Circles Collide

Chapter 9: Lost Wages

September 26, 1996

Las Vegas, Nevada

Jake and his Tsunami Sound Festival band members were all put up in luxury suites at the Caesars Palace Hotel and Casino on the Las Vegas strip courtesy of Music Alive. The members of his crew, however, were not included in the deal. He had twelve people on his crew, all of them people he had worked with before, either as part of Celia’s last tour or in the Intemperance days. It would be they who would do the assembly and tear down of the equipment, run the soundboard during his portion of the show, hand him and the other musicians their instruments when it was time to switch during the performance, and generally make sure that Jake’s performance was all that it should and could be. He could have paid them minimum wage and housed them two to a room in some sleazy off-strip roach motel and they would have been perfectly happy, but Jake believed in treating those who worked for him fairly and generously. He was paying them twenty-five dollars an hour for the time they were actually working on show-related business and had arranged for all of them to have private rooms in the same hotel he was staying in. In addition, he was picking up the tab for all of their meals and had given all of them a thousand dollars in casino credit for drinks and gambling.

The crew had ridden by chartered luxury bus to Las Vegas, leaving at noon and arriving at the hotel at 4:30. Since Jake had arranged for an open bar on the bus, all of them were already hammered by the time they checked into their rooms. As for the band, Phil, Lenny, Ben, Ted, and Natalie all flew to Las Vegas on a 3:05 flight out of Burbank Airport in first-class commercial seats that Music Alive had paid for. Though their time in the airport and in the air was less than two hours, they too managed to get a pretty good head start on their Vegas partying. Jake, Gordon, Pauline (who was doing soprano backup singing for him and was nervous as hell about her first live performance), Obie (who was not performing, but wanted to see Pauline sing) and the Nerdlys (who Jake had recruited to dial in his sound and oversee the multi-track recording of the show which he had negotiated the right to do and exploit as part of his agreement to perform) flew in Jake’s new plane from Whiteman to Henderson Executive Airport just south of the city. Jake was unable to pregame because he was piloting, but his passengers all made good use of the now-stocked bar in the aircraft during the trip.

The six of them rode in a limousine from Henderson to Caesars Palace and checked in at the private, high-roller desk on the second floor just after five o’clock in the afternoon. They were given their room key cards and asked if they would like to sign for casino credit for their gaming enjoyment during their stay.

“Goddamn right I do,” Obie told the young, extremely attractive desk clerk. “I’ll take fifty grand.”

“Me too,” Pauline said—she somehow already had a drink in her hand.

“Put me down for fifty,” Jake said. He was not a big gambler, but, when in Vegas...

“Better put me down for seventy-five to start,” said G. He was a big gambler, and this was not his first trip to the high roller section.

“And what about you, Mr. and Mrs. Archer?” she asked the Nerdlys.

“We will decline the offer,” Nerdly told her.

“Decline?” asked G. “What’s up with that shit, Nerdly? I’ll show you how to shoot some craps.”

“I already know how to do that,” Nerdly said. “And craps does statistically give you the most favorable odds of success of all the various games of chance in the casino, but those odds are still in the favor of the house, which means they will eventually emerge victorious in the contest. Therefore, it is illogical to engage in the activity.”

“Does this guy know how to party, or what?” Jake asked, looking around to try to figure out where Pauline had scored her drink. It was time for him to start pregaming as well.

“I seem to remember a little gambling trip we made back in the day,” Pauline said with a smile. “I do not recall you thinking it illogical then.”

“It was not illogical then,” Nerdly said. “I was playing with Mindy Snow’s money, not my own. I had nothing to lose.”

“Good point,” Pauline said, grimacing a little at hearing Mindy’s name mentioned. She was still getting phone calls from entertainment reporters about Mindy Snow and Greg Oldfellow and Grand Oldfellow and Celia’s thoughts on the matter.

The clerk offered to assign them their own private casino room on the third floor, but they declined on the grounds that none of them planned to spend that much time gambling. She then told them where the exclusive high-roller casino floor—available only to those who signed up for at least thirty thousand in credit or took out thirty thousand in casino chips—could be accessed. They all took note of this information, signed their casino credit agreements, and then headed to the elevators to go check out their rooms.

“I’m heading down to the floor as soon as we get our shit stowed,” Obie said. “Who’s with me?”

“You know I am,” Pauline said. “There’s a roulette table that I’m just itching to feed.”

“Me too,” said Jake. “I’m up for some blackjack and a few alcoholic beverages to start my evening.”

“I’ll be there too,” said G. “I think I’ll start with a little blackjack and then hit up the craps table.”

“What time do you all plan to have dinner?” asked Sharon. “Should we wait for you or just go ourselves?”

“How about around seven?” Jake suggested. “Celia and Laura will get here around nine o’clock or so and I’d like to have my food nice and settled before then—if you know what I mean.”

“Ahh yes,” said Nerdly. “You will obviously want to engage in vigorous marital relations with Laura after going so long without them.”

“Damn right,” Jake said.

“That’s a policy your mother would approve of, Jake,” Obie said with a grin. “Always wait at least an hour after eating before you go in.”

Jake chuckled. He had a little bit of anticipatory stage fright brewing in the back of his mind, but, in general, he was happily anticipating performing tomorrow, was even more happily anticipating the reunion with his wife in a few hours, and was in an overall good mood.

“Are you sure she is going to want to get it on?” Pauline asked. “The two of them are going to be wasted after flying all the way from Poland to Las Vegas after finishing up their last show the night before, not to mention being jetlagged as all hell.”

“I have faith that Laura’s need for satisfaction will outweigh her jetlag and fatigue,” Jake said confidently. “Does seven o’clock dinner work for everyone?”

Everyone agreed that it worked for them. They boarded the elevator and rode up to the top floor together. Fifteen minutes later, Jake, Pauline, Obie, and G all met at the main entrance to the high-roller casino floor. The armed security guard at the entrance scanned their key cards, saw they were allowed inside, and permitted them entry.

The casino floor was maybe three thousand square feet in size, though looked much bigger thanks to the mirrors that lined every wall. Unlike the normal casino floor where the riffraff played, there were only a few slot machines and poker machines here. These were clustered together in one corner and the minimum bet for all of them was ten dollars per play. No one was playing on them at the moment. Most of the room was filled with gaming tables; blackjack, roulette, craps, pai-gow, and baccarat; upon which the minimum bet was five hundred dollars. There were perhaps two dozen gamblers in the room, a few of them musicians who would be playing at the TSF tomorrow or Sunday, most of them older people unknown to Jake. There were no clocks on the walls. There were no windows to the outside. The lighting was uniform and would remain so twenty-four hours every day. There was a light haze of cigarette smoke in the air and the smell of a cigar or two. A trio of scantily clad, extremely attractive cocktail waitresses circulated about between the bar and the customers, serving drinks and enduring without protest the occasional hand stroking their bare legs. All of the tables were staffed by at least one dealer. Two bartenders manned the bar—one an extremely attractive woman, one an extremely attractive man.

“Drinks, first and foremost,” Jake said, making a beeline for the bar.

The rest of his group followed him over. Everyone ordered their drink of choice—Jake went with a captain and coke—and the bartender politely set them up, making no effort to collect payment or even verify their identity. If they were able to enter this room, they were to be given free drinks. That was the rule. Everyone tipped him and then turned to take in the casino floor once again. Pauline found the roulette table and headed over. Jake, G, and Obie wandered until they found an unoccupied blackjack table staffed by an extraordinarily beautiful girl named Yolanda. Yolanda’s nametag declared that she was from El Paso, Texas and she looked young enough that one might question whether or not she could legally work in a casino.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” she greeted as they sat at her table, Obie at first base, Jake at second, Gordon at third. “Can I get you some chips for play?”

“I’ll take twenty for now,” Obie told her.

“Same for me,” Jake said.

“Give me forty,” G directed.

“Very good,” she said. “If you’ll just show me your identification and let me scan your room cards?”

They produced the required documentation. She called out to the pit boss—an older, though still attractive gentleman who looked more than a little prissy—to verify the transaction and then pulled out twenty thousand dollars in chips for Obie and Jake and forty thousand for Gordon. The chips were carefully counted out in view of their recipients, the dealer, the pit boss, and the cameras in the ceiling and, once everyone was satisfied with the count, names were signed and play was able to begin.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” Yolanda told them and then began to shuffle the multideck pile in the shoe.

They placed their bets for the first hand. The minimum bet was five hundred dollars but none of them were that piddly. Obie threw down two thousand-dollar chips. Jake threw down one. G put down three of them.

Yolanda laid down the first hand. Under this table’s rules, the player cards were dealt face-up. Obie had a seventeen. Jake had a fourteen. G had two sevens. Yolanda’s up card was a six of hearts.

“That’s what I like to see,” Obie said, waving his hand over the top of his cards.

Jake did the same, playing the odds that the dealer would break, thus giving him the win by default. G split his hand, putting another three thousand dollars down to cover it. He was given a six on the first seven, which he held, and then an eight on the second. He held that as well.

“All right, let’s see what we got,” Yolanda said cheerfully. Her cheer was likely genuine. After all, it was not her money she could potentially lose here, but the house’s. She got paid the same from the house no matter what the outcome. And if the customers were winning, they often tipped her quite well.

She turned up her hole card. It was a nine, giving her a fifteen. She was required to hit on anything less than seventeen, forbidden from hitting on seventeen or above (unless it was a soft seventeen, made with a six and an ace, in which case she had to hit). She put one more card face-up on the table. It was the queen of spades, giving her a total of twenty-five. She had busted.

“Now that’s the way to start off,” G said happily as Yolanda paid everyone their due from her large cache of chips.

She dealt up the next hand and they settled in and began to play, drinking their drinks and talking of inconsequential things. Jake went on a run in which he could not seem to lose. He increased his bets with each consecutive win and was soon up more than twenty thousand dollars. Obie was just the opposite. He endured a freakishly long streak of being dealt thirteens, fourteens, fifteens, and sixteens in situations where strategy dictated he should hit. And he busted on every single one of them. He was soon down eighteen thousand. G seemed to have found the middle ground. He won about half, lost about half, and stayed within a thousand dollars or so of his original stake. Win or lose, however, they were having a good time basking in male bonding.

“How’s the second Brainwash release coming along?” Obie asked shortly after they were served their third drinks (and shortly after he pulled out another ten thousand in chips). “My moles in my studio tell me they’re finished laying down the tracks.”

“Yeah,” said Jake. “They finished overdubs at the end of August. They’re all back in their classrooms in Providence now. The Nerdlys have been working on the mixing this past month with the techs. It’s not moving very quickly.”

“That’s because you ain’t there to prod the Nerdlys along,” Obie suggested.

Jake nodded. He knew Obie was right. Without him there to draw the lines in the sand, the agonizing over unachievable audio perfection went on and on endlessly. They were still working on the second of ten tunes that would be on the CD. And of the two that had been mixed already, Nerdly still had not signed off that they were actually complete, stating he was planning to go back and give everything a final once-over after all were done. “You speak the truth,” he said. “Nerdly has actually forbidden anyone to so much as enter the studio while he and Sharon are here to help us out with the TSF. Not a single note will be approved without his say-so.”

“Nerdly needs a brake,” Gordon suggested. “And by that, I don’t mean a break, as in a period of rest and relaxation, but a brake, a device to slow something down and/or stop it.”

Jake nodded again. “I’ll be heading up to Oregon next week to assume the position,” he said. “I feel bad enough that I wasn’t there for most of the recording process. I’ve been checking in on the weekends here and there, but I’ve had to devote most of my time to getting ready for the TSF. I haven’t even heard the complete tracks for all their tunes yet. I haven’t been able to shape them as much as I would have liked.”

“They should be okay,” G said. “Brainwash are a talented bunch of squares, that’s for sure—never would have thought I’d say that the first time you told me about them—and the Nerdlys are pains in the asses and ultra-anal, but the end product of anything they work on always comes out clean and fine in the end.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Jake said.

“But you’re ready to go with the TSF tomorrow?” asked Obie after taking a hit on a twelve and drawing a ten.

“We’re dialed in pretty tight,” Jake said. “I don’t know how we did it with this ragtag bunch I assembled, but everyone stepped up and I think the crowd is going to like what we do.”

“Especially the talk box number,” G said. He looked over at Obie. “Wait ‘til you hear my man Jake wail on that fuckin’ thing.”

“Paulie told me you have a talk box number,” Obie said. “You don’t think that’s kind of seventies?”

“Maybe a little,” Jake admitted, “but the sound of it is iconic and endures. I’ve updated it a bit into the alternative rock genre. I think I pulled it off.”

“His solo on that thing is badass,” G said.

“Where did you put it in?” Obie asked.

“I modified it into my tune I Am High from the second release,” Jake said. “Are you familiar with the piece?”

“Yeah, of course,” Obie said. “I’ve listened to all your CDs many times. They were recorded in my studio and my old lady sings on them, after all. It’s your tune about flying your plane.”

“Right,” Jake said. “Not one of my most popular tunes. Never got any real airplay and I never bothered trying to get it any. Just a deep cut that only people who bought the CD and listened to it a lot would appreciate. Still, a good, simple tune with heartfelt lyrics about my love of being a pilot—with, perhaps, more than a little innuendo about getting stoned. We extended out the solo from thirty-three seconds on the studio version to six minutes twenty live. I’ll do a conventional guitar solo to open it up...”

“The first solo that Jake himself shreds in the set,” G put in.

“You’re not doing all your own solos?” Obie asked, surprised.

“No,” Jake said. “Lenny is doing most of them. He’s a talented guitarist and he’s able to duplicate all of my solos pretty much to perfection. He’s handling most of the lead guitar duties, leaving me to play rhythm and acoustic.”

“Are you still hung up on the comparisons between you and Matt?” Obie asked. “I told you a hundred times, you ain’t got nothing to be ashamed of with your lead skills.”

“I’ve learned to accept that and embrace it,” Jake said. “If nothing else, publicly playing the lead on the tune that G and I did—I Signed That Line—convinced me of that. It’s just that Lenny can play the parts, can play them well, and it’s a lot easier on me as the lead singer to not have to concentrate on the lead guitar parts simultaneously. In the studio, recording those cuts is one thing. Being out on stage and playing them out while trying to sing at the same time is another. Matt can pull it off—and I salute him for that—and I probably could if I had more time to rehearse it up, but things will be much easier, and, I think more entertaining to the crowd, if I remain the secondary guitarist for most of the show.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Obie said.

“Besides,” G said, “that crowd will have no doubt that Jake can shred by the time he gets done laying down High. Even before he puts his mouth on that talk box, they’ll know they’re dealing with talent.”

“I certainly hope so,” Jake said. “Anyway, as I was saying, we’ll start the solo period with me shredding out the studio solo with an extension on it. I’m going to give them the best conventional guitar solo playing I know how to do. Nothing held back. After that, G comes in with a pretty ripping keyboard solo. Once that’s done, I do the talk box solo for another three minutes, running through various tempos and intensities with it.”

“Do you do some talking guitar shit with it?” Obie asked. “Like Frampton?”

“The whole tune is something of a tribute to Frampton’s Do You Feel Like We Do?” Jake said. “So ... yes, I do some talking guitar. Mostly the first line of the chorus hook, which just happens to be the title lyrics.” He sang a little, softly. “I am high... I am high... I am high up in the sky.”

Yolanda, who had been seemingly ignoring their conversation and just dealing, collecting, paying, and occasionally shuffling, looked up at him at this point, pausing in her collection of Jake’s chips (he had just busted hitting on a sixteen while she showed a ten, losing three thousand dollars). “I’m going to be at the festival tomorrow,” she said.

“Oh yeah?” Jake asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve always been a fan of yours. I can’t wait to hear what you were just talking about.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy it,” Jake said.

“I’m sure I will,” she said with a smile. She then looked at G, who signaled for a hit, got a face card, and busted himself. “Sorry,” she told him apologetically.

“Not your fault, baby,” he said. “Just the way the cards fall.”

“This is true,” she returned. “And I would like you to know, Mr. G, that I’m a big fan of yours as well. I’ve been listening to you since high school.”

“High school, huh?” G said with a grin. “And how long ago was that?”

“I graduated four years ago,” she said.

“You don’t look that old,” G told her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“What time you off shift, baby?” Gordon asked next.

“Eight o’clock,” she said.

“That’ll be right about the time we finish up dinner,” G told her. “Maybe you could meet me for a few drinks and we could get better acquainted.”

Yolanda smiled. “I think I would like that,” she told him.

“All right then,” G said. “How about we meet down on the floor, in that big-ass bar they got down there?”

“I’ll be there,” she told him. She then played out the rest of her hand for the benefit of Obie, who had stood on nineteen. She flipped her up her hole card, which proved to be a queen of hearts, giving her a twenty.

“Well, that sucks,” Obie grumbled, watching another four thousand dollars disappear.

“Sorry,” she said again as she collected his cards and got ready to deal another hand. As they were placing their bets, she looked over at Jake again. “I was just wondering...”

“What’s that?” Jake asked.

“The entertainment shows and the papers have been saying that you and Matt Tisdale are possibly going to take the stage together tomorrow and do some Intemperance tunes. Any truth to that?”

That rumor had, in fact, been floating around for the past month now. Pauline and Matt had both denied it vehemently but still it persisted. “No,” Jake said simply. “There is absolutely no truth to that.”

“Oh,” she said, visibly disappointed. “That’s too bad.”

Meanwhile, less than a mile away at the Mirage Hotel and Casino, Matt Tisdale was in his suite on the top floor, drinking a Jack and Coke. Jerry Stillson, the CEO of Music Alive and the driving force behind the TSF, was not an unintelligent man. He was not up there with Nerdly or even Jake in the smarts department, but he had been wise enough to know that housing Jake Kingsley and Matt Tisdale in separate hotels was in everyone’s best interest.

While Matt’s band and his paramedic were downstairs playing various casino games and losing a good portion of their recent earnings in the process, Matt sat alone. As someone who had always had more money than he knew what to do with (until now anyway), he had never quite understood the appeal of gambling, so he had no real urge to engage in the activity. To him, Vegas was about partying and gash, not about games of chance played for money. And even if he were into gambling, he likely would not have been in the mood. He and the boys had gotten in at nine this morning after a long, overnight flying marathon from Rio de Janeiro to Houston and then from Houston to Las Vegas. He was tired, jetlagged, and out-of-sorts despite the nearly eight hours of sleep he’d gotten since arrival. And, to top it all off, he was now getting some less than welcome news about his financial situation.

“Will you be able to come to Los Angeles for at least a day after your performances?” asked Wesley Brimm, his tax lawyer, shortly after Matt got him on the phone.

“I guess,” Matt said. “What for?”

“I have dozens of documents that need your signature,” Wesley told him. “And there are some aspects of the case that we should really go over in person, instead of on the phone.”

“What kind of aspects?” Matt asked.

“As I said,” Wesley told him, “most are things too complex to go into on the phone, thus the reason I am requesting a personal meeting. But, in any case, I now have preliminary numbers from both the IRS and California Franchise Tax Board as to what you will owe in back taxes, interest, and penalties.”

Matt took a deep breath. “I see,” he said.

“Would you like to hear them?” Wesley asked.

“Yeah, but ... uh ... give me a minute here. I’m going to put the phone down.”

“Uh ... okay, but...”

Matt did not hear the rest of what he said because the phone was now sitting on the bar. After putting the phone down, he picked up his drink and downed the rest of it and dumped the ice out. He then picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels and poured a healthy shot that filled the glass halfway. This, he downed in one slug, feeling the warmth exploding through his body. He took a few deep breaths and then picked up the pipe and the bag of genuine California greenbud he had scored from the hotel’s concierge. He pulled off a healthy pinch, stuffed it into the pipe, put the pipe to his lips, picked up the lighter next to his cigarettes, and then fired up. He took a long healthy rip of the pot, holding the smoke deeply for nearly thirty seconds before blowing it back out. He then repeated the procedure one more time. After this, he pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit that up. He took two healthy drags. Only then did he pick the phone back up and put it to his ear.

“All right,” he said. “I’m properly braced now. Lay it on me.”

Wesley, who was by now used to dealing with Matt, simply laid it on him. “The California FTB has come to the figure of eight million, four hundred and sixteen thousand, two hundred and thirty-four dollars,” he said. “The IRS has come to the figure of twenty-six million, nine hundred twenty-seven thousand, three hundred and eleven dollars. Of course, the interest accrual on both of these amounts will continue to rise at the prime rate the longer you go without paying them.”

“Fuck me,” Matt said, shaking his head. More than thirty-four million dollars! It was worse than he had thought.

“As of this moment in time,” Wesley went on, “your yacht, your helicopter, and your Los Angeles domicile are all in escrow. When escrow closes and funding occurs, that will give you four million, sixty-three thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars to pay toward the debt. In addition, we have firm bids on most of your guitar collection that will add another two hundred and eighteen thousand or so to that amount. And liquidation of some of your stocks, bonds, and certificates of deposit will add another two million, two hundred and twelve thousand to that, although you must remember that you will be responsible for capital gains taxes on the sale of the domicile and the investment gains on the stocks, bonds, and CDs.”

“That still leaves an assload to pay off,” Matt said.

“It does,” Wesley agreed. “And the IRS is already making preparations to garnish your royalty checks, your endorsement income checks, and to start seizing some of your other assets. Are you sure you won’t reconsider your decision not to put your house and property in Mexico up for sale?”

“I’m not selling my Cabo pad!” Matt insisted. “Christ, dude. Don’t you ever have anything good to say?”

“Well ... the income you’ll be receiving from this music festival you’re playing tomorrow will help pay the debt down even more.” He paused. “After taxes are considered, of course.”

“Yeah,” Matt said bitterly. “Of course.”

“And the judge has agreed to not allow the IRS to seize your primary guitar or any of the secondary guitars you use in the actual production or performance of your music.”

“Very fuckin’ big of him,” Matt said.

“It was a her, actually,” Wesley said.

“Whatever,” Matt spat.

“I’m doing the best I can here, Matt,” Wesley said. “You didn’t give me much to work with though. You can’t just not pay taxes on income like yours for four years and not expect any consequences.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “I guess I kind of understand that shit now.”

“Is there anything else I can answer for you at this time?” the lawyer asked.

“Naw,” Matt said. “I guess I’ll see you on Tuesday. Maybe I’ll have some shit to ask then.”

“I’ll look forward to the meeting,” Wesley told him. “Does nine o’clock work for you?”

“In the morning?”

“Uh ... yes, in the morning.”

“I don’t do nine o’clock in the fuckin’ morning,” Matt told him. “How about three?”

“Three it is,” Wesley said.

“All right. Book it.”

“There is one thing I would like to ask, Matt,” Wesley said before Matt could hang up.

“What’s that?”

“Now ... I’m not a fan of your music. I told you that before, during our first conversation. I listen primarily to jazz.”

“Yeah? So what? I don’t see that shit as a problem. In fact, I’m not sure I would want a fan of mine working on my fucking legal problems.”

“Right,” Wesley said. “I understand that point of view. I’m not a fan of Jake Kingsley or Intemperance either.”

“What is your fuckin’ point, dude?” Matt asked, more than tired of this conversation, particularly now that Kingsley’s name had been invoked.

“Well, a few of the paralegals that work in my department are fans of yours,” Wesley said.

“Is this about tickets to the TSF?” he asked. “You want to score yourself some paralegal gash and the way to make the deal go down is to give her a couple of VIP tickets to the show? Sure! I can make that shit happen. I’m all about helping my fellow man score some gash. How many you want?”

“Uh ... no, that’s not where I was going with that,” Wesley said.

“It’s not?” he asked, actually a little disappointed.

“No ... but ... well, now that you bring it up, maybe I could find good use for two VIP tickets.”

“Which night?” Matt asked.

“Both, if you can arrange it,” he said.

“They’ll be at will call under your name,” Matt promised. “Now, what were you actually talking about if it wasn’t tickets for gash?”

“I was just going to say that the paralegals were talking about this rumor going around. The one about how you and Jake Kingsley will do some Intemperance material at the show.”

“That fuckin’ rumor?” Matt said in disgust. “There’s nothing to it. No way in hell it’s going to happen. That rumor got started by the media fucks who speculated that since Kingsley and I were both performing at the TSF then we might be reuniting. Those fuckheads at Music Alive have been encouraging the rumor because it’s helping them sell tickets at more than a hundred a pop. But it ain’t happening. That’s God’s fuckin’ truth there, dude.”

“Oh, I see,” Wesley said. “That’s too bad.”

“Why would you give a shit if me and Jake were getting back together if you’re not a fan of either one of us?” Matt wanted to know.

“I really do not,” Wesley told him. “I was just going to suggest to you that if the rumor were true, you are not asking for nearly enough money. Any form of Intemperance reunion would be worth some serious bank for all concerned with it.”

And, approximately 1600 miles to the east northeast, at thirty-eight thousand feet above sea level and traveling at four hundred thirty knots actual, Laura Kingsley and Celia Valdez were in first class seats of a United Airlines 767 flying from John F. Kennedy International in New York to McCarran International in Las Vegas. This was the third aircraft they had been on since leaving their Warsaw Hilton hotel room well before sunrise, some thirteen hours before. From Warsaw International they had flown to Charles de Gaulle International in Paris aboard an Air France A-320. From there they had climbed aboard the Concorde and flown for three and a half hours across the Atlantic to New York City, actually landing forty-five minutes before they had left Paris thanks to the speed of the aircraft and the time zone changes. After a two-hour layover in New York, they boarded their current plane, which was now more than an hour into its journey.

Laura was awake at the moment, but only because they were eating their meal service. She had an uncanny ability to sleep on aircraft and had dozed away more than five hours of their journey so far. Even on the Concorde she had slept for most of the flight, nodding off shortly after the supersonic plane had leveled off at sixty thousand feet and shut down its afterburners. She had taken a few moments to marvel over the fact that she could actually see the curvature of the Earth out her tiny window and then out she’d gone. She woke up long enough to eat the meal service and then had gone right back out, sleeping until the flaps had come down for landing.

Celia was not blessed with such an ability. She was ragged and torn, with bags under her eyes, a headache that a Tylenol and Motrin combo had not been able to tame, and a thoroughly distorted sense of body rhythm. She only picked at her meal of braised beef tips in gravy and her glass of chardonnay had long since assumed room temperature.

“Bleah,” Laura said next to her. She had just taken a bite of her braised beef tips. “This food sucks compared to what they gave us on the Concorde.”

“That was about the best airline food I’ve ever had,” Celia agreed. The meal service that Air France offered had included caviar, fois gras, and pan seared veal served with a rich Bordeaux.

“For thirty-five hundred dollars a ticket, the food should be pretty good,” Laura said.

“You would hope,” Celia agreed. “And you know, though that takeoff and climb-out was kind of terrifying for someone like me who is not a fan of flying, at least the trip was fast. Paris to New York in just over three hours. That is truly amazing.”

“I liked it,” Laura said. “If Jake and I ever go to Europe I’m going to have him buy the tickets on the Concorde. He would really love it. Jill would yell at him about how much it costs, but he’s used to that.”

“We all are,” said Celia. As one of the owners of KVA, she had to deal with Jill on a regular basis as well.

“Anyway, I’m glad you came with me,” Laura told her. The rest of the band and crew were making their way home leisurely, stopping in London for a day and Atlanta for a day before making the final flight back to LAX.

“Are you kidding?” Celia said. “There’s no way I’m going miss Jake Kingsley live on stage. I’m looking forward to the show.”

“Me too,” Laura said. “I’m a little nervous about my part in it, but it will be the first time I’ve ever actually seen him perform an entire show.”

“You’ll do fine,” Celia assured her. “I’ve seen how much you’ve been rehearsing Blur.”

“Yeah, I have been working my butt off on it, but I’ve been rehearsing by listening to a CD of Blur with the sax track removed. That is hardly the same thing as a real rehearsal.”

“Actually, it’s not all that different,” Celia said. “As long as Jake and the rest of the band perform in the same key and tempo as the studio version and don’t put in any add-ons or fills, you’ll be fine. And the outro on the studio version ends with a finale, not a fade-out, so there shouldn’t be anything unfamiliar, right?”

“I suppose,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll do okay. Just having a little stage fright. It will be fun to be up on stage with Jake again though. The times he played with me when I was touring with Bobby Z are some of my fondest memories of performing.”

“I didn’t get to see any of those shows,” Celia said. “It’s going to be really cool to see the two of you up there together. Well worth this long travel day from one side of the world to the other.”

“Thanks, C,” Laura said, patting her leg. “And I’m sorry we couldn’t get you your own hotel room.”

“Things happen,” Celia said with a sigh. Thanks to the TSF, pretty much every hotel room in the Las Vegas area that Celia would be caught dead in had already been booked, either by ticket-holders, band crews, TSF staff, or the bands themselves. As such, Celia was going to stay in Jake and Laura’s suite at Caesars Palace. And she could not help but remember what had happened the last time she and Jake had shared a hotel suite. Of course, Laura had not been there for that one, but now there was a strange little history between her and Laura to add to the discomfort level.

“I hope you don’t think it will be awkward staying with us,” Laura said, picking up a little on her feelings.

“In all honesty, I am feeling a little strange about being face to face with Jake,” she said. “He knows what we ... you know ... what we did that night.”

Laura smiled. Her memory of that night in Celia’s room was a fond one. It had not been repeated, partially because Celia was uncomfortable with the rule that Jake be informed each time something like that happened, and partially because they had not yet returned to the line where such antics became necessary. “I told you, Jake is cool with what we did,” she whispered. “In truth, it really seemed to turn him on when I told him about it.”

“I’m sure it did,” she said with a chuckle. Especially since he knows that I have now dallied with both of the Kingsleys. “And I’m sure the awkwardness with pass. You don’t think he’ll ... you know ... make any little comments about it or anything?”

“I can’t guarantee that,” Laura said. “Jake is Jake.”

“Yes, he certainly is,” she said with another sigh.

“Anyway ... uh ... speaking of awkwardness,” Laura said. “I just want to warn you in advance that ... well ... this is kind of embarrassing.”

“What is it?”

“Jake and I haven’t seen each other in a while and we’re going to want to ... you know... do it.”

Celia smiled. “I have no doubt that is true,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to listen at the door or anything like that.”

“Well ... the thing is that you probably won’t have to,” Laura said. She was now blushing. “I tend to get a little ... you know ... loud at times while we’re doing it.”

“I know,” Celia said. “Remember, I was staying in the Coos Bay house with you two when you first started doing it. You were the very impetus for and a very frequent violator of Rule 17.”

“That is embarrassing,” Laura said. “I can’t help it though.”

“Then maybe you just shouldn’t have sex with him until you get home,” Celia said lightly.

A look of extreme alarm crossed Laura’s face at this suggestion. “I ... uh ... don’t think that will be an option,” she said.

Celia giggled. “I know,” she said. “I was just kidding.” She leaned in a little closer and lowered her voice. “And you don’t have to be embarrassed. I’ve watched you paddle your canoe while I sucked on your chichi, Teach. I don’t think you need to be worried about me hearing you come while Jake is fucking you. In fact, maybe I’ll be inspired to do a little paddling myself if you put on a good enough performance.”

Laura looked up at her, her look of discomfort turning to one of interest and arousal. “Now that’s kind of hot,” she said.

“It’s all a matter of perspective,” Celia replied.

The flight attendant came by a moment later and asked if she could take their trays away. They both said she could. She then asked if she could bring them anything else.

“How about a vodka and tonic?” said Celia.

“Very good. And for you, Mrs. Kingsley?”

“Nothing for me,” Laura said. “I think I’ll catch a little nap.”

“As you wish,” the flight attendant said.

And before she even returned with Celia’s fresh drink, Laura was reclined and sleeping soundly in her chair, a pleasant little smile on her face.

A stretch limousine, chartered by Music Alive, picked up Jake, Laura, Jake’s band, Celia, Obie, and the Nerdlys at 7:00 AM the next morning. They were scheduled for an 8:30 sound check on Stage 2 of the dual stage venue. A good portion of Jake’s bandmembers were hung over (and considerably lighter in their wallets) and everyone was tired (except for Laura, who had catalogued more than fourteen hours of sleep in the past 24 hours) due to the early hour.

They drove into the desert, leaving the Las Vegas area behind and traveled for more than forty miles before coming into Indian Springs. The town itself was very small and they passed through it in less than three minutes, emerging out the other side into even more desert, all of which was owned by the BLM. About five minutes later they began to near the brand-new venue that had been built specifically for occasions such as the TSF. The campgrounds came first. There were several of them and all were filled to capacity with RVs, campers, trailers, and even some tents. Next came the parking areas, which were already filling to their capacity. A line of cars more than half a mile long hugged the right shoulder of the road, creeping slowly along, waiting their turn to enter the parking lot. When they finally passed the main entrance to one of the lots, Jake saw that Music Alive was charging thirty dollars per car to park. Next, they passed the primary gate that admitted concertgoers to the show. The gates would not be opened until 10:00 AM, with the first band scheduled to start at noon, but already there were thousands of people waiting in lines that stretched out in both directions. And all of them had paid a minimum of ninety dollars for their tickets. Many had paid much more.

“I can see how Music Alive is making money on this gig,” Celia said as they took in the crowd.

“It kind of makes me think they should have paid me more,” Jake said.

The limo turned onto a gated road that had two armed security staff guarding it. The limo driver stopped, rolled down his window, and showed an access pass to one of the guards. They were then allowed to proceed. The drove along the smooth, recently laid pavement for another few minutes and then came out in a large areas where dozens of fifth-wheel trailers had been set up. The limo stopped in front of one of them and the driver got out to open the door. Everyone piled out. A gruff looking man with a pass around his neck was waiting for them.

“Welcome to Band Town,” the man said. “I’m Roger Wilson, head of band security and housing.”

“Jake Kingsley,” Jake said, shaking with him.

“We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Kingsley,” Wilson said. “You’ll be here, in trailer 13. You can access it by the keypad on the door. Your code is one four four one.” He handed out slips of paper with that code number written on it to everyone.

“Thanks,” Jake said.

“No problem, sir,” Wilson said. “Your sound check is scheduled for 8:30 on Stage 2. You will have twenty-five minutes to complete it.”

“Twenty-five minutes?” Nerdly and Sharon both cried in unison.

“Twenty-five minutes,” Wilson confirmed. “Matt Tisdale is scheduled for his sound check on Stage 1 at nine o’clock, so you must have yours completed by 8:55 so his crew can run their wiring to the sound board. Is that a problem?”

“Yes, it’s a problem,” Nerdly said indignantly. “There is no way we can complete an adequate sound check at a new venue in only twenty-five minutes. It’s impossible.”

He received no sympathy from Wilson. “You’re gonna have to make it possible,” he said. “We will disconnect your wires from the sound board at 8:55. That is a hard deadline, my friend.”

Nerdly opened his mouth to say something else, but Jake stepped up.

“It’s okay, Nerdly,” he said. “We can make it work. It’s an amphitheater, remember. There are no walls to absorb or reflect the sound. All we need to do is match levels on all the mics and instruments.”

“All we need to do?” Nerdly asked. “That is the most critical part of the process.”

“We’ll get it done,” Jake assured him. “I have confidence in you. You work well under pressure.”

“Well ... I suppose,” Nerdly said.

“Someone will come and get you around 8:15 to escort you to the stage,” Wilson said. “Be ready to go when he gets here.”

“Will do,” Jake said.

And with that, Wilson wandered off, heading for the other side of Band City, probably to get ready for the arrival of Matt and his band. If Jerry Stillson knew his stuff, and it certainly seemed as if he did, Matt would be housed as far away as it was possible to get from Jake.

“Are we going to have time to run through Blur at least once?” Laura asked. She was holding the case that contained her soprano sax, having carried it with her all the way from Poland.

“Sorry, hon, but I don’t think so,” Jake told her.

“Well ... that’s disconcerting,” she said nervously.

“It is, but I have confidence in you too. We’ve all been rehearsing the tune and will play it just like the studio version. And you’ve been rehearsing your part. We’ll pull it off.”

She nodded, unhappy, but determined.

“Come on,” Jake told everyone. “Let’s check out the accommodations.”

The accommodations were nice, but kind of cramped for thirteen people. There was power provided by a 220-volt hookup, air conditioning powered by large propane tanks, and a working refrigerator full of beer, bottled water, Gatorade, and soda. An ice machine was churning out cubes in the freezer in case anyone wanted to make a mixed drink from the supplies in the well-stocked bar. There were a few couches, a bathroom with a shower, and several beds. A television with DirecTV service was mounted on one wall. Everyone found a place to settle in and they began to wait. Ted told them a story about a call he had been on once in which a man in a trailer similar to the one blew the entire thing to pieces when he lit a cigarette while the propane system was leaking.

“Motherfucker looked like Wile E. Coyote after one of his Acme products went bad,” Ted said.

“He wasn’t dead?” asked G.

“Naw,” Ted said, “just singed. If you’re gonna be in an explosion, that’s the way to do it. The force radiates out from the ignition point, which was his cigarette in his mouth. Blew the fuckin’ trailer apart but left him just standing there with flash burns.”

“That’s some shit,” G said respectfully. He, like Jake, had learned during the rehearsal sessions to morbidly appreciate Ted’s stories.

“The funny thing is,” Ted added, “is that he was smoking the cigarette when we got there. The explosion actually lit it for him.”

At precisely 8:15 AM, there was a knock on the door. One of the security team was there and he handed all of them all-access passes to wear around their necks. He then led them on the short walk to the backstage area of Stage 2. The temperature was warming up as they made the walk and they could hear guitar chords and vocalizations chopping through the air from Stage 1. It was Pantera, the band performing before Jake, finishing up their sound check.

“Dimebag Darrel,” Jake said with a shake of his head as a guitar riff sounded out. “He tries so hard to play like Matt and like Kirk Hammett, but he just can’t seem to pull it off.”

“Did you hear about Phil Anselmo?” asked Ted, referring to Pantera’s lead singer.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “He overdosed on heroin a couple months back. They say he was clinically dead for a few minutes.”

“I heard he still made the next gig though,” Obie said.

“You gotta respect that, I guess,” Jake said.

“The fuckin’ show must go on,” G said.

They were led up onto the stage they would be performing on in twelve more hours. Their crew was already there, as were their instruments and equipment. Ted’s drum set was assembled and resting on its wheeled platform, all of the microphones positioned as they were in the rehearsal studio. Jake had three guitars, his Fender acoustic/electric, his black and white Les Paul tuned to standard, and his sunburst Les Paul tuned to drop-D. Lenny had four guitars, two Brogans, a Telecaster, and a Marshall acoustic. Ben had his Brogan bass. Natalie had her performance violin. G had a Marshall synthesizer with a dedicated electric piano keyboard. Pauline and Phil had dedicated microphones just to the left of the drum platform. And G had a microphone mounted at face level on his keyboard.

“I need your sax, Mrs. Kingsley,” said Jeff Parley, the man Jake had put in charge of the crew. “We need to get it miked.”

“Here you go,” she said, handing the case over. “And please, call me Laura or Teach.”

“You got it, Laura,” he said.

“Is everything wired into the Lux?” asked Sharon, referring to the Luxembourg 970 audio recorder that KVA Records had purchased for thirty-eight thousand dollars just for this occasion. It would sit at the head of the stage and all of their output cables would feed into it, recording everything they played on sixteen separate tracks on two separate and redundant digital drives and one analog backup that used magnetic tape. The output would then pass through the Lux and emerge unaltered out the other side for its trip to the primary soundboard out on the amphitheater floor. This way, KVA would have an exclusive digital recording of the band’s performance to do with as they pleased.

“We’re wired for sound ... literally,” Jeff told her.

“All right,” Jake said. “Let’s get this done. We don’t have much time.”

They made it, but just barely. They plugged in and played each instrument one by one, with Nerdly directing the volume and tone adjustments while Sharon made notes on the settings and offered the occasional suggestion. They then checked each microphone, blending them according to what they were transmitting and adjusting based on the output level of Lenny’s and Jake’s guitars. Last came Ted’s drums. He pounded each one individually and then played out some brief solos to make sure the mix was right. He then played simultaneously with Ben on the bass and Lenny on the lead guitar. Just as they got this at an acceptable level, their time was up.

“I am far from pleased with our final arrangement,” Nerdly said, “but I guess it will have to do.”

“It sounded good, Nerdly,” Jake assured him. “You did the best you could in the time you had.”

“I suppose,” he replied morosely. “I only hope the recordings we make will be usable in the studio.”

“They can be tweaked around even further in the studio,” Jake said. “Don’t worry. I’ll take you and Sharon for twenty-five minutes over any of these other sound teams for three hours. We got this.”

“I suppose,” he said again.

They marked all the instruments and dials with the proper settings and then Nerdly made a hard copy of all the levels for the soundboard. The crew began the task of clearing the stage of equipment so the second band to play—it would be Seavey Circle—would be able to set up their equipment just before the show started. Ted’s drums were wheeled down a ramp to a covered staging area just offstage. All of the guitars, other instruments, microphones, microphone stands, amplifiers, effects pedals, and the Lux joined them. Two armed guards were assigned to stand watch over the area to keep anyone from stealing more than two hundred thousand dollars worth of equipment.

It was as they were walking back to the trailer that another guitar riff suddenly filled the air from the direction of Stage 1. Jake recognized the style and sound immediately. It was Matt Tisdale. He was starting his own sound check. The group made it back into their trailer before Jake had to listen to too much of it.

The festival started exactly on time, with the first band—Backyard Dirt—laying down its opening number at exactly 12:00 PM. Everyone in Jake’s group had the ability to enter a special VIP area just in front of and between the two stages if they wished. This was an area that was separate from the official VIP area just in front of the soundboard where special guests and those who possessed the five-hundred-dollar tickets could sit in a shaded area with cocktail and food service (two of the people in this section had bought their tickets at an online auction website from Matt’s tax lawyer for fifteen hundred dollars apiece). Ben, Ted, Lenny, Phil, and Natalie all went to this section to watch the show. Jake did not have to warn them to avoid alcohol or any other intoxicant. They knew his rules very well.

Everyone else stayed in the trailer and lounged around. They watched television or read books. Just after noon, a catering truck showed up in Band City and provided them with sandwiches and tacos for lunch. Everyone ate well and then went back to waiting. Throughout this period, they could hear the frequent thumping of bass guitars, the occasional solo when it edged into the higher range, and the constant up and down roaring of the huge crowd that had assembled in the amphitheater. Jake had heard from one of the security guys that well over ninety-five thousand tickets had been sold for today’s show and only slightly less for tomorrow’s.

Another catering truck showed up just past five o’clock. This one provided hamburgers, French fries, and bratwurst. Jake ate lightly this time, knowing that he wanted his stomach and bowels empty when it came time to take the stage. His innate sense of mild stage fright ramped up slowly but steadily as the hours marched by. Ben, Ted, and the others all returned just past six o’clock, all declaring that had no desire to see Hole or Pantera, the next two bands to play.

At 6:30, everyone began to get dressed in their stage clothes. This was a bit of a process because there was only one bathroom in the trailer and the company was mixed. The problem was solved by having Pauline, Celia, Natalie, and Laura step out so the guys could get dressed and then having the guys step out so Pauline, Natalie, and Laura could get dressed. Jake dressed simply, as he always had when he had a choice in what to wear while performing. He pulled on a pair of denim blue jeans he had owned just long enough to be broken in, a black, button-up short-sleeved shirt, and a pair of black and white Nike tennis shoes. He combed out his hair, which was back to shoulder length these days, and hit it with a little hairspray to keep it from blowing about too much—they were outside and there was a fairly respectable ten knot wind blowing over the desert. He kept his wedding ring on as he had found it presented no problems with his guitar chording. He did some warmup exercises to limber up his voice as he got ready. Phil, who had had to be told what to wear because his sense of fashion was so terrible (those who knew him considered him the worst gay guy ever as he was a slob, had no sense of décor, and no sense of fashion) joined him in the voice exercises and they took the opportunity to practice up on their harmony a bit. All of the males dressed similar to Jake, leaning heavily on dark colored shirts to keep the sun and the stage lights from reflecting too much and making them indistinguishable to the audience. G added a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap and a pair of dark sunglasses to disguise himself. Natalie and Pauline dressed in pantsuits with dark colored blouses that accented their breasts. They put their hair in ponytails and used a considerable amount of hairspray for hold. Laura dressed in one of her summer dresses she had brought from the wardrobe of the Celia Valdez tour. It was the green and white one that fell to just above her knees. She wore white sneakers on her feet and dressed her hair in a tight braid that fell down to her mid-back. She wore no makeup but looked achingly cute all the same.

Once everyone was dressed, they went back to waiting. Jake, Phil, G, and Pauline continued their voice exercises and harmony practice, continuing to loosen up the cords. Everyone else simply sat around, fidgeting and watching the clock. Finally, at 7:30 PM, there came a knock on their door. It was the security guy again. It was time to report to the stage.

“All right,” Jake said to his group. “Let’s do this thing.”

Those who would be playing up on the stage or supervising the sound filed out of the trailer and followed the security guy single file, all with varying degrees of nervousness and trepidation spinning in their respective heads. Those who would be watching the show—Obie and Celia—stayed behind. They would make their way to the special VIP section right before Jake and the band took the stage.

Pantera was in the final throes of their biggest hit, Walk, when Jake and company made their way into the roped off walkway that led to their stage. Jake did not have a very good view of Dimebag and Phil and the boys because Stage 1 was at an angle to them and twenty yards away. But he could hear them just fine. In fact, their volume was ear-shattering, so loud that one could barely understand the lyrics, could not hear the bass as being separate from the guitar.

“No,” Jake said, giving a little shake of the head in response to the hook line of the song. “I am not talking to you.”

Nobody heard him over the music. He could barely hear himself.

Things got a little quieter as they entered the backstage area. Here, his crew and a few Music Alive technicians were working on what final preparations they could work on before being granted access to the actual stage. Pantera finally wrapped up the finale of Walk and their instruments went blessedly silent. The roar of the crowd washed over everyone for the first time and its sheer volume was remarkable in and of itself.

“Jesus,” Pauline said nervously as she heard it. “There’s a lot of fucking people out there.”

“Almost a hundred thousand,” Jake said, taking a peek out through a partition, which allowed him to actually see the crowd for the first time. It was an impressive sight. The amphitheater seating stretched backwards up a gentle incline for nearly a quarter of a mile and was nearly three hundred yards wide. “I have never played in front of this many before.”

“I have never sang in front of anyone before,” Pauline reminded him. “I’m a little nervous about this, little bro.”

“You’ll be okay, Paulie,” he reassured her, giving her a little one-armed hug. “Just imagine that all of them are naked.”

“A lot of them actually are naked,” said Phil, who had found his own partition to observe the crowd through.

This, of course, led to a mass rush for openings through which to peek by those with a penis. Except for Nerdly. He was in a bit of a titter. “Pantera had about the worst concert sound that I have ever heard in all my years in the industry! What were they thinking? Who set up their sound for them? It was atrocious!”

“I think they’re part of the school of thought that believes that louder is better,” Jake said.

“That is high school level thinking,” Nerdly said. “I am going to find out who their sound engineer is and have a little talk with him.”

“Could you do that after our show?” Jake asked.

“Well, yes, of course,” Nerdly said.

Pantera had now left the stage. One of the MCs took their place and stood at one of their microphones. “Let’s hear it one more time for Pantera!” he told the crowd. This produced another one of those roars that washed over everyone.

“I really just don’t get the appeal of that band,” Jake said, shaking his head a little.

“Some mysteries will never be solved,” said G, who was sipping from a bottle of water.

“Our second to last act of the evening,” continued the MC, “will be taking to Stage 2 on the left side of the venue in just twenty-five minutes. I hope everyone here is in the mood for a little Jake Kingsley!”

The roar rushed over them again, considerably louder this time than it had been for Pantera. It seemed like the crowd was in the mood for a little Jake Kingsley, this despite several articles in prominent music magazines over the past month questioning whether or not Jake Kingsley, with his alternative rock sound, really belonged at a heavy metal oriented festival like the TSF. Jake basked in the sound of the applause, feeling some of his doubts and fears slipping away.

“You hear that shit, Jake?” G asked, clapping him on the back. “That’s for you, brother!”

“Music to my ears,” Jake said with a smile.

The crew was given the go-ahead to access the stage and start setting up. They went to work, putting into practice maneuvers they had only rehearsed in the studio building to this point. But they were professional roadies and techs, and they were being paid well, and they did their jobs with efficiency, precision, and a teamwork ethic that professional sports teams would be envious of.

While the two primary sound techs and Sharon Archer made their way to the main soundboard out in the audience, Ted’s drum set was wheeled back up the ramp by four of the roadies and positioned near the back of the stage. The microphones and their stands were brought up next and positioned at the direction of Jeff, who had a schematic map of the stage with marks showing where everything and everyone was to be positioned. G’s keyboard was brought up next and assembled in his spot just in front of and to the left of the drum platform. And then the amps and the effects pedals were placed. Jake had two pedals and his talk box at the base of his microphone stand at the front center of the stage. Lenny did not have a microphone stand because he did not sing—at least not with Jake, he did do some backup singing for Lighthouse—so his were placed just behind and to the left of Jake’s position. Pauline’s and Phil’s microphone stands were placed just to the right of the drum platform.

Next, it was time to wire everything up. Boxes of cords were brought up, with each cord in question being tightly wound up and labeled for what it was for. It had become standard over the past few years to use wireless, belt mounted transmitters instead of physical cords but Jake was going old school. He had used the wireless tech playing with G, and Laura was used to it as well, but most of his core band members were unfamiliar with the technology and he had not had time to purchase the equipment and train everyone on it. The only one who had a wireless box was Laura, because having a cord trailing from her small soprano sax would be distracting, both to her and the audience.

It took about ten minutes to wire everything up and run the wires to the Lux. Once this was accomplished, the main wiring that led to the sound board where Sharon and the techs were stationed, were plugged into the back of the Lux. The Lux was powered up and then the amps were turned on and adjusted to the levels that had been established during the sound check. A hum briefly emitted from the main speakers of the venue, followed by a brief burst of feedback.

“All right,” Jeff said to his crew. “Let’s start doing the checks.”

He and Nerdly walked out onto the stage. No one in the crowd seemed to recognize Nerdly, which was not unusual. Of all the former Intemperance members, he was the one who had always been able to blend in in a crowd the best thanks to his crewcut hair, preppie manner of dressing, and his thick glasses. The two of them checked the mikes first, tapping each one and then saying “test test” or sometimes “testing, one two three” into them to evaluate the sound output, both audibly and on the board itself. Nerdly had a portable radio he used to communicate with Sharon and when something needed a minor adjustment—as it usually did when Nerdlys were involved—he would relay it to her, or she to him, and the adjustment would be made.

After finishing the mikes, they started on the drums. One of the roadies who was an accomplished drummer himself sat in Ted’s seat and pounded each individual drum while the Nerdlys checked the output of the mikes that picked up the sound. A few adjustments were made, and Nerdly would have loved to make more, but the clock was ticking. They were less than twelve minutes away from stage time. Nerdly declared the drum set operational within parameters and they moved on to the guitars.

Another of the roadies, this one an accomplished guitarist that Jake had known for years and who had served as Jake’s personal assistant on the last Intemperance tour, carried Jake’s black and white Les Paul—the one he would be playing for the majority of the tunes—and plugged it in. The tone knobs and the distortion levels on the amp were already pre-set from the sound check, but they needed to make sure the final output was good. He turned the volume knob all the way up pushed down on the far-left effects pedal, giving him standard distortion. He strummed out a quick chord on the low E and A strings, sending a blast of guitar sound out over the crowd, who cheered loudly when they heard it.

“I’m going up about two tenths,” Sharon’s voice said from the portable radio. “Give me another one.”

She was given another one. She then asked for something on the high end. The roadie played out a brief little solo using the G and B strings. This fell within parameters.

“Okay, next!” yelled Jeff.

The roadie took Jake’s Les Paul backstage and returned a few moments later with Lenny’s candy apple red Telecaster. He plugged in and they went through the process once again, the crowd cheering every time they heard a guitar chord played.

They did not have to check every one of the guitars, just the guitar stations since any guitar played would be set to the same level on the board. They did have to check Natalie’s violin, and G’s keyboard, and Ben’s bass, and Laura’s sax. This went relatively quickly except for the sax. No one in the crew knew how to play one except for Laura herself and they did not want her stepping out onstage where the crowd could see her because her appearance during Blur was meant to be a surprise. They actually agonized over this for a few moments, debating between having her just step out there for a minute and hoping no one would recognize her or having someone who did not know how to play just blow in the thing to check the volume. And then the blindingly obvious occurred to Jake.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “She’s wireless! Why does she need to step out there? Can’t she just blow a few melodies from back here?”

Nobody actually slapped their forehead, but everyone felt the need.

Laura blew out a few brief pieces in different ranges and the sound of her horn was heard by a hundred thousand people. A few cheered, but most did not. It was to be the only horn of any kind that would be heard during the TSF and they were not quite sure what to make of it.

“All right,” Jeff declared after getting the final approval from Nerdly. “We’re good to go. We made it under the wire.”

Everyone looked up at the clocks on the wall. One gave the current time. It was 7:56:32 PM. The other was counting down minutes and seconds until showtime. It read 03:28.

The crowd, meanwhile, was starting to get louder, realizing the show was about to start. They were stomping their feet and cheering.

“All right,” Jeff said. “It’s almost time. Let’s get in position.”

Not everyone was going to be in the first number. Natalie and Laura and G did not have parts to play for the opener so they would stay backstage. But everyone gathered at the stage entrance anyway. Jake was given his black and white Les Paul, which he slung over his neck. Lenny was given his Telecaster and he did the same. Ben’s bass was out on the stage, leaning against the drum platform, already plugged in. Ted had a pair of drumsticks in his hand. They gathered in a circle and waited. Jake felt the stage fright he always felt to some degree coming to a peak. Ninety-five thousand people out there, kept going through his mind. Can we really do this? Is my band really up for this?

He looked over at Pauline. She would sing backup on the choruses for this first number and she looked absolutely terrified. Her stage fright was probably fifty to a hundred times greater than what he was feeling.

“You okay, Paulie?” he asked her.

“I don’t know,” she said, chewing her lip a little. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared in my life.”

“Just go out there and do what we’ve been practicing,” he told her. “You know your parts. And I know you probably won’t believe me, but this is the truth: The fear is as great as it’s going to get at this moment, right before we go out. Once you step out there and start singing, once you realize that you’re not fucking anything up, that fear will drop away and be replaced by something that is right up there with sex.”

She nodded. It was unclear whether or not she believed him.

The countdown timer reached one minute. From seemingly nowhere, Adam Crowler, another of the MCs, appeared. He looked at the band and smiled. “Everyone ready?” he asked.

“We’re ready,” Jake said.

“Then let’s do it,” he said. He stepped out on the stage and walked up to Jake’s microphone. The crowd, seeing him appear, began to cheer again. “How is everyone doing out there tonight?”

They roared that they were doing pretty damn good.

“Good, good,” Adam said. “It’s now time for our second-to-last act of the night. This is an artist who has put out several best-selling CDs over the past few years as a solo artist but who has not toured or played a complete show of his material since his days playing with a little band called Intemperance. Have you heard of Intemperance?”

The crowd had heard of Intemperance and let him know this.

“All right,” Adam said. “Well, we have him here tonight to perform his solo material for us at the TSF. I give you the one, the only, the legendary, Jake Kingsley!”

The roar of the crowd was the loudest Jake had heard all night and he basked in it for a moment. They really do want to hear us, he thought happily.

“All right, guys!” he yelled to his band. “Let’s do it!” He held his right hand out, palm up.

G got the idea first. He slapped his hand down on Jake’s. Lenny followed. Laura then Ben then Ted then Natalie then Phil followed. Finally, Pauline realized they were all waiting on her. Still chewing her lip, still looking terrified, she slapped her hand down as well. They held that position for a moment and then broke apart.

“Let’s go!” Jake shouted. He turned and walked to the stage door. His band followed behind. It was showtime.