Standing On Top

Chapter 15b

Jake did not stand, did not rise to the bait. "I've told you this before, Matt," he said mildly, "and I'll tell you again. This isn't high school. You don't win just because you can kick my ass. I will tell you that if you lay a hand on me in anger, you and I will never play music together again."

"Gentlemen!" Crow said, now truly alarmed. "We must stop this! We must..."

"Shut your ass, Crow," Matt told him without even glancing in his direction. He continued to glare at Jake for a few moments. When Jake didn't drop his eyes, he slowly sat back down. He looked over at Nerdly. "What about you, Nerdly?" he asked. "How firm is your position on this? You vote to kick Freakboy out and we have a majority. We can start working on the next album by the end of the week."

"I'm afraid not," Nerdly told him, obviously scared to say so, but sticking to his guns. "I foresee nothing but disaster if Darren were to return to the band. Like Jake said, he is unreliable in matters of sobriety."

Matt slammed his fist down on Crow's desk. "Well goddammit!" he yelled. He turned to Crow. "You might as well start processing your breach of contract lawsuit now, Crow, because it's obvious we ain't gonna resolve this fucking thing."

"This is just awful," Crow said. "We don't want to have to sue you guys. We want you to put this album together so we can all make some money here. Surely there must be a solution to this problem?"

"Not if these two motherfuckers are willing to go to the wall for Freakboy," Matt said. "Coop and I are prepared to go to the wall for Darren, so that means it ain't gonna get resolved."

"What about that, Coop?" Jake asked the drummer, who had been watching the angry conversation go back and forth mostly in silence. "Are you willing to go to the wall on this for Darren? Willing to let this thing go breach of contract?"

"Coop is with me on this!" Matt yelled. "Don't even try to convince him to..."

"Isn't that what you just did with Nerdly?" Jake asked him. "Didn't you just try to convince him to vote with you less than twenty seconds ago?"

"I thought maybe Nerdly might have some fuckin' loyalty in him, unlike you," Matt said.

"And I'm thinking that maybe Coop has some common fucking sense in him, unlike you," Jake said. He turned back to Coop. "So what do you say, Coop? Are you going to the wall on this, or not?"

Coop took a few deep breaths before answering. Finally, he said, "This shit is fuckin' stupid, man. It ain't the way the fuckin' world's supposed to work."

"So what's your answer then?" Jake asked him.

"Don't give in to these motherfuckers, Coop!" Matt said. "Don't fuckin' sell out your brother, man!"

Coop looked down at the desk, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. "I'll vote for Darren," he said softly. "Matt's right. We fuckin' owe it to him."

An uncomfortable silence descended in the room. Not even Crow broke it with his whining. Finally Jake suggested that they adjourn for the day since any hope of a solution to the problem was pretty much shot. Pauline agreed with his reasoning.

"Everybody think real carefully about this situation you're in," Pauline told them as they stood to leave the office. "Real carefully. One of you four is going to have to back down or you're all going to be looking at a whole shitload of legal trouble."

By the time Jake got home he had pretty much written the entire day off as one of the shittiest of his life. First, the band he had "discovered" in Boston — Brainwash — and that he knew (fucking knew!) would be a runaway success, had been shot down by his record company without even being listened to. And then there was the fight over the Darren vs. Charlie issue. He and Matt had gone head to head on that one and the very future of the band was now hanging in the balance, with neither of them prepared to give in. Though he and Matt had butted heads on occasion — the Shaver contract issue and the palm-muted chords issue were two that immediately came to mind — they had never gone after each other like they had today. Could their friendship survive something like this? Even more important, could their musical compatibility survive it? Jake didn't know and he was worried sick about how this was going to turn out.

Needless to say, the last thing in the world Jake felt like when he arrived at home was entertaining a visitor. But he had invited Gordon — Bigg G — over for dinner so he was going to be a proper host. He made sure there was a good variety of beer in the refrigerator and that Elsa knew to have extra portions of what she was making. He also told her Gerald and Delilah should hang out for dinner as he had a surprise for them.

"What kind of surprise?" she asked, perhaps a little dubiously.

"That rapper they've been pestering me about getting an autograph from is my dinner guest."

"The one they refer to a Bigg G?"

"That's the one," Jake confirmed.

"I see," she said. "Well, it should be an interesting experience for them. Just as I was starting to think their use of the English language could not get any worse, you arrange for a genuine rap musician to make an appearance."

"Sorry, Elsa," Jake said, knowing she was not entirely serious. "He's actually a nice enough guy."

"So he won't be carrying a firearm into the house?"

"He's under a first contract. He probably can't afford a firearm."

"Very well then," she said. "I'd better get back to work. It's almost time to start cooking the meat."

Gordon arrived just past 5:30 that afternoon. Jake opened the front door to let him in.

"What do you say, Jake," he greeted as he looked around the entryway in appreciation. "Nice crib you got here."

"Thanks," Jake said, shaking with him. "It's a place to lay my head at night."

"And it all belongs to you?" Gordon asked.

"Well... some of it still belongs to the bank, but yeah, I am the registered owner."

Gordon gave an appreciative whistle. "Sweet. Now I see what awaits me when I'm done with this first contract."

Jake's reply was almost automatic. "What makes you think I'm not still operating under a first contract?"

"Shee-it," Gordon scoffed. "Everyone in the industry knows you renegotiated your contract after your second album. I heard you submitted a tape full of shitty-ass songs and refused to do anything else until they caved."

"Really?" Jake asked. Apparently more of the truth had leaked out than he'd thought.

"Is it true?" Gordon asked.

"I'm not allowed to say," Jake said, nodding his head as he said it.

Gordon laughed. "I see," he said. "I'm glad it worked out for you. How about you give me a tour of this place? Show me what kind of action I'm looking at in the future."

"You got it," Jake said.

He gave him the full tour, starting with the upstairs portion, which was where he spent most of his time. When they headed back to ground level he showed him around the entertainment room and the back deck but deliberately left the kitchen until last. When they finally entered Elsa's domain, Elsa was standing at the stove watching over a panful of carne asada tacos, Delilah was at the counter, chopping onions, and Gerald was at the other end of the counter, grating cheese into a large bowl. No one looked up when they entered.

"Gerald, Delilah," Jake said. "I'd like you to meet a friend of mine from down at the recording studio."

Now they looked up. Once recognition kicked in, both mouths dropped open as if on hinges and both sets of eyes widened comically.

"It's... it's... oh my God!" Delilah whimpered.

"It's... Bigg G!" Gerald said. "I mean... uh... isn't it?"

Gordon was grinning. "That's what they call me," he said, stepping forward. "It's nice to meet you two. Jake's told me a lot about you."

"Oh my God!" Delilah suddenly screeched. "My hair! My make-up! I just got out of the pool! I have onions all over my hands." She turned angrily on Jake. "Couldn't you have warned us he was coming over? Oh my God, I'm gonna die!"

"You are not going to die, young lady," Elsa said, flipping her tacos over and then putting her spatula down. "And if you don't close your jaw, it is very likely an insect of some sort might fly into it."

Delilah's blush was visible even through her dark skin. "Nana," she hissed. "This is Bigg G. The Bigg G."

"Uh, you can call me Gordon, ma'am," Gordon said politely.

"Gordon?" Gerald whispered in disbelief.

"Surely you didn't think this gentleman's parents named him Bigg G, did you?" Elsa enquired.

"Uh... no," Gerald said. "But Gordon?"

"It's the name they gave me," Gordon said with a shrug.

"Don't worry, Bigg G," Gerald told him. "We won't tell nobody."

"You will tell nobody," Elsa said sternly.

"No, we won't!" Gerald insisted. "I promise!"

"I believe your nana was correcting your grammar," Gordon told him. "The proper phrase would be 'we will tell nobody', although it would be more correct to say 'we will not tell anybody'."

Gerald and Delilah were looking at Gordon in shock. A rap singer was correcting their grammar? But Elsa seemed strangely impressed.

"Oh, so you do hold some rudimentary grasp of the English language and its nuances, Mr. G?" she asked.

"I do," he agreed. "I just try not to let that get out."

The ice was effectively broken at that point. Jake formally introduced Elsa to Gordon and then did the same for the two kids. Elsa passed a few semi-kind words with him and then declared she needed to get back to work on her tacos. In light of the special guest, she excused Gerald and Delilah from further kitchen duties and allowed them to accompany Jake and Gordon out onto the back deck.

For the next twenty minutes the two kids pestered the rapper with a thousand questions about anything and everything they could think of. Gerald asked about the motivation for certain songs, about what kind of car he drove, about what kind of house he lived in. Delilah asked about his girlfriends and what life was like on the road and about when his next album was coming out. Gordon fielded their enquiries expertly, with the air of a man who had done so a thousand times before. Neither of the kids realized they were receiving pat, nothing answers to most of their questions. They were too much in awe to be even speaking with him.

Finally, Elsa called everyone in for dinner. Elsa generally did not allow the kids to eat with Jake when he had a guest over — she said it was not proper decorum for an employee to take advantage of her position like that — but in this case she made an exception since Bigg G had, after all, come over specifically to meet them. Elsa herself stayed in the background while the four of them tore into her platter of tacos, her homemade Spanish rice, and her homemade frijoles. Gordon seemed particularly appreciative of the food. He put away four of the tacos and two helpings of the rice and beans.

"Ma'am," he told Elsa when he finally finished up, "those were, without a doubt, the best tacos I have ever had in my life. Jake was right. You are an excellent cook."

"Why thank you, Mr. G," she replied. "I've always made it my policy to be the very best at what I do. That is why I work for the likes of Mr. Kingsley. He appreciates the work and the toil that has gone into perfecting my profession."

"I appreciate it as well," Gordon said. "Any chance I might be able to steal you away from him once I get my next contract going?"

She pretended to think this over for a second. "No, I'm afraid not," she finally said. "I've spent far too much time breaking in Mr. Kingsley. I'd hate to have to start all over with someone new."

Gordon and Jake both laughed at this.

Elsa didn't smile. It was not in her nature. She did, however, pull an expensive camera from one of her apron pocket. "If it's not a violation of any copyright rules," she said, "may I take your picture with the children, Mr. G? I'm sure they would love having photographic proof of this encounter to share with their peers."

"Of course you may," Gordon replied, much to the delight of Delilah and Gerald.

She snapped off about a dozen shots, Gordon the centerpiece in all of them. Some were of the four of them at the table. Some were of Gordon posing with each of the children and then with the both of them together. Though they didn't seem particularly interested in having Jake in any of the shots, they had enough manners not to say so when Elsa posed the four of them together.

"And now," Elsa proclaimed once the photography session was at an end, "I believe it is time for Jake and his guest to leave the table and for a certain couple of freeloading ruffians to help me clean up this kitchen."

"Aww, Nana!" Gerald proclaimed. "Why you wanna be doing that to us?"

"Yeah, Nana," Delilah echoed. "How often do we get to be hangin' with Bigg G?"

"You've hung with Mr. G quite enough," Elsa said. "And I already let you out of a portion of your meal preparation duties on his behalf. You will not be escaping your clean-up obligations. Remember my rules for allowing you to take advantage of Mr. Kingsley's hospitality."

"We remember," both said sourly. The rules in question were that if they were going to be at her employer's house, they were damn sure going to help her with her duties. In truth, the two kids actually tended to slow her down a bit when they helped, but it was the point of the matter to Elsa. If you wanted something in this world, you had to pay the price for it. The price for using Jake's swimming pool and watching his big screen television and listening to his vast music collection was a certain amount of mandatory housework.

Jake knew his cue as well as the two children. He pushed back from the table and asked Gordon if he'd like a beer and a smoke out on the back deck. Gordon agreed that this was a stellar plan. They got up and, after making a quick stop at the refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of Corona and a lime apiece, headed out the back door to the outside.

It was the nicest part of a summer day out on Jake's deck. Though it faced southward, the sizzling LA summer sun had moved far enough to the west that the privacy trees on that side of the yard blocked its rays from shining on the deck or the pool. They sat down at one of the redwood deck tables and Jake pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his shorts. He lit up and relished the first after-meal drag. Gordon pulled out his own pack of Kool menthols but made no move to extract one from the pack. Instead he pointed at Jake's pack.

"You mind if I get one of them?" he asked.

"Sure," Jake said with a shrug. "They're not menthols though."

"I know. That's why I want one," Gordon said, grabbing one from Jake's pack and lighting up. "I hate these fucking Kools." He exhaled slowly, his face showing an expression of bliss. "Ahhh," he groaned. "Now that's a proper smoke."

Jake looked at him strangely for a second. "If you don't like the Kools," he said, "why don't you just have them buy you some Marlboros or some Camels?" He knew, of course, that Gordon's smokes would be supplied by National Records — all recoupable on the expense reports.

"They won't do it," he said. "It's one of those image things they always pushing. Someone told them that a brother is supposed to smoke Kools, and that's all they buy me. They even get pissy with me if I use some of my allowance money to buy real smokes, especially if I do it at a club."

Jake shook his head, though not in disbelief. "I forgot what it was like to be under their thumb like that, all those weird ideas they get about what enhances the image and what doesn't. Like someone would decide they don't like your music anymore because they found out you liked to smoke Marlboros instead of Kools."

Gordon picked up his Corona bottle and took a good swig out of it. "They'd have a shitfit if they knew I was drinking this beaner beer too," he said. "They want me swilling down Colt 45 or King Cobra. I like to have a little scotch on the rocks every now and then — something I picked up from my old man, you know — but they'd probably try to breach me if they found out about that."

"With me, it was trying to regulate the women I dated," Jake said. "When they found out that Mindy Snow and I were going out, they acted like I'd just raped a nun in the middle of the Sistine Chapel. They swore to God I'd never sell another record if me and Mindy became public. And, of course, when we did become public, the next album we put out sold like wildfire."

Gordon got a sly smile on his face. "How was Mindy Snow anyway?" he asked.

"She was manipulative, self-centered, and a consummate liar," Jake told him.

"That's pretty raw," Gordon said.

"She was also about the best lay I've ever had," Jake added, "so I guess the price was almost worth it."

They had a laugh over that.

"Oh well," Gordon said. "The end of this first contract bullshit is now in sight. We're almost done with the album now. It'll be released within a month or so. After that, one more tour and I'm free as a bird."

Jake paused in the drink he was about to take and looked at his guest, wondering if he was deluded. "Free after this album?" he asked. "Isn't this only your third option period?"

"Goddamn right," Gordon said. "That's all they sign us rappers up for."

"Three?" Jake said. "They gave us six. I thought that was the standard industry first contract."

"Not for brothers it ain't," Gordon said. "I can't speak for any of them cracker rappers or the beaner rappers, but the record companies know there ain't no point in signing a brother to any more than three options. That's about the limit of working for 'the man' your audience is going to take. A brother has to go independent, or at least onto an independent label owned by someone else if he gonna maintain his street cred."

"Independent, huh?" Jake said. He had heard of independent labels, naturally, but had never looked too deeply into the subject since he knew it didn't represent true independence, unless you were prepared to buy your own recording studio, manufacturing plant, and distribution network — something that would cost upwards of sixty to seventy million dollars, not including employee payroll.

"The only way to go for a rapper," Gordon told him. "It's hard to be taken seriously if you're rappin' about white power and corporate America and all the injustices of the world and your album is being put out by National fucking Records, which, in case you ain't noticed, doesn't have a single brother workin' at anything above musician level."

"I suppose that's a good point," Jake said, "but isn't the whole concept nothing but a jerk-off? De facto independence? You're still using National Records' recording studio and you're still using their distribution network to get your albums out there. And they're still taking their share of your money, aren't they?"

"It's not quite that bad," Gordon said. "It's okay to use their distribution network as long as you have your own label name on your album and you have independence over what is put on that album. To be considered truly independent you have to be using your own studio — or at least another independent's studio — but as for the distribution of the albums, nobody cares about how that's done. You can use National or Aristocrat as long as that's all you're using them for."

"Hmm," Jake said thoughtfully. "Very interesting. And how much does National or Aristocrat get to take for using their network to get your albums out there?"

"As much as they can squeeze you for," Gordon told him.

"Naturally," Jake agreed. "But what's the going figure?"

"It depends on how popular you are and how much pull you'll have in negotiations," Gordon said. "Since I'm one of the hottest acts on the hip hop scene right now, it wouldn't be unreasonable for them to settle for forty percent of the gross profits from the album sales."

Jake raised his eyebrows. "Forty percent?" he asked.

"Give or take a percentage point or two," Gordon allowed. "If you can get a bidding war going on between two or three record companies, you might be able to get that down as low as thirty-five or so. I heard Ice-T was able to pull down thirty percent, but that might be just a rumor."

"Jesus Christ," Jake said, considering the possibilities. Under their current contract, they were collecting eighteen percent royalties on their album sales. That meant that National Records — their label — was collecting eighty-two percent of their profit. What Gordon was talking about here was changing that equation to the artist collecting up to seventy percent of their own album sale income. Seventy percent! That was more than a tripling of their income.

"I can see you getting all excited about this shit, Jake," Gordon said. "You must be nearing the end of your contract?"

"One more album and we're done," Jake confirmed.

"There are a few things you gotta consider here."

"Like what?" Jake asked.

"Well... first of all, you'll have to record and produce your own albums in your own studio, or at least pay for the time in someone else's. That's all gonna cost you some bank."

"True," Jake agreed.

"You'll also have to pay for everything else that goes along with making an album. You'll have to pay for the manufacturing and the packaging. You'll have to pay for all the shipping and the breakages and the stocking fees. You'll have to pay for advertising and promotion and put your own money up front to finance a tour. You gotta have a certain amount of bank in order to get something like this rolling, or at least have someone willing to bankroll you."

Jake saw where this was leading. "And if you don't sell enough albums to cover the cost of what you're putting out..."

"You'll be one bankrupt motherfucker," Gordon said.

It was a scary thought, but a liberating one at the same time. "So what's your plan?" Jake asked.

"I'm gonna start doing some networking as soon as this next tour is up," Gordon said. "I'm definitely going independent, but I might not be able to afford to step all the way out on my own at first. I'll have to get a bank to loan me a couple mil so I can rent studio time and keep putting food on my table until the income starts to flow. That shouldn't be too hard to do. Bankers are all a bunch of tight-ass whities but they know when there's money to be made. Once I get something recorded I can start negotiating for distribution with the various record companies. They make the agreement and the only thing left to do is pay for the manufacturing and promotion costs. Once the album is out there, the money will start rolling in as soon as the sales start. No more waiting for that quarterly royalty bullshit — not that I've made so much as a dime in royalties yet. I'm still about two hundred grand in the hole on recoupables, and falling faster with every day."

"What about that?" Jake asked. "Will National demand payment in full as soon as your contract expires?"

"Technically, they could," Gordon said. "But with someone as successful as I am, they would probably hold off and use it as a negotiating tool for the distribution contract. I should be able to get forgiveness of the debt as a condition if I sign with National or payment of it if I sign with someone else."

"You seem to know a lot about this," Jake said, quite impressed.

Gordon simply shrugged. "It's my business to know my business, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Jake said, nodding. "I think I do."

Gordon ended up staying for another three hours, during which time the two of them smoked eight bonghits of Jake's finest greenbud, put away almost a case of Corona, and completely exhausted the lime supply. They talked a little more about the independent label concept, a lot more about the Mindy Snow relationship ("Does she take it up the ass?" Gordon wanted to know. "And what do them titties of hers feel like? Man, those are some serious fuckin' funbags she got hangin'!"), and even a little about the current clash of powers going on within the band itself.

"I can sympathize with you," Gordon told Jake after being told the reasons why Jake was favoring Charlie over Darren. "I had to do the same thing to a homey of mine once. I didn't like it, still feel like shit about it sometimes, but I did it."

"What happened?" Jake asked.

"It was a brother I went to high school with in East Palo Alto," Gordon said. "He was my DJ when I was doing the clubs in Oakland and San Jose before National signed me. He was pretty good at the turntables you know, but not really the best at it. Still, he was my homey so I kept him on even though there were a few guys who were better than him that offered their services to me once I started to pick up a following.

"But as we started getting really popular... well, he started letting things go to his head, you know what I mean? He started scammin' on other guys' ladies just to say he did it. He started picking fights after the shows with people out in the audience. He started using the hard stuff while we was on stage. Now we ain't never had no rule about gettin' high before performing like you do — I always found a little weed was kind of helpful — but he was hitting on a rock pipe. Then he started hitting the rock pipe all the time. He started missing rehearsals, saying he didn't need to rehearse no more, that he had his shit down already, and, naturally, he started fuckin' up on stage every once in a while, just like your homey Darren."

"Did you talk to him about it?" Jake asked.

"At least a dozen times," Gordon confirmed. "He always said he'd slow down on the shit and stay in line, and he usually did for a week or two, but he always went back to being a fuck-up again. Finally, one day when we was playing a big gig in The City (Jake, like any northern Californian, knew that The City meant San Francisco) he flat out didn't show up at all and we had to cancel. I found out later that the motherfucker hooked up with a couple of nasty-ass crack whores he'd met at his dealer's crib and had spent the day fucking 'em in his apartment."

This was quite appalling to Jake, who, as a performer, adhered religiously to the motto: The show must go on. He himself had, at various times in his career, stepped onto stage while sick with the flu, with colds, with rampant diarrhea, with a fever of 102. He had played with a sprained wrist, a wrenched back, a mild concussion, and once he had even made it through a concert while suffering from strep throat. That a performer would not show up for a gig because he'd met a couple of women who wanted to fuck him... that was bordering on sacrilege. "What was his excuse?" Jake wanted to know.

"He said he forgot," Gordon said mildly.

"He forgot?" Jake asked.

Gordon nodded. "He forgot. It was the last thing he ever forgot while in my employ. I fired him right then and there. He begged me to reconsider. He pleaded with me. He threatened me. He brought up how long we'd been homeys and everything we'd ever been through together. He told me I was a fuckin' sell-out, that I forgot where I'd come from. But I held firm. He never stepped onto a stage with me again after that day. Of course, he ain't been my friend anymore either, but that's the price you gotta pay, ain't it?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "That's the price."