Chapter 4: Descent Into Nothing

Los Angeles, California
July 6, 1982

Jake sat on a wooden chair with special padding on the legs to prevent it from making noise if it were accidentally moved across the tile floor. On his head were a set of high fidelity headphones known as cans, through which the sound techs could talk to him and through which the music he would be singing to would be piped. The room itself was fifteen feet square and completely sound insulated. Hanging from the ceiling by an adjustable bracket, directly in front of Jake's face, was a padded voice microphone that was wired into a socket in the ceiling. There was a window in the wall through which a large soundboard and two sound technicians could be seen.

"Okay, Jake," said a voice in the cans. This was Stan Lowry, the voice tech who was coaching him through this portion of the recording process. "We're cued up in here. Let's do it again. Remember, two inches from the foam, nice even timbre, and watch the lip popping."

Jake nodded and gave a thumbs up. By now, he knew not to talk back to them.

"The Point of Futility," Stan's voice said. "First verse, take twelve."

The music began to play in the headset, the gentle, melodic fingerpicking of an acoustic guitar with a piano in accompaniment. These were the tracks of the song they'd recorded over the last three weeks, mixed together but not finalized onto the master just yet. The song did not start from the beginning. Jake was given just enough lead to plug himself into the song. He took a deep breath as his cue approached, making a check to see that his mouth was exactly two inches from the microphone, licking his lips a final a time to try to keep them from popping. The cue arrived-a long, mournful bending of the A string of Matt's guitar-and he began to sing, trying to project his voice perfectly.

"There comes a time when it's over
When souls have gone their own ways
When the things that brought you together
Now drive you apart, day after day

And you know that it's over
You've felt it go, there's been no mistake
It's the end of together
No more give, no more take"

"Hold up, Jake," Stan's voice cut in, overriding the music tracks. A second later they were turned off completely.

Jake sighed. After three and a half months of recording sessions, he was quite familiar with being interrupted like this. It meant something had fallen outside of parameters. Every strum of every guitar, ever tick of every drumstick across every cymbal, every piano key, and, especially, every nuance of the lead vocal track, needed to be just right before it was considered a good take. And "just right" was a stringent specification in this place. The sound techs in charge of capturing Intemperance on tape were the most anal retentive perfectionists Jake had ever met. Nothing the band had experienced while making the demo tape had prepared them for this constant litany of rejection of their efforts. Let's try that one more time, had become the most often heard and most hated phrase.

"A little too much on 'it's the end of together'," Stan said. "You red-lined the meter in the high end as you drew out 'together'. Try to keep that just under range or it might distort on the master."

Jake nodded.

"Okay then, let's try that one more time. The Point of Futility, first verse, take thirteen."

The music started and once more, Jake began to sing. This time he only made it through twelve syllables before Stan stopped him.

Eventually, on take twenty-three, Jake managed to croak out the entire first verse of the song without red-lining the meter or hesitating for a hundredth of a second or inhaling at the wrong time or not keeping exactly up with the timing. So far, after having recorded seven of the ten songs that would be on the album, this was about the average amount for vocal takes.

"Why don't we go ahead and break for lunch, Jake," Stan told him. "We'll start working on the second verse when you get back."

Jake looked at his watch. It was only 11:25. He looked at Stan through the window, pointed at his watch, and shrugged questioningly-his message: why don't we work on the second verse now? At least that way they could get the first six takes out of the way.

"I know its early," Stan said, "but I want to mess around with the cueing tracks just a bit and Max is here and wants to see you."

Jake nodded and took off the cans, setting them carefully down on the chair. He went to the door and opened it, stepping out into the technician's room. There, by the door that led out into the hall, stood Max Acardio, the representative for National Records' artist and repertoire (A&R) department who had been assigned to work with Intemperance. Max was in his early thirties. He was a tall, artificially handsome guy with an expensive and well-fitted toupee atop his head. His teeth were capped and so white they could potentially cause blindness. And he showed those teeth a lot. Max was always grinning and smiling. He was dressed in his normal attire of a stylish but slightly loud Italian suit and a short, skinny tie. The grin widened to the point of alarm when he saw Jake emerge from the sound room.

"Jake," he said, holding out his hand. "How the hell you doing today? You sounded great in there. Just great. I can't wait until we get this project in release."

"Hey, Max," Jake replied, shaking with him and then submitting to the one armed hug that Max employed if it had been more than forty-eight hours since he'd seen you last.

"How you holdin' up in there, Jake?" Max asked him. "They tell me you're doing good and that production is on time and under budget."

"It gets a little tedious at times, but I'm hanging in there," Jake told him.

"Good, good," Max replied, obviously not having even heard what Jake had just said. "I have some good news for you."

"What's that?"

"I was just up in the Arts department. They've finished the album cover. You want to come see it? I have it up in my office."

"Sure," Jake said. "I'd love to see it. What about the rest of the guys?"

"Matt's in studio B re-doing some guitar tracks for Who Needs Love?, Bill is going over some of the mixes in the sound room, and Darren and Coop are setting up their equipment in the red room for the next song."

"Oh, okay," Jake said with a shrug. All of that was pretty typical. "Let's go check it out then."

The recording studio was located in the basement of the thirty-story National Records Building-a glittery, gaudy skyscraper on the edge of Hollywood. They rode the rickety, cramped elevator up to the eighteenth floor. Max's office was on the north side of the building, overlooking the squalor of Hollywood Boulevard and the tenement apartments beyond it. Max's desk stood against the outside window, presumably so he didn't have to actually look out there. He sat down in his chair and invited Jake to sit in a smaller chair across from him.

"Here it is," he said, pulling an album cover out from beneath his desk. He handed it over to Jake. "What do you think?"

Jake looked at it with mixed emotions. On the front of it was the scene that Acardio and Rick Bailey from the Artist Development Department had come up with. It was a picture of a hotel room with empty beer and liquor bottles laying everywhere, lamps knocked over, even the television set lying broken and battered on the floor. There were several sets of women's panties crumpled about with the rest of the debris as well as a small mirror with dusty residue clearly visible on it (though the mirror itself was something it took a few viewings to notice). Lying face down on the bed was a man that could have been Jake but was actually a model that resembled him. The man was naked but had his bare ass covered with the twisted sheets from the bed. He was presumably passed out, his left arm curled around an almost-empty whiskey bottle, his right resting on the bare back of an attractive female model, who was equally passed out and who also had her forbidden parts strategically covered by the placement of the sheet. On the top of the picture, in large, uneven pink letters that appeared to have been written with lipstick in a drunken hand, was: Intemperance. Beneath this, in smaller letters but still in the lipstick writing, was the name of the album: Descent Into Nothing.

Acardio and Bailey had discussed this album cover with the band but that had only been a courtesy. They didn't care what the band thought about it (Darren, Coop, and Matt all liked the idea, Bill and Jake hated it). As the band had come to learn since entering into the recording contract, the album belonged to National Records. Period. They would produce it, promote it, sell it, and package it any way they wished.

"It goes along with the image we're going to be pushing for you guys," Bailey had told them when they'd first discussed the album cover.

"The image?" Jake had asked.

"Right. Every band has to have an image. It's part of what sells you to the fans. In your case, your image is reflected in your very name. Intemperance. A lack of temperance. Temperance means sobriety, control, clean living. You boys are going to represent and portray yourselves as the very opposite of all that."

"Shit," Matt had scoffed. "That shouldn't be too fuckin' hard. Why the hell do you think I named the band that?"

"Exactly," Bailey said. "And I want you to live up to that image-all of you. When you go out on the road to promote this album, I want you to party hard, to develop a reputation as total pagans, as ambassadors of debauchery. I want to hear stories circulating about drug and sex orgies from you. I want you to be notorious. As your publicity manager, I will do everything I can to get these stories into print. The more they print about you living up to the Intemperance name, the more popular you'll be and the more albums we'll sell."

"Shouldn't our music sell itself?" Jake had asked at this point. "I mean, we're a good band. People will want to hear our music because its good music, right?"

"Well... having your music actually be good is a bonus," Bailey allowed. "And the promotion department will make sure your tunes are played on the radio nationwide, but trust me on this, your image will sell more albums than your music. That's always been true and always will be. Look at Ozzy Osbourne. The best thing he ever did for his career was biting the head off that bat."

"But Ozzy makes good music," Jake had protested. "He has a good voice, good lyrics, and he had one of the best guitar players in the world."

"Until that little aircraft incident," Matt had said solemnly, actually genuflecting as the memory was invoked. Matt had taken the death of Randy Rhodes four months before very hard. Part of it had been his worship of Ozzy's guitar player-who really was one of the best in the business. A bigger part, however, had undoubtedly been the circumstances of the death. Rhodes had been in an aircraft that their tour bus driver had stolen from a hanger to joyride in. They buzzed the tour bus a couple of times and then the plane had struck it, spinning it into a house. All inside had been smashed to pieces and burned beyond recognition. None of the news stories said so, but Jake was pretty sure that alcohol and/or cocaine had been involved. After all, how fucked up do you have to be before riding in a small plane with an unlicensed tour bus driver starts to seem like a good idea? The problem with Matt was that he could clearly see himself doing exactly what Randy Rhodes had done. If he were drunk enough and someone suggested buzzing the tour bus with a stolen plane, Matt would be the first aboard.

"Yes, yes," Bailey had said, waving his hands at what he saw as the irrelevancy of it all. "Ozzy and Rhodes were good. I'm not saying they weren't. But my point is, that they didn't have to be. With Ozzy's reputation being what it is-the bat biting, the urination on the Alamo-people would buy his albums even if they sucked. It's his image they're in love with, not his music."

Jake, who was a music consumer as well as a musician, didn't agree with this image over quality argument. He didn't agree with it at all. He bought Ozzy Osbourne albums because he liked the music, not because Ozzy had once took a piss on the Alamo or bitten the head off a bat. But the National Records executives all believed that image was the important thing. This was especially true now that MTV was up and running and gaining popularity across the country. Shaver had told once told Jake-over a few lines of his infamous Bolivian flake-that he, Shaver, was concerned about this new trend towards image and looks. For the first time in music history, the A&R departments were starting to worry about what musicians looked like on camera instead of merely what they sounded like.

"Well?" Acardio asked when Jake had looked at the front cover art for almost thirty seconds.

"It's uh... very good photography," he finally said.

"I thought so too," Acardio told him. "We really do have the best graphic arts department here at National."

Jake flipped the album cover over to look at the back. Here, taking up the upper half of the space, was a group photograph of the band. Darren and Coop were sitting cross-legged in the foreground. Standing behind them were Matt, Bill, and Jake. All were dressed in their standard uniform of tattered and torn jeans and T-shirts. Matt was wearing dark shades. Jake had a two-day growth of stubble. Coop was holding a set of drumsticks in his hand. Darren had a cigarette in his mouth. None of them were smiling. The picture looked very natural, almost candid. It wasn't. Prior to the shoot, make-up artists had carefully applied coloring to their face, hair-stylists had gone to work on their manes, and wardrobe specialists had picked out their clothing. It had taken the better part of six hours to get the shot taken.

Below the picture was a listing of the band members and their roles. Darren Appleman-bass guitar, vocals; John "Coop" Cooper-percussion, vocals; Matt Tisdale-lead guitar, vocals; Bill "Nerdly" Archer-Piano, vocals; and finally, listed last due to his position in the picture, Jake Kingsley-lead vocals, rhythm guitar, acoustic guitar.

"I still think you boys should have listened to us about the name changes," Acardio said sadly. "Having stylish names helps with the band image. Look what it's doing for U2."

Jake bit back several nasty replies and simply shrugged. Jake and Matt had both gone around and around with Acardio, Bailey, and even Shaver on the subject of their names. Acardio was of the opinion that calling Coop Coop and calling Bill Nerdly was very hip, and that no one gave enough of a shit about bassists to have to change Darren Appleman's handle, but that the names Matt Tisdale and Jake Kingsley were just not interesting enough.

"It's what we do here in Hollywood," Bailey-who was the driving force behind the name-change effort-told them. "Why live with a plain name when you can change it to something that reflects your style and your outlook?" He'd looked at Matt, pursing his lips and thinking. "How about Rajin Storm?" he'd asked. "That's a good name for a guitarist of your caliber."

"Raging Storm?" Matt had asked, his eyes wide. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"Not Raging Storm," Bailey had said. "Rajin Storm!" He'd then spelled it out, as if that would change Matt's mind. "And you," he'd turned to Jake while Matt was still trying to process Rajin Storm. "I think something like... oh... say JD King."

"JD King?" Jake had repeated.

"Right," Bailey said. "King is a simple name with powerful connotations. Invokes images of Elvis and shit like that. And JD is short, sweet, manly, and the fans will speculate endlessly on what it actually stands for. It's also an abbreviation for a popular alcoholic beverage." He looked up at the ceiling as an inspiration assaulted him. "Shit, maybe we can even get the Jack Daniels people to sign some sort of endorsement deal with you. We can say that your parents named you after their favorite booze and introduced you to drinking it at a young age. We can have you drink JD on stage! Holy shit, this is great. Eventually we can have them sponsor a tour and then..."

"Wait a minute," Jake said, holding up his hand. He was still calm but it was an effort. "You're suggesting that I lie and tell the public that my parents named me after a brand of whiskey? That they used to give me whiskey when I was young?"

"It's nothing against your parents, Jake. This is show business. You give the people what they want to hear."

Jake was shaking his head. "I refuse to dishonor my parents-who were goddamn good parents I might add-just so you can shape my image to your liking."

"Okay, okay," Bailey said, rolling his eyes a little at the naiveté of this young punk. "We'll keep the parents thing out of it. We'll say that..."

"We'll say that my name is Jake Kingsley," Jake said. "That's what we'll say. It may not be the most image-enhancing name in the world, but it's the one I was given, the one I like, the one I'm proud of, and I'm going to keep it."

"Fuckin-A," Matt put in. "I'm Matt Goddamn Tisdale and that ain't gonna change either. That's what Heritage knows me as, and that's what I'm gonna play under." He shook his head in disgust. "Rajin fuckin Storm. Holy shit, Bailey. What fuckin' world do you live in?"

This had of course pissed Bailey off and caused him to complain to both the National Records higher-ups and their agent, Shaver. It was implied that they were putting their entire recording contract in jeopardy by not going along with the name changes but they held firm. By that point in the process, the album was already in production and neither Jake nor Matt thought they would cancel the whole thing over a Rajin Storm and a JD King. They were right. Though the pressure remained for the next few weeks, eventually Bailey and Acardio accepted that their artists were serious about keeping their Christian names for publicity and dropped the subject. Acardio's dig was the first time the subject had been mentioned in weeks.

Jake didn't take the bait. Instead he pointed to the portion of the cover below the picture and below the track listings. It was the part labeled: Special thanks to: He knew that he had never been asked who he would like to thank. He was pretty sure none of the other band members had been asked either.

"Who are all these people we're thanking?" Jake asked.

"Oh, the usual stuff," Acardio said. "Our production specialists, our technicians, our sound guys. They're all working hard on this project. Don't you want to thank them?"

"Sure," Jake said. "They are a good bunch. But what about these other people? What about these companies?" He let his finger trail down the list. "Brogan Guitars? Lexington Drums? Caldwell Pianos?"

"They're the people who supplied you with the instruments you play for the recording. You know that." And Jake did. The first thing they had been told when they'd come for the orientation session prior to starting the recording was that the battered old Les Paul Jake played and that the scratched and beaten Strat Matt played simply wouldn't due for recording quality play. Jake was given a brand new Brogan six string and a brand new Brogan mahogany finish electric/acoustic. Matt was given a top-of-the-line Brogan Battle-Axe guitar that he detested. Darren, who had already played a Brogan bass guitar was given nothing-apparently his scratched and battered bass was good enough. Coop's entire drum set had been replaced by a Lexington twenty-five piece set with the band's name on the dual bass drums. And Bill had been given both an electric piano and an actual acoustic grand piano from Caldwell.

"So this is an endorsement thing?" Jake said. "Is that why you insisted we play those instruments?"

"No," Acardio scoffed. "Not at all. We've simply found over the years that those particular instruments sound better when recorded. It's nothing more sinister than that."

"But you're getting money from these people to mention these instruments on your album covers, aren't you?"

"Well... yes, but I assure you, that has nothing to do with why we pick those instruments. We pretty much figure that since we're using them anyway, why not pick up a few endorsement fees for the effort? And since we do have an endorsement contract of sorts, it means we get to supply you with those instruments for free. Isn't that nice? The cost of your guitars and that drum set is not included in the recoupable costs portion of your contract."

"Uh huh," Jake said sourly. He didn't want to get into the old recoupable costs argument again. That was a very sore subject for him and the rest of the band. He slid the album cover back across the desk. "Very nice, Max. Thanks for showing it to me." He started to stand.

"Uh... before you go, Jake, there is one thing I need to talk to you about."

Jake sat back down, wondering what it was this time. "Sure," he said. "What's up?"

Acardio gave an apologetic smile. "Well, it's about the outside work clause in your contract. I assume you remember the terms of that."

"Yeah," Jake said bitterly. "I remember the terms of it."

The outside work clause he was referring to was a portion of their contract that stated the band Intemperance and its individual members were forbidden from performing musically for anyone other than the record label without specific permission. And the label routinely denied such specific permission, as had been the case when Jake and Matt had asked Shaver to try to get them a few gigs down in the L.A. area so they could pick up a few bucks to help supplement the meager advance money they'd been given. Shaver had told them that the label would probably not give permission for such a thing and, of course, he was right.

"Nobody sees you in concert until we get this album finished and get you out on tour," had been Acardio's response to the request. He had not explained himself any further than this, nor was he required to.

"What's the problem with the outside work clause now?" Jake asked. "We haven't been doing any gigs. You should know that."

"Well," Acardio said, "I have some information to the contrary, Jake."

Jake raised his eyebrows up. "Someone told you that we have a gig somewhere?"

"Not the whole band, just you."

"Me?" Jake asked. "Someone told you I have a gig by myself."

"Had, not have," Acardio said. "I'm told that you engaged in a live musical performance yesterday evening before a crowd. Is that true?"

Jake's eyes widened. "Last night? Are you talking about the parking lot party we had after work? Is that what you're talking about?"

Since they were not able to work as musicians during the recording process, and since their advance money was hardly enough to live on, everyone but Matt (whose parents send him generous allowance checks each week) had been forced to get night jobs to survive. Jake's night job was as a minimum wage dishwasher at The Main Course-a trendy yuppie eatery in downtown L.A. He worked from 7 PM to closing Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, and 5 PM to closing Saturday and Sunday. On Wednesday nights he and a few of the other staff members were in the habit of gathering in the back parking lot after closing to drink beer and smoke a little weed if someone had some. Last night Jake had happened to have his old acoustic in the car and had put on an impromptu performance for his friends. It had been a good time. He wowed them with his voice and his guitar skills, performing before a group for the first time since their last gig at D Street West all those months ago. Performance was like a drug and being able to play his guitar and sing, to have people appreciate his gift, had given him a badly needed fix. That couldn't seriously be what Acardio was talking about, could it?

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," Acardio confirmed. "You were in violation of your contract, Jake. This is a very serious matter."

"Max, I was playing my guitar for a couple of work friends. I hardly think that qualifies as a gig."

"You were performing live before an audience," Acardio said.

"There were like eight people there," Jake said, exasperated. "We were drinking beer. It's not like I was charging them money."

"Nevertheless, that constitutes an audience. I'm also told that you performed copywrited material from other musical acts. That's even more serious. You don't have permission to sing Led Zepplin songs live. They're not even on our label. Do you have any idea what sort of trouble we would be in if it came to light that one of our musicians was performing another label's songs without permission? I shudder to think of what would happen."

"Max, this was not a concert!" Jake almost yelled. "I sang Stairway to Heaven because one of the waitresses liked the song! I was trying to get laid, for God's sake!" Something else occurred to him. "Wait a minute. How do you know that I was singing out in the parking lot last night? How do you know what fucking songs I was singing?"

"I see no reason to swear at me," Acardio told him. "And how I know is irrelevant. The fact is that you performed live before an audience last night in violation of the terms of your contract. Now, we're not going to fine you this time, but if something like this happens again I will be forced to penalize you monetarily by adding a five thousand dollar fine to your recoupable expenses. Do you understand?"

"You have a spy in the restaurant," Jake said in wonder, ignoring his question. "A fucking spy! That's why you recommended that job to me. That's why they hired me so quickly. They're on your goddamn payroll, aren't they?"

"The manager and I do have a certain arrangement," Acardio confirmed. "And he does have a network of people on his staff who keep him informed about the activities of certain people. But that's neither here nor there. What I want to know from you, Jake, is if you understand that you are not to do this again and what the consequences are if you do?"

Jake took a deep breath, resisting the urge to clench his fists, to yell further. After all, it would be pointless. "I understand," he said.

"Very good," Acardio told him. "I'm glad we were able to clear this up. You may leave now."

Jake left, heading to the cafeteria where he would eat the bologna sandwich he'd made for himself. His anger and frustration followed him down.

As they had been back in Heritage, Jake and Bill were roommates in Los Angeles as well, and for the same reason. They needed to split their living expenses in order to survive. Their apartment in L.A. cost almost one hundred dollars a month more than their apartment in Heritage had. And calling it a dump would have been giving it more credit than it was due.

It was in a squalid post-war era tenement building off Hollywood Boulevard, just two miles from the National Records building, but in a completely different world just the same. The complex was home to parolees and registered sex-offenders, to off-duty hookers and failed actors. It was the kind of place where nickel bags of marijuana were offered for sale to passing motorists out in front, where people sat on the stairs at all hours of the day and night drinking forty-ounce cans of malt liquor and smoking generic cigarettes. The sound of police helicopters hovering overhead and the sound of gunshots in the night were so frequently heard that they were rarely commented on. It was a complex that the LAPD visited at least three times in any given day, breaking up domestic disputes and handling overdose calls.

Their apartment was on the third floor of this building, tucked away in the rear. It was a two-bedroom and consisted of 642 square feet of living space. The carpet was a threadbare shit brown that radiated the faint odor of cat urine no matter how much they cleaned it. The bathroom featured a cracked and leaky toilet, a bathtub that was unusable because of the rust and mildew spots, and a showerhead that produced a pathetic trickle of lukewarm water at best. When Jake and Bill entered it after their recording session that day, it was stifling hot. There was, of course, nothing that resembled air conditioning available for their comfort.

"Damn, I hate this place," Jake said. "Let's get the fans turned on."

"Right," Bill agreed, setting down the twelve-pack of beer they'd purchased on the way home.

They opened all the windows and turned on all three of the fans they'd begged or borrowed when they'd moved here. That at least got the hot, sticky air circulating a bit and allowed fresh smog to be blown in from outside. They each grabbed a beer from the twelver and sat on their couch, which was pretty much the only piece of actual furniture they possessed.

"I hate L.A.," Jake said, taking a drink. "If we make it big with this recording deal I'm going to live anywhere but here. Hell, I'm not even going to come to this part of the state if I don't have to."