Chapter 21c

Jake let out a sigh. He took a moment to be honest with himself, as requested, and understood that there was a certain sort of validity to what Pauline was saying. He was living recklessly, without much regard for his life. He was drinking far too much, smoking far too much. He was driving a 1600cc Harley on a winding road while in a state of blackout and gross intoxication. Was Pauline right? Was he, on some subconscious level, actually trying to end it all?

"Look," he said. "I didn't say that was what I was going to do. I just said it was an option."

"It's a bad option," Pauline told him. "If you liquidate everything and stay here, you'll be dead — one way or another — before five years goes by. Don't even try to say you don't believe that."

Jake didn't try to say that. He suspected she was entirely correct.

"And National would like nothing better than for you to meet an untimely demise if you're not going to make another album for them. They'd absolutely love it. They would re-release all of your albums in some special memorial edition. They would dig up every scrap of video in their possession and put it on tape and sell it as a Jake Kingsley tribute. And they would put together every un-released song you have recorded and release them as singles one by one. And once they'd done all that, they'd combine all the singles into another album, put on some of your unreleased live tracks, and release those as well. You would provide them with six or seven years of seven figure income at the cost of pennies on the dollar in production expenses. It would be a goddamn goldmine for them."

This proclamation actually got to Jake. She was right. National's executive would like nothing better than a nasty, well-publicized Jake Kingsley death. They would cheer and high-five each other in the boardroom when they heard about it. And then Doolittle would appear at a press conference later that same day, fake tears in his eyes, while he choked out how devastated everyone was. And before his funeral was even in the planning stages there would be high-level meetings about the best way to profit on his death.

So vivid was this flash of insight that Jake actually shuddered, a slight sweat breaking out on his brow.

"Is that what you want, Jake?" Pauline asked softly. "Do you want to devastate Mom and Dad in their retirement? Do you want to die without ever having a wife or a family? An heir to possibly carry on your legacy? Do you want to let those greedy pricks at National clean up on you?"

"No," he said softly, his eyes cast downward. "That's not what I want."

"Well all right then," she said, nodding in satisfaction. "I'm glad to hear you say that. Now let's talk about what you're going to do about it."

"That's kind of where it falls apart," Jake said. "What is there to do? Nothing has changed, has it?"

"Crow and Doolittle have both asked me to tell you that their offer is still on the table."

"The offer I rejected," Jake said. "The one where they get to dictate what sort of music I put on the album and the manner in which it's promoted."

"It's not that bad of an offer, Jake," Pauline told him for perhaps the one hundredth time since the offer was first advanced to him. "You retain absolute creative control over half the tracks on the album. That means you can put in five of whatever songs you want."

"Yes," Jake said. "But it means they hold veto power over the other five songs and they reject and reject under threat of breach of contract until I give them exactly the sort of crap they're after."

"Crow says they won't use their veto power lightly," Pauline said. "They're open to your new material. They just want to make sure there are at least four commercially viable tunes on each album."

"Exactly," Jake said. "They want Intemperance sound-alike tunes and I refuse to do that. We've been over this."

"I know we've been over this," Pauline said. "And I know how you feel — believe me, I know. But, Jake... don't you think it's time to compromise on this?"

"No," he said firmly. "I will not compromise on this."

"But you just said..."

"Never mind what I just said," Jake interrupted. "That is irrelevant to what we're talking about now. I will not agree to National's terms. I will not sign a contract that will force me to perform made-to-order songs in which the only selling point is that they kind of sound like new Intemperance material. Especially not when the record company holds the promotional reins and can promote only the songs they think will sell, leaving my real work buried in the deep cuts."

"Jake, I think you're reading too much into this thing," Pauline said.

"And I know that I am not," Jake countered. "You can call me a drunk if you want, Pauline. You can say I'm borderline suicidal. You could even say that I'm a little fucked up in the head at this particular juncture in my life. I won't disagree with any of that. But don't think, even for a moment, that I don't know exactly how my future will pan out if I go down the path you're trying to push me down."

"Jake..."

"No!" he said. "My mind will not change on this! If I cave in and accept the terms of the contract National is offering, this is what will happen: The first album will sell like wildfire and make lots of money for everyone involved. But it will be a farce. The radio stations will overplay the three or four acceptable songs until people are sick to death of them and my real work will be unheard by anyone except those rare people who buy the album and make a point of listening to all the tracks instead of the just the airplay tunes. And then, when I make the second album, it won't sell as much and the new radio-friendly, Intemperance sound-alike tunes won't get as much airplay because people will start to see them for the phony pieces of shit they are. The album will get bad reviews and might even bomb. If National even backs a third album, it will bomb even worse. Five years from now I'll be nothing but the has-been rocker who used to play for Intemperance, the singer who couldn't keep up with the times and is now lost in obscurity. By the year 2000, very few people will even know who I am anymore."

"That might be true, Jake," Pauline said. "I'm not saying it is, but I can at least visualize that as a possibility. But even if it is... isn't putting out another hit album better than doing nothing? If you stay out here in New Zealand, hiding from the world, you'll still fade into obscurity, won't you?"

"I might," he acknowledged. "But at least I won't go there as a sell-out. At least when people do remember me, it will be for the work I did with Intemperance and not for the crap I put out after we broke up. I'm sorry, but if I'm going to make any more music, I'm going to make it my way."

Pauline shook her head in frustration. "Christ," she said. "I can't believe I traveled halfway around the world to have this conversation. I could've just stayed home and had the same talk with Celia."

Jake perked up a little at the mention of Celia. When he'd left the United States, she had been in an even worse situation than Jake. The only recording contract she was being offered was one in which the label maintained complete and total control over the music she would perform and which had strict guidelines on her weight and other physical attractiveness attributes. In short, the contract was designed to turn her into a brainless pop-music sex symbol that they could exploit for an album or two and then toss aside.

"Still no headway on getting Celia recorded, huh?" Jake asked.

"No, although in her case, I can't say I blame her much. They're basically trying to get her to sign up for indentured servitude."

"How's she doing?" Jake asked.

Pauline looked up at him, getting confirmation of something she'd long suspected in Jake's eyes. "She's kind of in a funk these days," she told him. "Her and Greg both. After that whole Northern Jungle fiasco, nobody is offering Greg any roles — not even as a supporting actor — except for one director who was planning on making a series of comedy movies spoofing action-adventure flicks. And he's only offering him a few million dollars a film for the privilege of being typecast for life. Greg turned him down, by the way. And Celia, well, she's starting to think that she's never going to be recorded again. It's hard to comfort her when I'm about three-quarters convinced she's right. Those last two La Diferencia albums really did a number on her reputation."

"That's just not right," Jake said, shaking his head at the injustice of it all. "Celia is an incredibly talented musician and songwriter and she has one of the most beautiful contralto voices there ever was. She shouldn't be silenced."

Pauline shrugged, showing a little of her own frustration with Celia's plight. After all, she was Celia's manager and, so far, there was nothing to manage. She had not made so much as a penny off of her yet and probably never would. "I'm with you on that one, bro," she told Jake. "But really, what can she do? No one is willing to let her go into a studio and crank out ten tunes of her own making. They won't even listen to a demo tape from her."

"Christ," Jake said. "I need a drink." He got up and pulled a bottle of wine from his day to day storage rack just inside the kitchen. Without even looking to see what it was — other than noting it was something red — he grabbed a corkscrew and had it open in less than twenty seconds. He carried it back to the table and poured his glass full.

"Anyone else?" he asked.

"None for me, thanks," Jill said with a yawn. "I really don't think I can stay awake much longer."

"Me either," said Pauline. "I know it's still a little early, but I'm gonna go hit the rack, if that's okay."

"Sure," Jake said, partially disappointed that he wouldn't have any more company this evening, partially glad that he wouldn't have any more company this evening. "You should be able to sleep through until tomorrow if you work at it."

"I feel like I can sleep through tomorrow as well," Pauline told him.

"Me too," agreed Jill.

Jake promised the ladies that he would make them breakfast in the morning. They thanked him for his hospitality and apologized for their fatigue.

"Think about what we talked about, Jake," Pauline advised him as she headed up the stairs. "There has to be some way you can agree to make more music."

"I'll think about it," he promised.

Pauline and Jill went off to bed. Jake smoked another cigarette and then cleaned up the kitchen and the dining room, putting the dishes in the dishwasher, wiping down all the cabinets, and sweeping the floor. While he was performing these tasks he turned on the small transistor radio in the kitchen, tuning it to a Christchurch station that specialized in playing American music — a genre that was very popular in New Zealand.

There was no particular format to the American music other than it was from America. They played country, rock, pop, teeny bob, and even rap. As Jake was rinsing the dishes they played Lines On The Map, the title cut from the last Intemperance album and the last radio airplay tune to be released as a single. Jake sighed a little as he heard it. Lines really was a pretty good tune, an example of what he was capable of when unfettered with record company concerns. Jake listened to the lyrics with pride, envisioning, as he always did when hearing one of his tunes, some nameless, faceless, intelligent listener somewhere in the local audience comprehending the meaning of the tune for the first time — getting what Jake had been saying when he'd written it.

Will I never have that feeling again? Have I reached the end of my musical legacy just because of those short-sighted, money grubbing bastards?

Lines On The Map faded to black and the station cut to commercial. Jake tried to clear his mind as advertisements for South Christchurch Nissan, Steinlager Beer, and the upcoming episode of Cheers on Channel Eight played in the background. He was mostly successful in this endeavor as he focused on a good way to "think about what we talked about" when his work was done.

When he finished up, he turned off the radio in the middle of Phil Collins' Another Day In Paradise — a crappy tribute to the homeless that had taken a Grammy at the last awards ceremony, undoubtedly because the plight of the "homeless" was the hot ticket item of the last few years.

"Phil, you're such a fuckin' sell-out," Jake muttered as he walked to his bedroom. "And to think, I used to actually respect you as a lyricist."

Another Day In Paradise was a perfect example of the kind of campy, hypocritical bullshit songs that Jake was trying to avoid being forced to produce. How people bought into that feel-good shit! A millionaire musician who travels on the Concorde and owns several mansions in various parts of the world pens a tune about how middle class music consumers who live paycheck to paycheck should feel guilty because they turn the other way when confronted with some alcoholic loser and they hand him a goddamn Grammy.

"Not me," Jake muttered as he stripped off his clothes and put them in the hamper. "I should write a song called Get A Fucking Job, Loser."

Jake pulled a royal red robe out of his closet and put it on. He then opened the safe on the top shelf of the closet and pulled out a small bag of marijuana and a pack of rolling papers. He walked over to his telephone desk and went about the task of rolling a small joint from his stash.

He was out of practice and it took him a few tries. Though his alcohol consumption had gone up since arriving in New Zealand, his marijuana consumption had gone down almost to nothing. The baggie he held was more than two months old. It was Indonesian Red, which was readily available down on the docks in Lyttelton and was about the best marijuana available in New Zealand (the domestic stuff, though more plentiful, cheaper, and easier to find, was also not as good). He had bought it from a friend of Elizabeth's, mostly because he was accustomed to having pot in the house. So far, however, he had only smoked any of it twice. Tonight, however, seemed like a good night to imbibe. After all, he'd been instructed to think about something. And the best way he'd found to think about something very deeply was to get stoned first and let the mind focus all of its energies on the subject at hand.

He went out onto his deck, taking his joint, a pack of smokes, his wineglass, and his freshly opened bottle of red wine. He arranged these items on a table next to the hot tub and removed the cover from the spa. A cloud of chlorine-scented steam billowed up and was blown off into the night by the onshore breeze. He dropped his robe onto a chair and climbed gingerly into the one hundred and one degree water. He turned on the jets and arranged himself so three of them could blast into his knotted and tense shoulders.

He lit up the joint and took four decent hits, one after the other, staring out at the lights of Lyttelton as he held in the fragrant smoke.

"Nice," he said, nodding his head appreciably as he felt the drug worm its way into his brain. One of the advantages of infrequent stoning was that when you did finally smoke some, the high was crisp and fresh, unfettered by the effects of tolerance. Jake felt almost like it was the first time.

He had a few sips of his wine and lit a cigarette. He let his mind wander freely, moving from subject to subject, knowing that it would eventually find its way to what he needed to think about. He listened to the drone of the Jacuzzi jets and looked at the stars. The Southern Cross was plainly visible high in the southern sky and he stared at that for awhile, his brain pondering the concept that people down here in this half of the world used that constellation for navigation the same way people in the northern hemisphere used the Big Dipper and the North Star. This led to thoughts of sailing ships and what it must have been like to sail these seas back in the days when New Zealand was first discovered by Europeans, what it felt like to travel for weeks on end and to suddenly come across a country-sized landmass that had never been mapped before.

"Deep," Jake said, drinking more wine. "Really fuckin' deep, man."

It was also not even remotely related to the subject he had come out here to think about. Maybe, he thought, it was time to give his brain a little help.

His hot tub, like all of his furnishings, was custom built and top of the line. As such, it had a sound system installed in its control panel. The system could play CDs and cassettes as well as pick up FM radio broadcasts. Jake turned it on. It was tuned to the same American music station he'd been listening to earlier. The song currently being spun for his enjoyment was Black Velvet by Allanah Myles. Another Grammy award winner from last year.

"Yuck," Jake muttered. He did not put Black Velvet into quite the same category as Another Day In Paradise because it was at least an honestly written and produced piece. He just didn't like it very much because the lyrics were basically about worshiping Elvis Presley, a man who Jake considered the single most overrated performer in the history of music.

He kept the volume down as the song played itself out. The next song was something he enjoyed a little more. It was Janie's Got A Gun, by Aerosmith. A good, solid tune that just happened to be about a girl killing her father because he sexually abused her. Jake turned up the volume a bit and sang along with the tune in places, his mind turning over the idea of just how Aerosmith had managed to get such a heavy, disturbingly themed tune into commercial production. Jake had never met any of the members of Aerosmith in his travels but he suspected the fact that they were an established band working on a favorably negotiated contract was probably the answer. There was no way a first-contract band would've been able to get such a song on an album. Even so, Steven Tyler and Tom Hamilton had probably been pressured by their version of Crow and Doolittle to scrap the tune.

"You can't put a song about rape and incest onto your album, guys," they would've been advised.

"You'll alienate your audience," would've been another angle tried. "Why don't you write something about the homeless? That's the in-thing to do."

Obviously, Tyler and Hamilton, being the musicians they were, had stuck to their guns and proved the record company hackers wrong. Janie's had been one of the biggest hits of last year and it had taken the Grammy for Best Rock Performance by a Duo or Group.

A set of commercials played next. Then the DJ talked a little. Jake didn't mind. The weeknight DJ was Laura Goodhope, who possessed a very sexy voice and a thicker than normal accent. As he always did when he heard her, Jake tossed around the idea of giving her a call some night and trying to hook up with her. There was a good chance that she'd be open for such thing — he was Jake Kingsley, after all and she often played Intemperance tunes, sometimes prefacing them with comments about how Jake was Christchurch's "local, luscious rocker in residence". What held him back was that he had no idea what Laura looked like. He was wise enough to know that you were playing with fire when you assumed a woman's physical attributes based solely on the sound of her voice.

"And now, for something a little different on this beautiful Monday night," Laura told her listening audience of perhaps ten thousand. "I hear the Aurora Australis has been spotted in the southern sky tonight and, in honor of that, here's a bit of a ditty by the notorious Bigg G that seems to fit the occasion. Enjoy."

The opening salvo of Bigg G's tune Light Me Up began to play. Jake smiled as he heard his friend's voice begin to pump out the lyrics. Light Me Up had absolutely nothing to do with the Aurora Australis, or southern lights, of course. It had to do with getting wasted and getting into fights. It was Gordon's version of The Thrill Of Doing Business.

Though Jake had learned to appreciate rap music to some degree since meeting and getting to know Gordon, his brain slowly lost interest in the tune. Light Me Up had been overplayed in recent months because it was one of the few songs on Gordon's album that didn't have to be censored for airplay. Jake instead started thinking about Gordon himself. He hadn't seen him or heard anything about him in months. He wondered how he was doing. Had his plan to break away from Cedric Jackson's C-Block Records been successful? Was he even working on his next album? He made a mental note to ask Pauline about Gordon in the morning. She would know what was up with him. She kept her ear pretty close to the ground when it came to anything involving the music business. She had to. She had not been brought up as a musical manager and had lots of lost time to make up for.

"Good old Gordon," Jake said, raising his wineglass in a solitary toast to him. "Hope everything's working out for you."

Jake took another few sips of wine and lit another smoke. He stared to the south, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Aurora Australis Laura Goodhope had mentioned. He saw nothing but the stars. Light Me Up continued to play and Jake continued to think about Gordon and his career plans. Gordon certainly had the right idea with going independent. It was a risky venture, that was true, but the rewards if successful were worth the risk. Complete control of your own musical destiny. Keeping most of the profits from record and single sales in your own bank account.

Jake had actually had Jill and Pauline look into the possibilities of Jake going independent now that he was free of National Records and preparing to go solo, but it hadn't really been feasible. Though Jake was famous for being the lead singer of Intemperance, he was untried as a solo artist. The start-up costs for going independent — even assuming that one used one of the major label's distribution and production networks — were somewhere in the vicinity of three million dollars. In order to get his hands on that kind of financing, Jake would be forced to take out a loan from one of the banks that specialized in backing entertainment ventures. This meant that paying the loan off and getting back into the black would require at least two multi-platinum albums. Since he was untried as a solo artist, most of the banks were hesitant to lay out that kind of money. Those that were willing demanded interest rates that were starting to approach the levels loan sharks employed.