Chapter 20b

"Jake, will anyone buy an album like that?" she asked. "I mean... realistically, will they? Will the radio stations play songs that don't involve you being accompanied by distorted guitars and heavy drum beats?"

"I make music, Pauline," he told her. "It's what I do and I'm good at it. There might be some kind of backlash from the hard-core Intemperance fans, but I think I'll pick up enough new fans to replace them. There is a precedent for this."

"There is?" she asked.

"Robert Plant," Jake said. "His solo stuff is very different from classic Led Zepplin, yet radio stations play it and fans enjoy it. There's also Sting. His music sounds nothing like the material he used to make with The Police, yet he's one of the most critically acclaimed artists out there — although I will admit that I don't really care for his solo stuff myself."

"Wouldn't you think that they are more the exception than the rule?" Pauline asked. "Look at Phil Collins. He's become even more popular since leaving Genesis and the two styles of music are virtually indistinguishable."

"Actually, Phil Collins is in a completely different category altogether. He's a singer who was destined to be a solo act and, because of happenstance, played in a band first."

"I'm not sure I see the distinction," Pauline said.

"Well, Genesis was a decent enough band — don't get me wrong — but their strong point was always Phil Collins' voice. They didn't have a strong guitarist, their lyrics weren't all that great, and their music was original, but not outstanding. Collins is the force that made Genesis what they became. They weren't shit with Peter Gabriel and they wouldn't be shit now if they tried to replace Collins. Collins is like Sammy Hagar and Ozzy Osborne. They're talented singers and musicians who do their best standing on their own but, in order to get to the point where they could do so, had to be a member of a band first. They are the force that brought the band to where it was and without them, the band is nothing. When Sammy was with Montrose, they rocked, but only because of Sammy's voice. When Ozzy was with Black Sabbath, they rocked, but only because of Ozzy's voice."

"Hmm," Pauline said thoughtfully. "I think I see your point. Don't you think, however, that you fall into that same category?"

"I think I have that potential," Jake said. "If I didn't think that, I wouldn't even try, but I was by no means the primary talent of Intemperance. My singing voice is associated with Matt's guitar, Nerdly's piano, and the hard rock sound we made — a sound that no matter what kind of talent we dig up, is not going to be matched when I go solo. It will only be a hollow imitation like David Lee Roth and Steve Vai. Not only that, I really need to take a little break from that particular sound and do something else."

"You don't want to do hard rock at all anymore?"

"I don't want to do it exclusively," he said. "I like the blues progression sound I've been playing around with — heavy on acoustic guitar and piano with a strong bass beat. It's something I'd like to experiment more with. I also want to try mixing in some violin and some synthesizer accompaniment, maybe even some sax or a full-on horn section."

Pauline did not look awed by his musical ambition. She looked downright nervous and doubtful. "I'm not sure that National or Aristocrat would be happy with that," she said. "I think they're expecting something along the lines of hard rock with heavy distorted guitar and screaming solos."

"They'll get what I give them," Jake said with a shrug. "Isn't that a part of both contract offers? That I maintain artistic license in full?"

"Yes, it would be," she said, "but if you start throwing horns and violins at them — something markedly different from what they were envisioning when they signed you — they might have a credible argument for breach of contract on grounds of misrepresentation."

Jake's eyes narrowed. "I will not have a record company or anyone else dictate what kind of music I make."

"I understand how you feel, Jake," she said. "I know how important your musical freedom and your sense of artistic integrity are to you, but I'm talking reality here, not perfect world. If you want to avoid conflict with your record company — whoever they might be — you're going to have to make at least half of the tunes on your solo album power guitar based hard rock tunes. That's just the way it will have to be. If you do that, you'll have the other half of the album for experimental tunes."

"I'll do my albums my way," Jake said, refusing to give any ground. "I'm not going to pump out five genre-friendly tunes that will be nothing but comparisons to Intemperance and then have my real work buried as deep cuts that are never played on the radio and never pick up new fans. I'm not going to budge on this, Pauline. If the record companies don't like it, they just kiss my hairy ass."

Pauline sighed. She knew her brother well enough to know that he wasn't just posturing. "In that case," she said, "I think it would be a good idea to disclose your musical intentions when we open contract negotiations. It will hurt our bargaining power, perhaps even to the point where we won't be able to come to terms, but at least they won't be able to accuse you of misrepresentation."

"Whatever," Jake said, draining the last of his drink. "Disclosures and misrepresentation and all that other lawyer crap are your department, not mine."

The limo pulled onto Hollywood Boulevard and started working its way through the thick traffic. Pauline glanced ahead for a moment, seeing that the Hollywood Hilton was only three blocks away. She could already see the lighting equipment that had been set up by the media covering the premier. She turned to her brother, who was staring at the ice cubes in his glass.

"Are you okay, Jake?" she asked him gently.

"I'm fine," he said, perhaps a bit more testily than intended. "I just want to make it clear that my music is my music."

"I get that," she said. "You've pretty much driven that point home. What I want to know is if you are okay. I'm a little worried about you."

"About what?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. "Where should I begin?" she said. "Your girlfriend left you less than a year ago and it looks like you still haven't recovered emotionally from that. You've been in a constant battle with Matt over the past eight months. A friend of yours just died — a death that I'm sure you feel at least partially responsible for, despite what you insist — and you weren't allowed to go to the funeral. The band you've been in since 1980 has just broken up under less than pleasant circumstances and you're now free-floating professionally. A man who used to be your best friend — or at least one of your best friends — is now maligning you in the entertainment media and accusing you of murder. Why don't we start with those things?"

Jake shook his head a little and slumped in his seat. He lit another cigarette despite the fact that his last one was still smoldering in the ashtray. "It has been a hell of a year, hasn't it?" he said.

"To say the least," Pauline said.

"I'm handling it though," Jake assured her. "You don't need to worry about me."

"I am worried about you, Jake," Pauline told him. "And with good reason. Take a look at yourself these past four weeks. You're chain-smoking cigarettes to the point that your voice is starting to get raspy. That's your singing voice, Jake! For Christ's sake, do you want to destroy your vocal chords, the anatomical feature that put you where you are today?"

"I'm planning to cut back soon," Jake said. "Just as soon as I..."

"And you've put on weight," Pauline said, interrupting him. "At least ten pounds over this last month."

"Putting on weight?" Jake asked incredulously. "I don't think so."

"You don't think so?" she asked. "You haven't been working out since you came home from the tour. You're eating nothing but high calorie and high fat foods and you're drinking like a fish. You don't really think the dry cleaners shrank your tux do you? Did they also shrink your blue jeans and your shirts?"

With a start, Jake realized that his pants and shirts had been getting a little tight lately — tightness he had blamed on Elsa using too much hot water when she did the laundry. "Uh... well... maybe I have put on a little weight," he was forced to admit. "But I'm going to start hitting the gym again next week."

"Uh huh," Pauline said. "And what about your drinking?"

"What about it?" Jake asked, refusing to meet her eyes as he said so.

"You're drinking a lot, Jake," Pauline said. "Much more than is really healthy for you."

"Has Elsa been talking to you?" Jake asked, angry.

"She doesn't have to," Pauline said. "Don't you think I can tell when you're drunk by listening to you? Whenever I call over to your house now, no matter what time of the day, night, or morning, you're slurring your words and I can hear ice clinking in a glass while you're talking to me. All of your grocery and expense sheets pass through my office before they go to Jill. Don't you think I see how much vodka, whiskey, beer, rum, wine, mixers, and tomato juice you're buying each month? You're spending three grand a month on booze, Jake, and that doesn't even include what you drink when you're out at the club or a social event."

"All right," Jake said, anger flooding through him now. "Enough of this shit."

"Jake..."

"No," Jake said. "Enough of this shit. I'm a big boy now and how much I drink, how much I smoke, and how I spend my money is my business, not yours. You're my sister and I love you, and you're my manager and I respect you on that level, but you're not my mother or my nanny and I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my personal life."

"Jake, I don't want to see you destroy yourself," she said. "You're heading down a road you don't really want to travel."

"What's the matter?" he asked her. "Afraid your meal ticket is gonna stop bringing in the money?"

Pauline recoiled as if struck. Jake was immediately sorry for saying that.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was uncalled for."

"Apology accepted," she said tonelessly. "And I'm sorry I'm nagging at you. I'm doing it out of concern for you, not because I'm afraid you won't make me richer."

"I know," he said, taking a drag off his smoke. "And I can even see where you're coming from... a little. Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm dealing with the shitstorm I've just been through the wrong way. But don't worry. The worst is over now. I'll get my shit together. It's what I do."

"I hope so, Jake," she said. "For your sake, not mine."

The limo pulled up in front of the hotel and Jake and Pauline emerged into a sea of flashbulbs, microphones, and shouted questions. Most of the questions were centered on the recent break-up of Intemperance ("are you really going your separate ways?") or on what exactly Jake was doing here ("did Greg Oldfellow invite you, or are you crashing the party?"). A few asked why Pauline was his date ("no new love interests, Jake?") and a few of the rookie reporters — those who had never been to a press conference regarding one of Intemperance's exploits — actually asked if Pauline was a new love interest ("who is the woman with you, Jake? Ma'am, can you identify yourself for the record?")

They both ignored the reporters and made their way to the VIP entrance where Jake showed his engraved invitation and was allowed entry. They were led to a grandly decorated ballroom complete with a live orchestra, two open bars, and half a dozen hors d'oeuvre tables. Scantily clad servers circulated with trays of champagne. The men were all dressed in black ties and the women in formal gowns. Jake recognized most of the attendees as actors, actresses, producers, and directors. As far as he could see, he was the only musician in the room — besides Celia that is. He immediately began to feel out of place and to wonder if coming here had maybe been a mistake.

That feeling was compounded by a factor of ten when he neared the front of the receiving line and saw Mindy Snow standing next to Greg, Celia, and Michael Stinson — Greg's best man at his wedding.

"Holy shit," Jake muttered, just loud enough that Pauline was the only one to hear him. "What the hell is she doing here?"

"It seems that someone invited her," Pauline said. "Is this going to be awkward?"

"I hope not," he said.

Jake hadn't seen or talked to Mindy since the night she'd attended the first concert of the Lines On The Map tour in LA with her now-ex husband — the man who had tried, and failed miserably, at exacting his revenge upon Jake the night of the Grammy Awards. Nor had Jake had any desire to see or talk to her after finding out that their entire clandestine relationship had not been so clandestine after all and, in fact, had been nothing but a farce designed to blackmail her husband into disregarding their prenuptial agreement when she divorced him.

Mindy was wearing a cranberry red, low-cut gown that did an admirable job of displaying her breasts and that was just this side of the border between what was considered acceptable attire for such an occasion and what was considered slutty. She was smiling and chatting with Stinson, obviously flirting her cute little ass off, and she hardly gave Jake a glance as he stepped forward with Pauline on his arm.