed.

"Patience," Pauline said. "We're moving forward. Trust me on this."

As it turned out, she was right. The two sides concentrated fully on the royalty rate and the album rate it would be based upon and stopped talking about anything else. The offers went back and forth, slowly but surely closing in towards the middle. Finally, on April 17, 1985, they declared agreement on eighteen percent royalties at going retail rate — which currently stood at eight dollars per album and one dollar per single. After thirty-seven sessions, after 260 hours of negotiation, they had reached their first agreement. Now there were only sixty or seventy other points that needed to be hashed out.

The tedium dragged on, with each new issue starting the whole process anew. Ridiculous offers would be placed on the table by both sides and hours beyond counting would be spent waiting for someone to blink first. As Pauline had told them though, once the precedent was set, most of the time it was National that blinked first. Album production costs and promotion costs, which had been one hundred percent recoupable under the old contract, were slowly whittled down to only fifty percent recoupable. The ten percent breakage fee and the twenty-five percent packaging fee were completely eliminated, though not without a vicious fight.

National absolutely refused to budge, however, on the issues of fifty percent for tour costs and fifty percent for video costs. The band would have to continue paying for half of everything. The band did win some non-monetary concessions on these issues, however. After much bickering and many wasted sessions, they got National to agree to allowing them much greater input in both the tour production and the video production. The way the wording turned out in the end Intemperance would have creative control over both with veto power being reserved by National and by the band itself. So, in other words, if both parties did not agree on the content of a video or how the tours would be presented, either could kill it. On the issue of "entertainment costs" for the band on tour, National would not budge on the one hundred percent recoupable rate. The band finally agreed to this with the stipulation that "entertainment costs" for the crew would be only fifty percent recoupable and "entertainment costs" for National management — namely Greg and his three hundred dollar a day cocaine habit — would be fully paid for by National itself. They reluctantly agreed to this and then moved on to the subject of tour revenue and merchandising revenue, eventually agreeing to share fifty percent of this income with the band.

These were all issues that were agreed to in a relatively timely and civilized manner, which meant that all of this was hammered out by mid-May. From there, they started working on the points that were really sticklers.

The first of these points had to do with endorsements. Throughout the first two albums National had been raking in a considerable amount of endorsement fees by forcing the band to play instruments onstage and in the studio that had been supplied by companies they had contracts with. The band had been given no choice in any of this (with the exception of Matt's stubborn insistence on playing his Strat onstage) and had been given none of the revenue. They wanted to change that. National didn't want this to change. For more than five sessions they went over this particular subject before finally coming to an agreement that the band would play whatever instruments they wished onstage as long as they provided them on their own. They would be free to collect whatever endorsement fees they could garner from whatever company they could garner them from. In the studio, however, National insisted upon retaining their rights to the endorsement fees and choice of instruments. They absolutely refused to give up any of these rights or any of the money. Reluctantly, and after much infighting among themselves, the band agreed to this and it went into the contract.