Climbing the Rock

Chapter 15A: Crossing The Line

December 17, 1984

Los Angeles, California

It was Monday morning and Steve Crow was going over the music sales reports from the previous week. He was dismayed to see that La Diferencia's debut album The Difference had moved into the number two spot on album sales, selling only six hundred fewer copies than The Thrill Of Doing Business, which was holding at number one for the eighteenth consecutive week. At this rate it was entirely possible that The Difference would take over the number one spot within a few weeks, dislodging Intemperance's album as neatly as I Love To Dance had aced out Crossing The Line and Young Love had aced out Rules Of The Road in singles sales. Young Love was, in fact, still holding strong at number one on the singles chart and would probably continue to for another few weeks. And from what he had heard La Diferencia was slated to release yet another single — Serenade Of The Heart — the moment Young Love started to fall.

"I wish we would've signed those fucking spics," Crow said enviously as he mentally calculated how much revenue that would have brought in and as he imagined how much less of a pain in the ass third world Venezuelan musicians would be compared to the lowlife antagonists he was being paid to manage.

And speaking of those pains in the asses, where the hell were they? It was ten minutes past nine. They had promised him they would be in his office, demo tape in hand, at nine o'clock sharp. It was just like them to show up late for a meeting. These days they seemed to do everything within their power to antagonize or generally annoy him. He wondered if they really had a demo tape for him or if they were just blowing smoke up his ass.

Crow had a respectable network of spies who kept an eye on the members of Intemperance for him. There were the manservants who lived with each band member and there were the limousine drivers who transported them from place to place (except for Jake, ever since that goody two-shoes bitch Mindy Snow bought him the Corvette, that particular avenue of information had been severely curtailed). There were the bouncers and the bartenders at the clubs they hung out in. And just lately there was Darren and Coop themselves. Both were so strung out on heroin these days they would tell him anything just to keep the supply coming. From this network came the information that, upon returning from their Thanksgiving vacation, Jake, Matt, and Bill suddenly decided to abandon the six songs they had been initially working on and start completely fresh. This had alarmed Crow greatly, enough that he had called Jake and demanded an explanation.

"They just weren't good enough," Jake told him, not even bothering to ask how Crow knew that they had abandoned the six songs — something that immediately triggered Crow's suspicions that a game was afoot.

"You said they were quality tunes," Crow said. "The best you've done so far. You said they were the tunes we would probably want to release as singles."

"We were overconfident in them," Jake said. "You know how it is. When we stepped away from them and gave them some honest analysis we found that they really kind of sucked."

"But Coop and Darren said they were bad-ass tunes," Crow protested, not even caring that he was naming one of his information sources. "They told me I would love them."

"Well... you know that Coop and Darren have been suffering from... oh... shall we say, impaired judgment, lately."

Crow had to admit that this was true. Since he had allowed Cedric to introduce Darren to the effects of China White heroin — that magic white powder that had kept many a rock musician under control — both he and Coop had taken to it with perhaps a little more enthusiasm than was desired. They were both mainlining the shit now and spending all day, every day, in a state of near catatonia, a state that was quickly becoming counter-productive to musical production. And Jake and Matt, the two band members that he really needed to get under control, weren't using the shit at all, despite repeated attempts to introduce them to it.

"I understand," he told Jake, "but the deadline is coming up fast and we need at least three quality tunes out of you for single release and another seven for filler. Can't you at least use the six you started as the filler tunes?"

"They're not even good enough for that," Jake told him. "Trust me, they really suck."

"But..."

"Don't worry," Jake assured him. "We'll have twelve tunes for you on schedule. We know how to work under pressure."

And, if last Friday's phone call were to be believed, they had come through. According to Jake and Matt, they had thirteen original songs recorded and ready for submission. Conversations with Darren and Coop seemed to confirm this although both of them had been blasted to the gills when they'd talked.

"Yeah, man, it's like some good shit," Darren told him on the phone at one point. "I mean, I like wasn't so sure about it at first — it's a little different than our normal shit, you know, but the more we jammed, the more I liked it."

"It's different," Coop said later that same day. "But progressive, you know? It's the next level in Intemperance music."

Crow wasn't so sure he liked the terms "progressive" and "different" all that much. After all, formulation was the name of the game when you wanted to keep consecutive albums on the chart. Experimentation was strongly frowned upon since the general rule of thumb was that a band's core fans didn't like change in musical style (the ongoing success of Van Halen's 1984 album was the exception to this rule). But at this point in the game he was approaching desperation anyway. The band needed to be in the studio in less than three weeks and because they refused to do covers or pre-written material (and because no one had thought to put a clause in their contract specifically demanding National's right of musical dictation) Crow was pretty much stuck with accepting whatever they came up with.

"How bad could it be, really?" he asked himself. After all, despite being big pains in his ass and despite their rebellious ways, they were talented musicians and composers. Even their worst efforts would still sound palatable, wouldn't they?

His intercom buzzed and his secretary let him know that Matt, Jake, and Bill had finally arrived. Crow did not have them come in right away. Instead, he said he was busy with something and made them wait for ten minutes just to show them his time was important as well. He spent the time flipping through the photographs of Jake and Mindy naked on the boat and in the water. He had used one of his connections to score a set of duplicate prints from Paul Peterson — prints that did not have the black line across the good parts. As a committed bisexual he became equally aroused by both Jake and Mindy. Finally he put the photos back in their envelope and stowed them in his desk once again. When his hard-on deflated to normal he buzzed his secretary and had her send them in.

The three band members seemed in a jovial mood as they trooped into his office and took seats before his chair. He greeted them pleasantly, asked the normal questions about their health and welfare and they gave him the normal jerk-off answers. He offered them drinks and a few lines of cocaine like normal and this time they surprised him by taking him up on the offer.

"This ain't an official meeting," said Matt, "so why the fuck not? I'll have a Chivas and coke, heavy on the Chivas."

"You got any wine?" asked Jake. "I could go for a little French Chardonnay."

"How about Cognac?" asked Bill. "You have any of that?"

"Of course," said Crow.

"Copacetic," said Bill. "I'll have a double shot of Cognac on the rocks with seven-up and a cherry."

Crow actually winced at this last order but he passed it, as well as the others, on to his secretary.

"How about those lines?" asked Matt once the drink orders were off. "Let's get blown, shall we?"

"Uh... sure," said Crow and proceeded to set them up with two lines of high-grade blow apiece. By the time they had all snorted up, their drinks had arrived and they all took a few sips.

"Here you go," said Jake, setting a large brown envelope on his desk. "The latest collection of masterpiece tunes from your favorite band."

Crow used a sterling silver envelope opener to cut open the top. He reached in and pulled out a cassette tape and a sheet of paper listing the titles of the tracks on the tape. He frowned a little and looked in the envelope again, seeing nothing but emptiness. "Where are the lyric sheets?" he asked.

"They're not in there?" Matt asked.

"No, there's just the track sheet."

"Well fuck my mother with a two by four," Matt said. "I must've forgot to put them in."

"You did make lyric sheets though, didn't you?" asked Crow. "We need those for copyright application."

"Yeah, we made 'em," Matt said. "I bet I left them sitting on my desk at home. I'll send them over to you with the limo driver after he drops me off."

Crow shrugged and picked up the track sheet. He looked at the titles there. The very first one caught his eye: Fuck The Establishment by Jake Kingsley. "Fuck the establishment?" he asked.

"Hell yes," Jake said. "It rocks, man. It's one of our tightest tunes ever. And you gave me the idea for it. Remember when we were in here last month and you said you didn't care if we yelled 'fuck the establishment' over and over? Well that inspired me."

"We can't write fuck the establishment on an album cover," Crow said. "And if you actually say that in the tune, they won't play it on the radio."

"We can write F, star, star, star, can't we?" Matt asked. "And if you do want to release it as a single, they can edit it so 'fuck' doesn't come through."

"Yeah," said Jake, "like that hacker band WASP did with that fuck like a beast tune."

"Well... we'll see," Crow said, already three quarters of the way to rejecting Fuck The Establishment without even hearing it. He looked at the next title. It was another one penned by Jake. "So Many Choices. Now that sounds better... in title anyway."

"It fuckin' rocks," Matt agreed.

"Oh yes," said Jake, "I think its some of my best work actually. It's an examination of the dilemmas that we're all faced with on a daily basis, not just the complex ones, but the simple ones."

Crow nodded. He didn't give a rat's ass what the song was about, as long as people would like it. "Do you think it has potential for release as a single?"

"It's more than that," Matt said. "I think it might take a Grammy next year."

Crow liked the sound of that indeed. He looked at the rest of the titles, seeing nothing that reached out and touched him in any way. He wished they had remembered to bring the lyric sheets so he could get a better idea of what was waiting for him. Oh well. What could you do? At least they remembered the cassette and that was the important part.

The band finished their drinks and then said their goodbyes. Crow, feeling magnanimous now that he had the tape in his possession, told them to take the next two days off and relax.

"Thanks, Stevie," Matt said. "We'll do that. I think another fishing trip is in order."

"I think I'll just get drunk," said Jake.

"And I'm going to get back on CompuServe," said Bill. "You wouldn't believe what you can do on there."

"CompuServe?" asked Matt, shaking his head. "You still playing around with that nerdy shit?"

"I'm a nerd," said Bill. "What else should I do?"

"So you like that service?" asked Crow, who had authorized the software purchase and the monthly charges when Bill had requested it two weeks ago.

"Oh yes," Bill replied. "It's the wave of the future."

"Wave of the fucking future," Matt scoffed. He looked at Crow. "Nerdly here thinks that in the next ten years every fucking computer in the world is going to be connected together and that we'll be able to send mail to each other that way, and pay our fucking bills, and get porn."

"Get porn?" asked Jake.

Bill nodded solemnly. "Historically the pornography industry had been quick to take advantage of fledgling technology and, in a few cases, has even contributed to the technology's success. Look at photography. No sooner had the camera been invented that the first nudie magazines and adult nickelodeons came into existence. Look at the movie camera. Before they even developed practical audio coordination for the technology sex films were circulating via the black market. And with the computer, my guess is that pornography will be what drives the success and makes it a global phenomenon. Nobody will admit they signed up for CompuServe or this new service that's coming out, Prodigy, for the pictures of naked women, but that's why they'll be doing it."

"Well now you're talking my language, Nerdly," Matt told him. "When it gets to the point that I can turn on my computer and pull up a beaver shot at will, you let me know. That's when I'll join the technological revolution."

"Agreed," said Bill.

They left Crow's office a minute later, still chatting about the pros and cons of computer porn and at what point they could expect to start encountering it. The second the door closed behind them Crow got on the phone to Doolittle. "I got the tape," he said. "They forgot to give me the lyric sheets but I'll make copies of the title sheet."

"Good," his boss responded. "I'll get Bailey and we'll meet in my office in twenty minutes to give these tunes a listen."

The second the elevator doors closed on them, Bill, Jake, and Matt started cracking up. It went on for the better part of thirty seconds, a much-needed release after twenty minutes of fighting to keep straight faces.

"Oh man," said Matt as the elevator reached the lobby level and they headed for the doors. "You were killin' me in there, Jake. A fucking 'examination of the dilemmas we're faced with on a daily basis'? Jesus Christ."

"Well, that is what the song is about," Jake said, causing another round of laughter to erupt.

"I'd love to be a fly on the wall of that office when he listens to that tape for the first time," Bill said.

"You ain't shittin'," Matt agreed. "The shock may just kill him."

"But remember," warned Jake. "This was a 'good faith' effort to produce music for the next album. They'll be calling us on this within the next two hours and they're really going to be throwing the accusations around. No matter what happens, no matter what they say, we cannot admit that this was anything less than our best efforts. If we do, the whole good faith concept comes crashing down and they can get a judge to hammer us."

"Fuck the establishment, huh?" said Doolittle as he perused his copy of the track sheet for the first time.

"Well... yeah," said Crow apologetically. He was plugging a boombox into the electrical outlet next to Doolittle's desk. "I'm a little leery of that one, song unheard. Unless it's absolutely ground-breaking in some way, I'm inclined to think that including it on the album — even as a filler tune not intended for airplay — would be more trouble than its worth. Those censorship groups are already sniffing up Intemperance's ass pretty hard. Putting a song with the word 'fuck' in the title might just give them the ammo they need to get some sort of a legal ruling in favor of their goals."

"I agree," Doolittle said. "But still, let's give it a listen. Maybe it is groundbreaking."

"And even if its not," said Bailey, "maybe we can get them to change the lyrics to 'screw the establishment', or something like that."

"Good luck on that," Crow said sourly. He was a veteran of many battles with Jake and Matt over the subject of their songs and so far, they had given him nothing more than an ulcer.

Crow put the cassette into the boombox and closed the door. After a check to make sure it was properly rewound (it was) he pushed play. A slight hissing came out of the speakers and then the lead-in to the song began. It was a bass intro, starting slow and gradually picking up tempo. As with all of the recordings the band had given them in the past, the quality was quite impressive considering the primative equipment that had been utilized to make it.

"So far, so good," Doolittle said as the bass reached top intensity and Matt's guitar sounded in. He ground out a furious, fast-paced opening riff and then settled in to what seemed the main riff, with Jake backing and Bill chiming in just between them. And then Jake's voice began to sing, the tone angry and hateful.

"There comes a time when you have to say,"

"Fuck this shit, I'm doin' it my way."

"There comes a time when you have to say,"

"Fuck this shit, I'm doin' it my way!"

"Wow," said Doolittle, as he listened to this opening verse sung over and over again. "That's pretty harsh, isn't it?"

"And what's with the repetitive lyrics?" asked Bailey. "I thought Jake and Matt both hated that formula?"

Jake sang the opening verse a total of twelve times while the guitars and the piano ground out an angry, spiteful, repetitive, but strangely appealing melody. At last, the tempo slowed down and the lyrics changed to a different style, though no less angry.

"You fucked with me, you fucked me hard."

"For my sense of worth, you've no regard."

"You cheat me blind, you exploit my name."

"My hopes and dreams, you set aflame!"

After this there was a pounding, heavy metal instrumental session followed by a transition back to the main riff and what was apparently the main verse — the line about there comes a time when you have to say, fuck this shit, I'm doin' it my way! This was repeated another twelve times and then there was a guitar solo lasting almost a minute. After this, another verse.

"So fuck you all, time to do it my way."

"Get out of the palace, it's Bastille Day!"

"Fuck the establishment! Fuck you all!"

"I'll see your heads on spikes on the wall!"

From there, the tempo picked up again, the guitars grinding in a dual riff, the drums pounding, the piano keys being hammered. And Jake was now screaming the same lyrics over and over.

"Fuck the establishment! Fuck you all!"

"Fuck the establishment! Fuck you all!"

"Fuck the establishment! Fuck you all!"

He sang this out a grand total of twenty-eight times. On the final recital he stretched out "Fuck you all" for a good twenty seconds, strongly emphasizing each individual word as a crescendo of drums and cymbals and guitar solos ended the tune. As the last sound faded away, Crow reached over and pushed the stop button. He looked at his boss, who seemed a bit stunned by what he'd just heard.

"It's a very powerful song," Doolittle said.

"I agree," said Bailey."

"I mean, did you hear the anger and hatred that Jake managed to convey? Not just with the lyrics themselves, but with the way he sang it. He actually sounded like he was infuriated."

"Even the instrumental sections sounded angry," Crow said.

"Who do you suppose they're so pissed off at?" asked Bailey.

"I don't know," said Crow, "but I'd sure hate to be on the receiving end of that much hostility."

"No kidding," said Doolittle. "So anyway, what do we think about it?"

"It would sell like mad if we actually released it," said Crow, "but I'm inclined to go with my first impression and reject it."

"I reluctantly agree," said Doolittle. "I mean, he must've said the word 'fuck' a hundred times. That's way more than Blackie Lawless in Fuck Like A Beast. If we actually put that on an album the censorship freaks would murder us. They'd get a law passed that only eighteen and older could buy the album and that would kill sales to a good portion of Intemperance's core audience."

"Not to mention opening the door to censorship of other albums," said Crow.

"I'm in agreement with you as well," said Bailey. "And even if we did get him to change the lyrics to 'screw the establishment' and 'screw you all', it would rob the tune of its raw power and make it sound phony."

"Well that's too bad," said Doolittle. "Maybe in a more progressive age we can use it. Let's be sure to keep in on file."

"Right," said Crow. "Shall we listen to the next one?"

Doolittle picked up the title sheet and looked at it. "Hmm," he said. "Another one by Jake. 'So Many Choices'." He nodded. "Sounds a little more reasonable."

"Jake said it's about the dilemmas we face in everyday life," Crow told him.

"Yeah," said Doolittle, "Jake is good at writing about that sort of thing. Let's hear it. If it's got the same power as that first tune, I'm sure we'll like it."

Crow pushed the play button. There was another hiss and then the song started with a standard three chord riff backed by acoustical sound from Jake and a solid piano melody.

"So far, so good," Doolittle said, liking the rhythm.

And then the singing began. Their mouths dropped as they heard it.

"I went down to the store today,"

"I needed some soup to eat."

"I like the kind in the red can."

"Easy to open, easy to heat."

"But there's a whole lot of red cans,"

"In your average grocery store aisle."

"From top to bottom, side to side."

"I knew I'd be here awhile."

"What the fuck?" said Doolittle.

Crow and Bailey both shook their heads, astounded.

There was a brief instrumental bit and then what was apparently the chorus of the tune kicked in.

"There's so many choices, too many to count."

"It's one of life's obstacles I must surmount."

"Should I go with chicken noodle, or perhaps bacon and bean?"

"Should I go with fulfillment, or the one that's healthy and lean?"

Doolittle reached over and hit the stop button. They all stared at each other for a moment.

"Am I insane," Doolittle asked, "or is he singing about picking out a can of soup in a grocery store?"

Crow licked his lips nervously. "That does sound like what he was talking about," he allowed.

"Maybe it's deep symbolism," Bailey suggested. "Jake writes like that sometimes. Maybe the soup is representing... oh... the decision of a country to go to war or not go to war."

"Symbolism in soup?" Doolittle asked. "Are you kidding?"

"That could be it," Bailey insisted. "Remember how Jake used to go on and on about all that shit happening in Beirut? Maybe the chicken noodle represents the decision to pull the marines out after the bombing. It's healthy and lean, right? But maybe the bean and bacon represents the idea of remaining committed to your ideals."

Doolittle stared at him. "I think you're a fucking idiot," he said. "The man is talking about buying soup in a grocery store. Soup!"

"Maybe we should listen to the rest of the song," Crow suggested.

Doolittle rolled his eyes and hit the play button. The song continued. The second verse was not about soup. It was about what kind of bread to buy — white or wheat, stone ground, or rye, you can't decide until you know which meat to apply.

"Fucking bread?" Doolittle growled. "What is the meaning of this, Crow? Is this a joke?"

"I don't know," Crow said. "This is the first I've heard of their submissions."

There was a bridge to the song dealing with cost versus nutrition, pleasing packaging versus quality, and the dilemma of picking out one's ingredients in order to assemble a complete meal. There was then a third verse. This one dealt with the issue of how to pick out the proper lunchmeat to go with the bread and the soup.

Doolittle hammered the stop button again. "This song is not about the fucking marines in Beirut! It's a song about going to the fucking grocery store! The grocery store! We can't put something like this on an album! It's not even good filler material!"

Crow was perplexed. "I'm not sure what the boys were thinking when they came up with that one," he admitted. "But I'll agree it's a definite reject."

"I still think it might be about Beirut," Bailey said.

They ignored him. "Let's see what the next one is about," said Doolittle, consulting the title sheet again. "Track three is called The Switch."

"That could be intriguing," Bailey said.

Crow hit the play button. The song started. They knew right away that something was terribly amiss with it. It opened with a piano solo but it was quite far from Bill's normal style. It sounded almost like a beginner trying to follow along with a song sheet — and frequently failing to do so. Then the bass kicked in. It too sounded forced and out of practice, with frequent mistakes. The lead guitar started up and it sounded downright horrible even though it was only a two-chord riff. The backing guitar sounded even worse. The drumbeat was slow and uncoordinated with the bass beat and the overall rhythm.

"This is atrocious!" Doolittle cried. "What the hell are they doing?"

The vocals started. It wasn't Jake's voice that came out of the speaker however. It was a high-pitched, reedy voice, out of key and with a flat, monotone timbre.

"Is that Bill singing?" asked Crow.

"It sounds like him," Bailey agreed.

"He's horrible at it," Doolittle said. "Why in the hell is he singing lead?"

"I think I get it," said Crow, who was perusing the title sheet. "Look at this tiny notation they added at the bottom of the sheet."

Doolittle and Bailey both had to hold the sheet very close in order to read the miniscule printing in the bottom right corner. It was in Jake's neat handwriting and read: In keeping with the spirit of the lyrics of The Switch, that song was performed with the band members swapping roles as follows. Jake Kingsley on bass guitar, Darren Appleman on lead guitar, Bill Archer on lead vocals and rhythm guitar, John Cooper on piano, and Matt Tisdale on drums.

"They swapped instruments?" Doolittle yelled. "What the hell is that about?"

"Can they do that?" Bailey asked.

"Well... there's nothing in their contract that says they can't," Crow allowed.

"They can't play each other's instruments!" Doolittle said. "It sounds like shit. Bill can't sing, Coop doesn't know how to play the piano, Darren sure as shit can't play a lead guitar, and Matt has never held a set of drumsticks in his life! And while I'm sure that Jake could play the bass if he really wanted to, he doesn't seem to be making much of an effort here."

"No, he really doesn't," said Crow.

"Do you really think they thought this was a good idea?" asked Bailey. "Are they that taken with themselves?"

"No," said Doolittle. "They're not. They're fucking with us deliberately."

"What do you mean?" asked Bailey. "Why would they do that?"

"Their contract," said Crow.

"Right," said Doolittle. "They're firing a shot across our bow."

"Huh?" asked Bailey, not quite catching the analogy.

"They're giving us crappy tunes, knowing that we'll reject them," said Doolittle. "They're unhappy with their contract and they think that playing this little game with us is going to make us renegotiate with them."

"They can't do that!" Bailey exclaimed. "We've got them scheduled to go into the studio the first week in January."

"And they will go into the studio the first week in January," Doolittle said. "You can mark my fucking word on that."

"Let's listen to the rest of the tunes," Crow suggested. "Maybe we're jumping to conclusions here."

"I don't think so," Doolittle said, "but go ahead." He waved at the boombox.

Crow pushed the play button and then fast-forwarded to the next song. It was penned by Matt and called The Discovery. The instrumentation was half-assed and the lyrics seemed to be dealing with the subject of finding lint in one's belly button. The song after that was another piece by Matt called Lighting Up. It was lengthy dissertation with four verses and two bridges on the mechanics of lighting a cigarette. The next four songs were all in the same genre. There was one by Jake about fluffing his pillow before retiring for the night. There was one by Matt about moving his bowels the first thing in the morning. Another by Jake dealt with the age-old concept of picking one's nose and what to do with the booger once it was extracted. And then Matt touched upon the subject of proper condom disposal after a sexual encounter. For the last three songs, two of which were Matt's and one Jake's, they switched back to the genre of Fuck The Establishment by submitting angry, profanity-ridden tunes about getting fucked by corporations and contracts and rich white guys in suits. Though these tunes had decent instrumentation the lyrics were quite outside the realm of what could reasonably be put on a mass-produced piece of vinyl that would be sold to teens.

"Yep," said Crow when the last of the songs — White Suits — was finally finished. "They're playing games with us all right."

"They're going to regret this," vowed Doolittle. He picked up his phone and got his secretary on the line.

"Yes, Mr. Doolittle?" she asked.

"I want to know where every member of Intemperance is right now," he told her.

"Yes, Mr. Doolittle," she replied.

It took her less than two minutes to check with the various resources they had to keep track of that information — namely the limo drivers and doormen of the buildings they lived in and, especially, the manservants. The phone buzzed and Doolittle picked it up.

"Where are they?" he asked.

"Darren and Coop are at Darren's house," she reported. "They've just shot up some heroin and are watching MTV."

"And the rest?"

"They're all at Jake's house, shooting pool," she said.

"Are they intoxicated?"

"According to Manny they've been doing nothing but drinking soda and smoking a lot of cigarettes. They're cold sober."

Doolittle nodded. "Yep," he said. "They know we're going to be calling them soon." He thanked his secretary and then hung up. He then consulted his Rolodex and looked up Jake's phone number. "Let's get this shit over with," he said. He picked up the phone and began to dial.

"I swear to God, Nerdly," said Matt. "You are un-fucking-natural at this shit."

Bill smiled. He had just successfully sunk the eight ball into the corner pocket by making the cue ball bank three times off the rails, slide neatly between groups of Matt's solids still left on the table, passing by one with less than a quarter of an inch to spare, but never touching anything until contacting the eight with just enough force to push it into the pocket. "It's all a matter of simple geometry," Bill told him. "You see, the angles of a pool ball bouncing off the rail and imparting momentum to the other balls on the table are a perfect example of both geometric formula and Newtonian principles in action. When I make a shot I simply check my angles, calculate the action and reaction of the spheres and adjust accordingly. It's a mathematic certainty that my shot will be true. The only real variable is my aim, which, as you've seen, is also quite true. You owe me five bucks. Pay up."

"I got your fuckin' Newtonian principles right here," Matt muttered. He pulled a five-dollar bill out of his wallet. He rubbed it across the back of his jeans as if wiping his ass with it and then handed it over.

"Thank you," Bill said, pocketing it. He turned to Jake. "Ready for another?"

"What the hell?" Jake asked, lighting another cigarette. "I still got twenty bucks on me. That's four more games I can lose."

While Matt — as loser — went about the process of gathering the balls and pushing them to the center of the table and Jake — as challenger — went about the process of racking them up so Bill could break for the new game, they talked of the tape they had just submitted, their voices low to avoid being overheard by the spy Manny.

"I think The Switch is going to be what clues them in," said Jake. "That was an absolutely horrible song."

"Except for the singing, right?" asked Bill. "I mean, my voice ain't that bad, is it?"

"You got a good back-up voice, Nerdly," said Matt, "but when you sing lead you sound like a fuckin' train full of cattle colliding with a chicken truck."

Bill looked hurt at this.

"Of course, you were trying to sound bad on the recording, weren't you?" asked Jake. "The way I was on the bass guitar?"

"Uh... yeah, of course," said Bill, who had thought he'd been singing his best.

"And you succeeded," said Matt. "But anyway, I think you're giving them more credit than they deserve, Jake. They'll probably get all the way to Bedtime Ritual before it starts to occur to them that something is wrong."

"You ever thought about what would happen if they actually like those songs?" asked Bill. "What if they really want us to record them?"

"Like them?" said Jake. "I seriously doubt that."

"Well, maybe not like them," said Bill. "But what if they think they're acceptable?"

"I wrote a song about taking a shit, Nerdly," Matt said. "And Jake wrote one about slinging a green booger against the wall. You don't really think they're gonna deem that recordable, do you?"

"I suppose you have a point there," Bill allowed.

All three of them were a bit giddy as they waited for the phone call from Crow or Doolittle that they knew had to be coming. The proverbial line had been crossed and their bosses were sure to be pissed off once they realized what was taking place. At the same time they were absurdly proud of the considerable effort that had gone into composing and producing such horrible songs in the first place while keeping the master plan of what they were doing secret from Darren and Coop, who they knew were now nothing more than another set of spies for National Records.

The first part of the plan had been the easy part. It had been with considerable glee that Matt and Jake — the songwriters and melody composers of the group — had come up with the tunes in the first place. Once the plan had been agreed to after Jake and Bill's return from the visit with Pauline, they had each sat down and simply started strumming and playing, coming up with an average of two songs per night by simply picking a random subject out of the air and setting it to music. They had rejected anything that could have remotely been classified as musical or deep or acceptable and had utilized rhythms and riffs that encompassed everything they hated about pop music.

The second part of the plan — keeping Darren and Coop from realizing what they were doing — had been a little more difficult but was aided by the fact that the two of them were so strung out on heroin that they paid little attention to things like musical quality and lyrical depth. It pained all three of them to see the drummer and the bassist in this state — after all, they were very close friends who had been through a lot with them — but they took advantage of this state to the full extent they were capable of.

"Is this a song about picking out soup, man?" Darren had asked when So Many Choices had first been introduced.

"Naw," Jake had told him. "It just seems like that. Actually, it's a deeply symbolic piece about the dilemmas of life as we know it, transcribed into a Zen-like representation of simplistic tasks."

"Ohhhh," Darren replied, nodding wisely. "That's fuckin' tight, Jake. Really tight. And not many tempo changes either."

"Yeah," said Coop. "You're really maturing musically, Jake. Seriously, man."

"Thanks," Jake had said. "Now let's go through it again."

It was through such discussions that they managed to convey to Crow and Doolittle that they were in fact working on new material at a furious pace and that they considered it to be "progressive" musically. As for the actual details of the songs or their composition — such as the fact that they were swapping roles for The Switch, or that Fuck The Establishment was full of angry profanity — they had simply asked Darren and Coop to keep that information to themselves for the time being.

"We want them to experience the full effect of our new style when they listen to the tape for the first time," Jake had explained. "If they hear about it in advance it'll spoil some of the surprise."

"I can dig that," Darren agreed.

"Yeah, me too," said Coop. "It's like a surprise party and shit."

Presumably, since none of the record company executives had called them during the rehearsal and recording process demanding to know what they thought they were doing, this plan had worked. They knew that Crow made a habit of calling both Coop and Darren at least once a day and that their respective manservants probably interrogated them every time they came home, but their answers about the musical quality and content must have been vague enough to keep from spilling the beans before the pot was boiling.

But the pot was surely boiling now and when Jake heard the phone ringing as Bill lined up to shoot his break shot, he knew it had finally boiled over.

The door opened and Manny stuck his head inside. He looked worried. "Jake," he said, "Mr. Doolittle is on the phone. He would like to speak with you."

"Mr. Doolittle?" Jake said, as if surprised. "Why whatever could he want?"

"Yeah," said Matt. "Crow told us we had the next two days off, didn't he?"

"He did," said Jake. He turned to Manny. "Take a message," he told him. "Tell him we're busy."

This served to fluster Manny. "Jake," he told him, "I think this might be important."

"You're not paid to think now, are you?" Jake responded. "Take a message."

His flustering grew worse but he pulled his head back from the door and disappeared. He came back less than thirty seconds later. "Jake," he hissed, "Mr. Doolittle insists upon talking to you right now. He is not taking no for an answer."

"Oh he's not, is he?" Jake said. "And what if I absolutely refused to come to that phone? Wouldn't he then be forced to take no for an answer?"

Manny actually started to tremble all over, his face turning a bright shade of red. "This is Mr. Doolittle we're talking about here," he said. "He is the second most powerful person at National Records. You can't say no to him, Jake. You can't!"

"I can't?"

"No," Manny said. "I must insist you come to the phone and speak to him immediately."

Jake looked up at the ceiling for a moment, as if lost in thought. Finally he looked over at Manny again. "Well... if you insist," he said. He turned to Bill and Matt. "Shall we?"

"We shall," said Matt.

They followed Manny back into the living room, where the phone extension was sitting on one of the end tables. Jake sat on the couch. Matt and Bill sat next to him. Jake picked up the phone and put it to his ear.

"What's up, boss?" he said.

"Jake," Doolittle said, his voice low and controlled. "We just got done listening to that demo tape you submitted for us."

"Did you now?" Jake asked. "We're rather proud of our efforts on that tape. What did you think?"

"I think you know what we think," he said. "It was horrible. Every one of those songs is non-recordable, but then that's just what you intended, isn't it?"

"Non-recordable?" Jake asked, making no effort to sound surprised. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Let's cut the shit, Jake. Your little plan is not going to work."

"Little plan? What plan might that be?"

"You submit horrible songs to us knowing that we'll reject them and try to pressure us into renegotiating your recording contract. It won't work. You're stuck with the contract you signed and you will be in that recording studio on schedule with songs that we can actually sell."

"We've given you all the songs we have, boss," Jake told him. "If you don't like the ones we submitted we can come up with some more, I suppose, but it'll take quite a while. Maybe three or four months."

"You will be in that recording studio on January 3," Doolittle said forcefully. "And you will have songs that are acceptable to us by that time. If you do not, you will be in breach of contract."

"I guess we'll have to be in breach of contract then, Mr. Doolittle," Jake told him, "because we've given you the songs we have and we don't have anymore."

"Jake, this is not going to work," Doolittle told him. "I know what you're thinking. I've been dealing with punk musicians like you for twenty-five years and there is nothing that hasn't been tried. You're thinking that because we caved into you on some little things like what kind of guitar Matt plays or what songs you are going to do or what kind of moves you do on stage, that we'll cave on this too. But it won't work this time. This is too serious of an issue. You signed that contract and you are stuck with it. We will not renegotiate with you or change any of the terms of that contract and we will destroy your musical career if you're not in that studio on schedule."

"We never said we wouldn't be in the studio on schedule," Jake said. "We just submitted an entire tape of music that we are fully prepared to record."

"You submitted a tape full of crap," Doolittle told him.

"Crap is in the eye of the beholder," Jake said. "We have made a good faith effort to provide you with material for our next album. We have made this good faith effort by the deadline set in the contract. We are prepared to record these tunes we submitted and put our good name upon them."

"Those tunes are not acceptable to us," Doolittle told him. "Your contract requires that we accept the tunes in order to avoid a breach of contract charge."

"Well I guess you'll just have to go ahead and charge us with that then," Jake told him. "We made our good faith effort and you rejected it. There is no way we could possibly come up with anything else before the deadline."

"Jake, this is not going to work!" Doolittle yelled, losing his cool for the first time. "We are not going to cave on this! If we renegotiated contracts every time some punk-ass band tried a stunt like this, we'd be bankrupt in no time. You may think we'll decide to settle with you just so we can keep making money off of you, but we won't. We'll lose millions by ruining your ass just to avoid setting a precedent that this sort of behavior is effective."

This speech actually got to Jake a little — he had not considered that they might go to the wall on this in order to avoid setting a precedent — but he didn't let Doolittle know that. He stood firm. "You do what you need to do, boss," he told him, "but we've made our good faith effort, we've submitted the tape to you, and there is no way we'll be coming up with anything else for at least three months. And even if we do come up with some new material, it will probably sound a lot like the material you already have. We kind of like this new style of ours, you know what I mean?"

"You're making a big mistake, Jake," Doolittle warned. "The biggest."

Jake said nothing in reply. He simply hung up the phone.