Standing On Top

Chapter 2a

New Beginnings

Los Angeles, California

December 9, 1986

Jake opened the door to his condo and led Jill Yamashito and her father, John, inside. The house was clean — the maid service had been in just that morning — and he gave them the ten-cent tour. They were both suitably impressed with his accommodations.

So far they'd been impressed with everything they'd experienced on this day, just as Jake had intended. It had started at 7:00 that morning when a limousine, sent by Jake, had picked them up at their respective homes and driven them to the Heritage County Airport. There, two first class tickets to Los Angeles had been waiting for them. They landed at LAX shortly after nine o'clock and another limo took them to their individual suites at the Hollywood Hilton Hotel. Once there they were offered use of either room service or the hotel restaurant for dining then allowed to rest up until eleven o'clock, at which point Jake arrived in yet another limo to escort them to Pauline's house to begin work.

At Pauline's they'd spent about ninety minutes going through every wire transfer receipt and every check Jake had received since the new contract had gone into effect. Pauline had then presented them with a document she'd drawn up regarding the band's contract with National Records. In order to look at the contract — and thus be able to calculate how much income Jake should be receiving from National Records — they had to sign a strict non-disclosure agreement that threatened severe civil penalties if the agreement was broken. This was because National — despite many rumors — had never actually admitted, either publicly or privately, that they'd renegotiated their contract with Intemperance for fear that other bands would try the same thing.

Jill and her father were both a little reluctant to sign such a document at first and Pauline had to explain to them that they would not be able to do business if they didn't. "It's not trickery of any kind," she explained to them. "It's a simple half-page document that's not even written in legalese. All it says is that if details of the Intemperance contract with National Records are made public and the source of that information can be proven to have originated with your firm and National, as a result, reverts to the old contract because of this, your firm will be held liable for damages."

"Which would be considerable," Jake added, much to Pauline's chagrin. "We weren't pulling in any money at all under the old contract."

"So in other words," Pauline said, shooting a dirty look at her brother/client, "as long as you keep your mouths shut about the specifics of the contract, there will be no problems."

Jill and her father both read the agreement several times, word for word, looking for hidden pitfalls but, as Pauline had promised, it was written in a simple, straightforward manner. They signed and Pauline then gave each of them a copy of the Intemperance contract to keep. She also gave them copies of Jake's contract with Gibson Guitars and Buxfield Limousines.

Both had spent the entire trip to Jake's condo reading through the documents.

"So the band is due another five hundred thousand dollar advance soon?" Jill asked as Jake led her to his office next to the condo's master bedroom.

"As soon as we submit a demo tape for the next album," Jake confirmed.

"Will that be before the end of the year?" she asked.

"Not a chance," he replied. "National is already pestering us for it but we haven't even all been in the same room together since the end of the tour, let alone jammed together."

"Jammed?" she asked, confused.

"Uh... yes, you know? Played together? Tried to compose new music?"

"Oh... of course," she said, filing that word away.

"Anyway, I've got two songs I've picked out on my acoustic there." He pointed to the battered Fender up on the wall. "And Matt's probably got one or two in mind as well. We need to come up with at least twelve tunes, maybe as many as fourteen, jam them out and perfect them, and then record them for submission. That won't happen until at least March, maybe even April."

"So your advance will not be forthcoming during this tax year?" she asked.

"Exactly," Jake said.

"Okay," she said. "We won't worry about that now then. What other income are you expecting this year?"

"All the big stuff is paid quarterly or on delivery," Pauline said. "Their next royalty checks will come in January. This includes the royalties from National and Jake's share of the profits from the Jake Kingsley signature guitar from Gibson. Merchandising profits are also paid quarterly and that will come in in January as well. The only thing left before the end of the year is the payments from NBC for the Saturday Night Live performance and the payments from CBS for their appearance on Rockline on December 28^th."

"How much will those be?" Jill asked.

"SNL is fifty grand for the band," Pauline said. "Minus my twenty percent and divided by five, that will be another..."

"Eight thousand dollars for Jake," Jill said before Pauline could. "And the Rockline payment?"

"That's twenty-five thousand for the band," Pauline said.

"So that's another four thousand," Jill said. "Anything else?"

"Two more record store signings before the end of the year," Jake said. "Those are a flat five hundred bucks apiece."

"And two hundred of that goes to Pauline?" Jill asked.

"Yes," Pauline confirmed.

"So another eight hundred then," Jill said. "That means Jake is expecting another twelve thousand, eight hundred dollars before the end of the tax year?"

"Right," Pauline said.

"Okay," she said, consulting some notes she'd made while going through Pauline's neatly arranged files on Jake's income back in her office. "Last year, Jake pulled in one point three million dollars, upon which you paid $455,000 in federal taxes and $33,000 in state taxes?"

"Right," Jake said sourly. "They fuckin' raped me."

Jill and her father both blinked, shocked at his language.

"Sorry," he said, embarrassed. "Hollywood sometimes brings out the crudity in me."

"To each their own," Jill said. "So in any case, this year, you've made roughly $820,000 in royalties and other forms of contractual compensation, not including the twelve thousand, eight hundred we were just talking about."

"That sounds about right," Jake said.

Jill looked at him strangely. As an accountant it was inconceivable to her that someone making as much money as Jake didn't know the amount down to the penny at any given point in the year. "Okay then," she said. "We have a starting point to work with. Now, my understanding is that you do not own this condo we're sitting in?"

"No," he said. "I'm renting it from a real estate company."

"So nothing that you've paid in housing costs over the year is tax deductible," she said.

"Right," he said sourly. That had come up last year as well.

"And all of your travel expenses are paid for by National?"

"Well... either National or someone else. NBC is paying for our flight down to New York this weekend. There is one exception though."

"Oh?"

"When the tour was over I paid nine grand for a chartered flight home from Seattle so I wouldn't have to ride the bus. Isn't that tax deductible?"

"No," she said. "Not if your employer had a way to get you home and you simply paid out of pocket for something nicer. That would be the same as a business traveler upgrading from the coach seating his employer gives him to first class out of his own pocket and then wanting to deduct it. It doesn't work."

"That's a rip," Jake said.

"A rip?" Jill asked.

"Uh... unfair," Jake said.

"Unfair or not, it's the law. This office we're sitting in. When did you furnish it?"

"Last year," Jake said. "I already deducted everything that's in here then."

"I see," she said. "Well... Pauline mentioned that you've kept all of your receipts and cancelled checks for all of your purchases this year in a file?"

"Yes," Jake said. "Well... most of them anyway."

"Most of them?"

"I might've misplaced one or two here and there."

"I see. Well how about we look through the file and see what, if anything, we can deduct."

"Sounds like a plan," Jake said. "Before we start that, I could really go for a beer. Anybody else want one?"

Pauline thought that sounded like a good idea but Jill and her father both declined.

"I rarely drink," John said. "And I never drink while working."

"I've only had one bottle of beer in my entire life," Jill said, somewhat proudly.

"No shit?" Jake asked, trying to comprehend that.

"No shit," Nell said. "Why don't you show me where your file is and I'll start going through it while you get your beer?"

"Okay," Jake said. "Why don't you sit down at the desk there and I'll go get it for you?"

"Thank you," Jill said. She sat in his six hundred dollar chair while Jake went across the room to the closet. She watched as he opened it and removed a cardboard box that had once contained a case of Corona. Written on the side of it in black magic marker were the words: RECEIPTS AND SHIT. He carried it over and upended it over the desk. Approximately ten pounds of paper scraps, receipts, cancelled checks, junk mail, and a few bottle caps and cigarette butts came pouring out.

Jill was appalled. Her mouth dropped open. "This," she said, "is your file?"

"Well... I'll admit it's a little disorganized," he said, "but everything is there. Well... most of it's there."

The two accountants stared at the heap of papers and debris that represented the worst sort of blasphemy to their profession.

"Maybe I'll take that beer after all," John said.

"Yeah," Jill agreed. "Me too."

December 12, 1986

10:00 AM, Pacific Standard Time

The NBC-owned Lear Jet roared down runway 16R of the Van Nuys Airport, lifted off the asphalt surface, and soared into the overcast sky above the San Fernando Valley. It turned left to a heading of 086 and climbed to a cruising altitude of 43,000 feet. Projected flight time to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey — a general aviation facility just twelve miles from midtown Manhattan — was five hours and twelve minutes, which would make it just after 6:00 PM Eastern time when they landed. The plane was not even out of California yet when the first round of drinks — served by Roberto, the cabin steward — was nothing but a bunch of empty glasses and bottles on the way to the trash and/or dirty dish storage drawer.

"Yo, fruit fly!" Matt barked at the obviously homosexual Roberto. "Get another round going here, huh? You ain't earning your tip!"

"Right away, sir," Roberto replied, seemingly nonplussed by Matt's slur.

"And hey," Matt said, pulling a large joint out of his shirt pocket and waving it around. "Is it cool if we burn in here?"

"Well... technically that's against the rules," Roberto said. "But I'm sure I wouldn't notice anything if you were to light that up. After all, we fruit flies are pretty unobservant about tiny little cylinders like that."

Matt laughed. "You're all right, Roberto," he said. "If I was a faggot I'd let you suck my dick for me."

"Give me a call if you ever decide to switch teams," Roberto said. "Will you be requiring a light?"

"Naw, just start working on them drinks. I'll use Jake's smoke. Hand that thing over, Jake."

Jake took a drag off his cigarette, tapped the ash into the ashtray and started to hand it over. Before Matt could grab it, however, Pauline, who was sitting near the door to the service area, suddenly spoke up.

"Uh... before you burn that thing," she said, "maybe we could have a little meeting first? I have a few things I need to go over with you guys and I'd prefer you keep your heads semi-straight for it."

Matt sighed dramatically. "I suppose," he said. "And there is that other matter we have to take care of too, isn't there?"

"Yes," Pauline said. "There's that too."

"What other matter?" asked Darren, who was reclining in the seat next to Coop on the right side of the plane.

"We'll get to it," Jake said, putting his smoke back in his mouth. "Go ahead, Pauline. Do your manager shit."

"Thank you," she said, pulling a notebook out of her purse and looking through it. "First thing is Crow and Doolittle. They're calling me every day and asking when you guys are going to hit the warehouse and start putting together some music for your next album. They seem particularly fond of reminding me of your submission deadline, which is March 15, and then reminding me that that is only the deadline. They'd like something sooner."

"What the fuck for?" asked Matt. "They're not gonna release anything until Balance starts heading down the album chart and it don't look like that's gonna happen anytime soon. Can't we enjoy a little vacation time?"

"They still want the album in production on schedule," Pauline said, "whether they plan to release it by next September or not. I hate to nag, guys, but if you don't have something for them by mid-March you are technically in breach of contract. I might remind you that any breach is grounds for reversion to the old contract, and none of us want that."

"Especially not you," Darren said, getting a little dig in on Pauline, who he most definitely did not like.

She did not take the bait. "Especially not me," she agreed.

"We'll have a submission for them by the deadline," Matt said. "It may not be early, but it'll be there."

"When do you guys plan to start working on your submissions?" she asked. "Just so I have something to tell them when they call me tonight at the Plaza."

"We'll start working full-time as soon as Jake's preliminary hearing is done with," Matt said. "As you can imagine, having the lead singer up on an obscenity charge in some fuckin' Victorian-American shithole of a city is a bit stressful."

"Fair enough," Pauline said. "And you do have some tunes to work on when you start?"

"I've been strumming some out at night," Jake said. "I have three solid pieces and two more in the beginning stages."

"I've got three good ones too," Matt said. "I've also got two more riffs I've composed that I haven't put any words to yet."

"How are the tempo changes in yours, Jake?" asked Darren, who preferred solid tunes with little variation in beat. Jake, to his chagrin, was quite fond of multiple tempo changes in his compositions.

"Only one with radical tempo changes so far," Jake told him.

"I guess I can live with that," Darren said, lighting another cigarette.

"Glad to hear it," Jake said.

"Okay then," Pauline said. "I'll let Doolittle and Crow know that you'll hit the warehouse as soon as the preliminary hearing is settled."

"Unless they throw Jake's ass in some jail cell and deny bail for him," Coop said. "I hear that's what that fuckin' prosecutor is shootin' for."

"Thanks for reminding him of that, asshole," Matt said.

"I ain't sweatin' it," Jake said. "My dad's an ACLU lawyer, remember? He tells me they don't have a prayer and I believe him."

"As do I," Pauline said. "If there's one thing Dad knows, it's First Amendment legal precedents and he's been making sure the National legal team defending Jake knows about them too. Jake will never do any time over this. That's pretty much guaranteed. All this thing is doing is giving you guys free publicity."

"And making more people purchase our albums," Bill said.

"God love 'em," Matt said. "What else you got for us, Pauline? I wanna burn this thing before it starts to dry out."

She flipped a page in her notebook and then smiled apologetically. "Once again," she said, "I hate to be a nag, but how is everyone coming on getting accountants lined up for oversight and taxation of your income? As I told Jake, this is something that I really have to insist on."

"I'm looking into it," Matt said. "I've called a couple of them firms you suggested and they quoted prices to me but I haven't decided on one yet. I just know they're gonna try to fuck me somehow."

"I'm in place to keep them from fucking you," Pauline said. "Just let them know that and make sure you have me look over any contract before you sign it and you'll be fine."

"All right," he sighed. "I'll write their names on a piece of paper when I get home and then throw a fuckin' dart to decide."

"I suppose that's as good a way as any," Pauline said. "How about you, Bill? How you coming?"

"My mom is going to be my accountant," he said.

"Your mom?" Pauline said. "She's uh... not an accountant, Bill."

"She's always done the household finances and she served four terms as treasurer for the philharmonic," Bill said. "And I'll be assisting her. I'm not exactly a slouch when it comes to monetary figures and the calculation of profit and loss ratios. In fact, I've even purchased The Principles of Accounting from the UCLA bookstore. It's fascinating reading, really."

"I've said it before, Nerdly," said Matt, "but I have to say it again. You are a fucking party animal."

"Thank you," Bill said. "The book is tax deductible too, I might add."

"Well, let's see how you do come next April 15^th," Pauline said. "How about you, Darren? You working on an accountant?"

"Cedric's gonna do it for me," Darren said.

"Cedric?" Matt asked. "Your fucking manservant? Are you out of your mind?"

"What's wrong with him?" Darren asked.

"He's not an accountant," Jake said. "Why don't we start there?"

"And he's a fuckin' National Records employee," Matt added.

"He is not!" Darren insisted. "I don't know why you guys are always saying that!"

"Remember when he took all your shit out of your house, Darren?" Jake asked. That had been during the impasse over the contract renegotiation when National had tried to throw their weight around. "He did that because National told him to."

"He was just following orders," Darren said. "He didn't like doin' that. Anyway, he did my taxes for me last year. I got fuckin' raped like everyone else, but he didn't fuck nothin' up. I trust him."

"Jesus Christ," Matt said, shaking his head.

"Well, at least I'll be able to have oversight," Pauline said with a sigh. "And you, Coop? Do you have someone in mind?"

"I'm gonna use whoever Matt uses," he said.

"That works for me," she said. "And Jake already has the prestigious firm of Yamashito, Yamashito, and Yamashito, so I guess that covers that subject."

"What did that jap bitch say about your finances, Jake?" Matt asked. "She figure out a way for you to screw the government out of what's comin' to 'em?"

"No," Jake said, "she won't go there and I wouldn't want her to anyway. She went over everything I have — it took her six hours and three beers — and came to the conclusion that I'm just fucked this year. I'm gonna owe The Man about three hundred and twenty grand come April 15^th."

"Fuck me," Matt said. "Is that what I'm lookin' at too?"

"Pretty much," Jake said with a sigh. "We don't have nothing to defer the taxes in any way. We don't own our homes, we don't have any business expenses, we don't have any investments, we don't have any travel expenses. We're all pretty much stuck just paying a strict percentage of what we made this year."

"That bites ass," Matt said.

"No shit," Jake said. "Pauline's the one who had the right idea with buying that house. All the points she paid and all the interest she's paid is deductible."

"What the fuck's a point?" Darren asked.

Jake ignored him. "She also invested in some kind of wind generated fund that deferred another eighty grand of her money."

"That was rather genius on my part," she said proudly.

"Oh shut the fuck up," Jake said, not unkindly. "Anyway, tell these guys how much you will be paying in taxes."

"About a hundred and sixty grand total," she said. "It should be better next year if Reagan gets those new tax cuts for us rich people in place."

"That's like half of what Jake's paying," Matt said.

"Yep," Jake said with a nod. "The first thing I'm doing come our January royalty check is buying a house and furnishing it with a home office. Then I might invest in some windmills."

"Windmills are fuckin' cool," Matt said, nostalgia in his voice. "I remember this one time on some fuckin' school field trip to the art museum me and my bud did some shrooms on the bus and when we went inside I started looking at this painting of a windmill and it started moving and water started coming out of the spout. I stared at that for like a half an hour. Man, that was a trip."

"Sounds like a good reason to invest in them to me," Pauline said with a shake of the head.

"Yep," Matt said, in all seriousness. "Count me in on the windmill shit."

"All right then," Pauline said. "On that note, I've pretty much wrapped up what I need to talk about." She looked at Matt. "Anything that you need to talk about, Matt?"

"Yeah," he said. He looked toward the front of the plane. "Hey, fruit fly! Where are them fuckin' drinks?"

"Coming," shouted Roberto right back at them. A moment later he appeared, drink tray in hand. He distributed a rum and coke to Jake, a Manhattan to Pauline, beers for Matt, Coop, and Darren, and a Cognac and apple juice on the rocks for Bill. "Anything else?" he asked. "How about some caviar or some goose liver pate?"

"Naw," Matt said, answering for all of them. "How about you go hang out with the pilots for a little bit? Maybe one of them needs a rimjob or something."

"They don't like it when I'm up there with them," Roberto said.

"Well, not that I'm trying to be rude or nothin'," Matt said, "but we've got some serious shit to talk here. I know it's a small fuckin' plane, but you need to get lost."

"Of course," Roberto said, still showing no offense. "Just ring the service button if you require anything." He headed off to the front and disappeared into the service compartment.

"You really should make an effort to be nicer to people, Matt," Pauline chided.

"Why?" he asked.

"Hmm," she said, "how to put this? He's someone who is serving food and drinks to you. If you piss him off enough he might be inclined to put some of his special sauce in your caviar."

Matt actually paled a little. "That's not even fuckin' funny," he said.

"That's why I don't eat the food when Matt's around," Jake said. "Shall we get on with this?"

"Yeah, I guess we'd better," Matt said.

"What are we getting on with?" Darren asked a little nervously, noticing that everyone except Coop seemed to be looking in his direction.

"We need to talk to you about something, Darren," Matt said.

"About what?" he asked.

"About your fuckin' attitude ever since we signed this last contract and made you give up the heroin."

Darren chewed his lip a little. "Hey, man," he said. "I told you that I'm over that shit. It ain't no thing."

"I don't think you are over it," Matt said. "You've treated all of us like shit ever since you came out of the Betty Ford clinic. You don't contribute much when we're composing music, you're always making a bunch of snide little remarks about how much money we're making and how much you're making, and, most of all, you performed like shit on the last tour. You just stood there at your microphone every night, lipping your lines in a monotone voice, plucking at your bass strings, and generally doing nothing to help make our shows what they should be. You're losing your edge, man, and we can't put up with it anymore."

Darren looked at their faces, seeing that even Coop, his best friend, was nodding at Matt's assessment. "So what are you saying?" he asked.

"We're saying," Matt said, "that if you don't get your shit together and get it together quick, we're going to have to send you packing."

"You mean kick me out of the band?" Darren asked, his face still expressionless.

"Yeah," Matt said. "That's what I mean."

Jake expected an outraged denial. He expected yelling, screaming, arguments, defiance. What he didn't expect was what they got.

"I'm sorry," Darren said.

Matt, Jake, Bill, and Pauline all looked at each other. They looked back at Darren.

"Excuse me?" Jake said.

"I said, I'm sorry," Darren said, his eyes cast a little downward but his voice clear and strong. "You're right, I have been treating you shitty and I haven't been playing like I should." He looked up. "I guess maybe I missed the... you know... the pain medicine a little more than I thought. Sometimes it's hard being just the bass player and the pain in my ear... well... that shit's hurting all the fuckin' time. None of that is a reason to act like I've been acting."

"I... uh... see," Matt said. "So... uh... what are we going to do about this?"

"I've been mellowing out since we came off tour," Darren said. "I've had a lot of time to think and a lot of time to learn to like the shit I got, you know? I was depressed all the time but now I think I'm learning to get my shit together. I'm gonna do better. I promise."

"You do?" Matt asked.

"Yeah," he said, dragging on his latest cigarette. "I do. I'm gonna play just like I used to on this Saturday Night Live thing. I'm gonna be there in Cincinnati rootin' for fuckin' Jake from the stands. And when we start jamming again I'm gonna be just like I used to. If I'm not, then you can kick my ass out of here and I won't cry about it."

Another look was shared among the three core members of the band and their manager. A mental shrug was passed around.

"Well then," Matt said, "I guess that about covers that fuckin' waterfront, don't it?"

"Yep," Jake said, hoping that Darren was sincere.

"How about we burn this joint then?" Matt asked. "Sound like a plan?"

It sounded like a plan. Matt lit it with Jake's lighter and they passed it around, all six of them getting three hits apiece from it before Matt popped the roach in his mouth and swallowed it. The rest of the flight passed in pleasant camaraderie and peace. They all had a few more drinks and then, one by one, reclined their seats and drifted off for a nap.

Thanks to a tailwind they landed a few minutes early, touching down at 5:58 PM. A limo, sent by NBC, took them to the Plaza Hotel where they enjoyed a five-course dinner in the restaurant overlooking Central Park. After dinner, Jake, Matt, and Coop decided to go cruise the lobby shops for women — all of them found one, of course. Nerdly took a limo to Times Square where, after donning a cap and a pair of contact lenses instead of his glasses, he was able to pass himself off as an anonymous tourist. Pauline — who really was an anonymous tourist — dressed herself in a slinky outfit and hit some of the classier nightclubs in Manhattan where she received many offers to help clean the cobwebs out of her womanly parts. She turned all of them down and returned to her suite at the Plaza just after midnight.

Darren was the only one who went nowhere. Immediately after dinner he went up to his suite and dug through his luggage until he came up with a small water bong and a baggie of black tar heroin he'd purchased from his new friend Johnny at the Flamingo Club. He had been smoking the heroin every night at bedtime since being introduced to it by Allison. He found it kept the depression at bay, that it allowed him to continue about his life without constantly thinking about the real heroin he used to inject into his veins.

He smoked four hits and lay back on the bed, feeling the exquisite sensation of opiate intoxication surging through it. So far, he was only doing this at night.

"I can control myself," he said, smiling as he stared up at the ceiling. "I can fucking control myself."

He drifted off to sleep an hour later and woke up the next morning feeling refreshed and alive. That night, when they played before a nationwide audience on Saturday Night Live his performance was first rate — the best the rest of the band had seen from him since the beginning of the The Thrill Of Doing Business tour.

Talk of kicking him out of the band was forgotten — at least for now.

The preliminary hearing in Cincinnati turned out to be quite anti-climatic. Media from all over the country were there at the courthouse and filmed Jake — dressed in his best three-piece suit, his shoulder-length hair styled neatly by the band's hairdresser, Doreen Riolo — as he stepped out of the limousine and was escorted inside. For all the fanfare and anticipation, Jake only said two words.

"On the counts of public obscenity," asked the Judge — a middle-aged, tight-assed, conservative looking barrister who, it seemed, would have been at home wearing a wig in a seventeenth century courthouse in Salem, Massachusetts — "how do you plead?"

"Not guilty," Jake replied.

He then sat down at the defendant's table next to the team of lawyers from National Records' law firm — Eric Frowley, the man who had tried his damndest to derail the contract renegotiation before it could get rolling, chief among them.

The hearing took a total of thirty minutes. The prosecutor cited the anti-obscenity law Jake was being charged under. "It is quite clear," the prosecutor argued, "that the defendant blatantly, and pre-meditatively violated the Cincinnati community standards of decency by singing the lyrics to the songs Service Me, Descent Into Nothing, and Found Myself Again, which are about whoremongering, Satanism, and masturbation respectively." He then went on to recite the exact lyrics that were considered obscene.

Eric Frowley then got up and defended Jake like he was defending Jesus Christ Himself before a Roman court. He cited multiple precedents relating to First Amendment issues and multiple precedents regarding what constituted obscenity. The point he based most of his defense on was that in order for something to be considered obscene it had to have "no intrinsic artistic value".

"Obviously," Frowley told the judge, "since this band has sold more than eight million albums, has sold out every concert hall they've been booked in over the past two years, including all Cincinnati shows, and have been nominated for three Grammy awards to date, there is intrinsic artistic value to their work. Calling it obscene simply cannot stand up to a legal test."

The judge was forced to agree. He declared there was not sufficient evidence to try Jake Kingsley on the charge of obscenity and dismissed the case.

Six hours later, Jake was sitting on the balcony of his condo, soaking in his hot tub with a fresh drink and staring out at the rain that was falling on Griffith Park.

Two days later the band met in their warehouse for their first jam session since they'd cut the demo tape for Balance Of Power more than a year before.