Standing On Top

Chapter 20b

"Jake, will anyone buy an album like that?" she asked. "I mean... realistically, will they? Will the radio stations play songs that don't involve you being accompanied by distorted guitars and heavy drum beats?"

"I make music, Pauline," he told her. "It's what I do and I'm good at it. There might be some kind of backlash from the hard-core Intemperance fans, but I think I'll pick up enough new fans to replace them. There is a precedent for this."

"There is?" she asked.

"Robert Plant," Jake said. "His solo stuff is very different from classic Led Zepplin, yet radio stations play it and fans enjoy it. There's also Sting. His music sounds nothing like the material he used to make with The Police, yet he's one of the most critically acclaimed artists out there — although I will admit that I don't really care for his solo stuff myself."

"Wouldn't you think that they are more the exception than the rule?" Pauline asked. "Look at Phil Collins. He's become even more popular since leaving Genesis and the two styles of music are virtually indistinguishable."

"Actually, Phil Collins is in a completely different category altogether. He's a singer who was destined to be a solo act and, because of happenstance, played in a band first."

"I'm not sure I see the distinction," Pauline said.

"Well, Genesis was a decent enough band — don't get me wrong — but their strong point was always Phil Collins' voice. They didn't have a strong guitarist, their lyrics weren't all that great, and their music was original, but not outstanding. Collins is the force that made Genesis what they became. They weren't shit with Peter Gabriel and they wouldn't be shit now if they tried to replace Collins. Collins is like Sammy Hagar and Ozzy Osborne. They're talented singers and musicians who do their best standing on their own but, in order to get to the point where they could do so, had to be a member of a band first. They are the force that brought the band to where it was and without them, the band is nothing. When Sammy was with Montrose, they rocked, but only because of Sammy's voice. When Ozzy was with Black Sabbath, they rocked, but only because of Ozzy's voice."

"Hmm," Pauline said thoughtfully. "I think I see your point. Don't you think, however, that you fall into that same category?"

"I think I have that potential," Jake said. "If I didn't think that, I wouldn't even try, but I was by no means the primary talent of Intemperance. My singing voice is associated with Matt's guitar, Nerdly's piano, and the hard rock sound we made — a sound that no matter what kind of talent we dig up, is not going to be matched when I go solo. It will only be a hollow imitation like David Lee Roth and Steve Vai. Not only that, I really need to take a little break from that particular sound and do something else."

"You don't want to do hard rock at all anymore?"

"I don't want to do it exclusively," he said. "I like the blues progression sound I've been playing around with — heavy on acoustic guitar and piano with a strong bass beat. It's something I'd like to experiment more with. I also want to try mixing in some violin and some synthesizer accompaniment, maybe even some sax or a full-on horn section."

Pauline did not look awed by his musical ambition. She looked downright nervous and doubtful. "I'm not sure that National or Aristocrat would be happy with that," she said. "I think they're expecting something along the lines of hard rock with heavy distorted guitar and screaming solos."

"They'll get what I give them," Jake said with a shrug. "Isn't that a part of both contract offers? That I maintain artistic license in full?"

"Yes, it would be," she said, "but if you start throwing horns and violins at them — something markedly different from what they were envisioning when they signed you — they might have a credible argument for breach of contract on grounds of misrepresentation."

Jake's eyes narrowed. "I will not have a record company or anyone else dictate what kind of music I make."

"I understand how you feel, Jake," she said. "I know how important your musical freedom and your sense of artistic integrity are to you, but I'm talking reality here, not perfect world. If you want to avoid conflict with your record company — whoever they might be — you're going to have to make at least half of the tunes on your solo album power guitar based hard rock tunes. That's just the way it will have to be. If you do that, you'll have the other half of the album for experimental tunes."

"I'll do my albums my way," Jake said, refusing to give any ground. "I'm not going to pump out five genre-friendly tunes that will be nothing but comparisons to Intemperance and then have my real work buried as deep cuts that are never played on the radio and never pick up new fans. I'm not going to budge on this, Pauline. If the record companies don't like it, they just kiss my hairy ass."

Pauline sighed. She knew her brother well enough to know that he wasn't just posturing. "In that case," she said, "I think it would be a good idea to disclose your musical intentions when we open contract negotiations. It will hurt our bargaining power, perhaps even to the point where we won't be able to come to terms, but at least they won't be able to accuse you of misrepresentation."

"Whatever," Jake said, draining the last of his drink. "Disclosures and misrepresentation and all that other lawyer crap are your department, not mine."

The limo pulled onto Hollywood Boulevard and started working its way through the thick traffic. Pauline glanced ahead for a moment, seeing that the Hollywood Hilton was only three blocks away. She could already see the lighting equipment that had been set up by the media covering the premier. She turned to her brother, who was staring at the ice cubes in his glass.

"Are you okay, Jake?" she asked him gently.

"I'm fine," he said, perhaps a bit more testily than intended. "I just want to make it clear that my music is my music."

"I get that," she said. "You've pretty much driven that point home. What I want to know is if you are okay. I'm a little worried about you."

"About what?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. "Where should I begin?" she said. "Your girlfriend left you less than a year ago and it looks like you still haven't recovered emotionally from that. You've been in a constant battle with Matt over the past eight months. A friend of yours just died — a death that I'm sure you feel at least partially responsible for, despite what you insist — and you weren't allowed to go to the funeral. The band you've been in since 1980 has just broken up under less than pleasant circumstances and you're now free-floating professionally. A man who used to be your best friend — or at least one of your best friends — is now maligning you in the entertainment media and accusing you of murder. Why don't we start with those things?"

Jake shook his head a little and slumped in his seat. He lit another cigarette despite the fact that his last one was still smoldering in the ashtray. "It has been a hell of a year, hasn't it?" he said.

"To say the least," Pauline said.

"I'm handling it though," Jake assured her. "You don't need to worry about me."

"I am worried about you, Jake," Pauline told him. "And with good reason. Take a look at yourself these past four weeks. You're chain-smoking cigarettes to the point that your voice is starting to get raspy. That's your singing voice, Jake! For Christ's sake, do you want to destroy your vocal chords, the anatomical feature that put you where you are today?"

"I'm planning to cut back soon," Jake said. "Just as soon as I..."

"And you've put on weight," Pauline said, interrupting him. "At least ten pounds over this last month."

"Putting on weight?" Jake asked incredulously. "I don't think so."

"You don't think so?" she asked. "You haven't been working out since you came home from the tour. You're eating nothing but high calorie and high fat foods and you're drinking like a fish. You don't really think the dry cleaners shrank your tux do you? Did they also shrink your blue jeans and your shirts?"

With a start, Jake realized that his pants and shirts had been getting a little tight lately — tightness he had blamed on Elsa using too much hot water when she did the laundry. "Uh... well... maybe I have put on a little weight," he was forced to admit. "But I'm going to start hitting the gym again next week."

"Uh huh," Pauline said. "And what about your drinking?"

"What about it?" Jake asked, refusing to meet her eyes as he said so.

"You're drinking a lot, Jake," Pauline said. "Much more than is really healthy for you."

"Has Elsa been talking to you?" Jake asked, angry.

"She doesn't have to," Pauline said. "Don't you think I can tell when you're drunk by listening to you? Whenever I call over to your house now, no matter what time of the day, night, or morning, you're slurring your words and I can hear ice clinking in a glass while you're talking to me. All of your grocery and expense sheets pass through my office before they go to Jill. Don't you think I see how much vodka, whiskey, beer, rum, wine, mixers, and tomato juice you're buying each month? You're spending three grand a month on booze, Jake, and that doesn't even include what you drink when you're out at the club or a social event."

"All right," Jake said, anger flooding through him now. "Enough of this shit."

"Jake..."

"No," Jake said. "Enough of this shit. I'm a big boy now and how much I drink, how much I smoke, and how I spend my money is my business, not yours. You're my sister and I love you, and you're my manager and I respect you on that level, but you're not my mother or my nanny and I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my personal life."

"Jake, I don't want to see you destroy yourself," she said. "You're heading down a road you don't really want to travel."

"What's the matter?" he asked her. "Afraid your meal ticket is gonna stop bringing in the money?"

Pauline recoiled as if struck. Jake was immediately sorry for saying that.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was uncalled for."

"Apology accepted," she said tonelessly. "And I'm sorry I'm nagging at you. I'm doing it out of concern for you, not because I'm afraid you won't make me richer."

"I know," he said, taking a drag off his smoke. "And I can even see where you're coming from... a little. Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm dealing with the shitstorm I've just been through the wrong way. But don't worry. The worst is over now. I'll get my shit together. It's what I do."

"I hope so, Jake," she said. "For your sake, not mine."

The limo pulled up in front of the hotel and Jake and Pauline emerged into a sea of flashbulbs, microphones, and shouted questions. Most of the questions were centered on the recent break-up of Intemperance ("are you really going your separate ways?") or on what exactly Jake was doing here ("did Greg Oldfellow invite you, or are you crashing the party?"). A few asked why Pauline was his date ("no new love interests, Jake?") and a few of the rookie reporters — those who had never been to a press conference regarding one of Intemperance's exploits — actually asked if Pauline was a new love interest ("who is the woman with you, Jake? Ma'am, can you identify yourself for the record?")

They both ignored the reporters and made their way to the VIP entrance where Jake showed his engraved invitation and was allowed entry. They were led to a grandly decorated ballroom complete with a live orchestra, two open bars, and half a dozen hors d'oeuvre tables. Scantily clad servers circulated with trays of champagne. The men were all dressed in black ties and the women in formal gowns. Jake recognized most of the attendees as actors, actresses, producers, and directors. As far as he could see, he was the only musician in the room — besides Celia that is. He immediately began to feel out of place and to wonder if coming here had maybe been a mistake.

That feeling was compounded by a factor of ten when he neared the front of the receiving line and saw Mindy Snow standing next to Greg, Celia, and Michael Stinson — Greg's best man at his wedding.

"Holy shit," Jake muttered, just loud enough that Pauline was the only one to hear him. "What the hell is she doing here?"

"It seems that someone invited her," Pauline said. "Is this going to be awkward?"

"I hope not," he said.

Jake hadn't seen or talked to Mindy since the night she'd attended the first concert of the Lines On The Map tour in LA with her now-ex husband — the man who had tried, and failed miserably, at exacting his revenge upon Jake the night of the Grammy Awards. Nor had Jake had any desire to see or talk to her after finding out that their entire clandestine relationship had not been so clandestine after all and, in fact, had been nothing but a farce designed to blackmail her husband into disregarding their prenuptial agreement when she divorced him.

Mindy was wearing a cranberry red, low-cut gown that did an admirable job of displaying her breasts and that was just this side of the border between what was considered acceptable attire for such an occasion and what was considered slutty. She was smiling and chatting with Stinson, obviously flirting her cute little ass off, and she hardly gave Jake a glance as he stepped forward with Pauline on his arm.

"Jake!" Celia greeted warmly, her face lighting up as she saw him. "I'm glad you could make it." She was wearing a black and white gown of modest cut in the chest and legs. It was a little looser on her than what she normally wore in public. She threw her arms around him and gave him a loud kiss on the cheek, foregoing the fake Hollywood lip buzz that most attendees at such a party favored.

"It's good to see you too, Celia," Jake said, returning the hug, feeling a rush of warmth spreading through his body as he felt her against him, as he smelled the enticing odor of her vanilla body spray.

They broke the embrace and Greg held out his hand. "I'm glad you could make it too, Jake," he said as Jake shook with him. "I think you in particular are going to love this film we're putting on tonight."

"It sounds like a good one," Jake said.

"You remember Mike Stinson, don't you?" Greg asked.

"Of course," Jake said, shaking hands with him and exchanging a greeting.

"And I'm sure you remember Mindy, right?" Celia said.

"She's very hard to forget," Jake replied, turning toward her.

Mindy gave him a Hollywood smile, although there was a little something in her eyes. "It's nice to see you, Jake," she said, stepping forward and giving him a hug. She deliberately pressed her breasts into his chest, making sure he felt their weight and softness and even managing a little grind. She then kissed him softly on the cheek, just in front of his ear, making sure to blow a little air into his ear as she did so.

"Nice to see you, Mindy," Jake said, feeling a mix of emotions churning within him: anger, lust, even a touch of love and hate. "I didn't know you were acquainted with Greg and Celia."

"Well... I wasn't until tonight," Mindy said. "Mikey and I have become something of an item these past few weeks and he invited me to come with him to the premier."

"It's sort of a coming out for the relationship," Stinson said. "You know how things are in Hollywood."

"Oh yes," Jake said. "I know all too well."

Everyone thought he was making a joke and gave him a polite chuckle.

"And who is this lovely lady with you?" Greg asked, his eyes looking her up and down in a way that was a little more than friendly.

"Yes," said Stinson. "I can already sense the boys and girls of the press forming their dossiers on her."

"Well..." Jake started, but Mindy beat him to the punch.

"There won't be too much for them to speculate about," she said. "She's Jake's sister." She turned to her. "How are you doing, Pauline? It's been quite a while, hasn't it?"

"Quite a while," Pauline agreed. "We had ourselves a blast on that Las Vegas trip though, didn't we?"

Mindy giggled. "Shhh," she said with mock sternness. "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."

"Sister?" Greg said, surprised. "You mean... sister?"

"We have the same mother and father," Jake confirmed. Greg looked disappointed at this revelation for some reason.

"What's this about Vegas?" Stinson asked.

Mindy giggled again. "When Jake and I were... you know... dating, I went with him and Pauline to Vegas one weekend on one of the high-roller trips." She lowered her voice a little. "It was their first time."

"Ahhh," Stinson and Greg said simultaneously. It was obvious they were both veterans of the high roller treatment. Even Celia was grinning a little, something that surprised Jake.

"Beats the hell out of the forty-nine dollar room and two casino chips, doesn't it, Jake?" asked Greg.

"It was quite the experience," Jake had to admit. That had been the night, he recalled, that Mindy had procured the services of a beautiful whore posing as a high-roller blackjack dealer in the high-roller room to fuck Jake while Mindy watched.

"I bet it was," Celia said, giving Jake a look that was part amusement part cynicism.

"Well, anyway," Greg said, giving Jake one more handshake, "I'm sure you'll enjoy the film. Go ahead and mix and mingle for forty-five minutes or so and we'll make our way into the theater."

That was the cue that they were being dismissed. There were, after all, about a dozen or so other couples lined up behind them, waiting for their turn to talk to the star of the show.

"Right," Jake said. He turned to Pauline. "Let's go get a drink."

"Yeah," Pauline said. "Why the hell not?"

They got their drinks. Much to Jake's consternation, Mindy and Stinson found their way over to the corner where he and Pauline rooted themselves (it was right next to one of the bars). As they talked of neutral things like the declining economy and the upcoming trial of Manuel Noriega, Mindy managed to get close enough to Jake that her bare arm was touching his. Whenever she turned to greet someone wandering by, her breast would push into his elbow. It was seemingly an accident, but Jake knew Mindy well enough by now to know that it was calculatingly deliberate.

Thankfully, after about ten minutes or so, Wallace Grigsby III, director of The Northern Jungle, wandered by and, since he was currently without an entourage, Mindy and Stinson made a beeline for him, undoubtedly hoping to score auditions for his next flick. They left so fast that Mindy didn't even finish the sentence she'd been speaking. Neither one of them excused themselves or gave a parting word.

"Well," Pauline said. "It would seem we've been dismissed."

"Good riddance," Jake said, signaling to the bartender for another rum and coke. "If I would've known she was going to be here I wouldn't have come."

"It seems she has some unfinished business with you?" Pauline asked.

"It's finished as far as I'm concerned," Jake said.

"Really?" Pauline said. "I didn't see you pushing her away or anything."

He gave her an irritated look. God, why was she acting like such a nag tonight? Before he could answer her Celia came over to them, a half-empty champagne glass in her hand. Greg was not with her. He was still back at the receiving line, schmoozing with arriving guests.

"Hey, Jake," Celia said. "I didn't get a chance back there to tell you how sorry I am about Darren passing away and all the problems that popped up after it."

"Yeah, it was quite the month all right," Jake said.

"I know you've been asked this a thousand times," she said, "but I was hoping to get the inside answer instead of the canned answer. The break-up is real?"

"Yeah, it's for real," Jake confirmed.

"That's too bad," she said. "Last time we talked you told me you would try to work it out with Matt. I guess Darren's death kind of prohibited that, huh?"

"It was the nail in the coffin," Jake said, "but, in truth, I don't think we had much of chance of making it past the end of the tour anyway. There was just too much animosity."

"Too much stubbornness from Matt, you mean," Pauline said, letting a hint of bitterness slip through.

"I've only met him twice," Celia said. "I can't say that I liked him on either occasion. He seems very... opinionated, I guess you'd say?"

"It's okay, Celia," Jake said. "You can call an asshole an asshole if you want."

She laughed. "You said it, not me."

Pauline and Celia had never met before this night. They spent a few moments making the sort of requisite conversation two women make when they have been told about each other by a mutual acquaintance but had never met. Pauline complimented Celia on her earlier work with La Diferencia (she could not bring herself to compliment the last album, however — such a compliment would have been obviously patronizing) and the beauty of Celia's voice. Celia, in turn, complimented Pauline's obvious management and legal skills, particularly the revamp of the Intemperance contract — something that still had never been officially admitted to.

"So when are you free to start recording again?" Jake asked when the complimenting died down.

"April 11 of next year," she said, though not with much enthusiasm.

"It must be exciting," Pauline said. "Starting out new and fresh. Jake and I were just talking about the same thing on the ride over here."

"I don't know," Celia said. "My agent has been putting out feelers to the various record companies and... well... so far there isn't a whole lot of interest in a Celia Valdez solo album."

"No?" Jake said, although he wasn't terribly surprised.

"I'm considered something of a has-been," she said. "Aristocrat wants nothing to do with me at all. Neither does Capital or Columbia. National offered to sign me for a six-option period contract, but the terms they're offering are insulting at best. Worse even than our first contract."

"What do you mean?" Pauline asked.

"Ten thousand dollar advance," Celia said. "They maintain complete and total control over the song selection and composition and even over the make-up of my supporting band. They are also putting provisions in about my weight and physical appearance."

"Your weight and physical appearance?" Jake asked.

"I would be in breach of contract if I were to weigh any more than ten pounds less than the standard AMA height and weight chart says I should weigh."

"Ten pounds less?" Pauline said. "That's like... uh..."

"I'm five-ten, or 178 centimeters, as I like to think of it. According to the AMA, my healthy weight should be one hundred and forty pounds."

"One hundred and forty?" Pauline asked. "That's what I weigh, and I'm only five-six."

"Yes," Celia said. "And you look very good at that weight, but according to the AMA chart, you're borderline obese."

"Who comes up with these standards?" Jake asked.

"Someone who thinks everyone should be emaciated, apparently," Celia said. "And remember, that's just my ideal weight. Under the contract, I would be in breach if were to weigh more than one hundred and thirty pounds."

"One hundred and thirty pounds?" Celia said, shaking her head. "That's appalling. You would look like a concentration camp survivor at that weight."

"Is it legal for them to put provisions like that into a contract?" Jake asked Pauline.

Before Pauline could answer, Celia did. "I don't know if it's ever been challenged before, but standard screen actor's guild contracts have weight and attractiveness provisions in them. So do contracts belonging to newscasters and even stunt performers. They're making their way into music contracts now because we're expected to be video stars as well."

"Yes, I know," Jake said sourly, remembering how Brainwash had been shot down without their music even being listened to on the grounds that they weren't attractive enough.

"And we all know the camera adds ten pounds," Celia said. "So anyway, to sign with National when I'm free means I would have to lose thirty-five pounds just to get to the maximum weight. Realistically, I'd have to lose at least forty in order to give myself a cushion."

"I find a provision like that to be completely demeaning, as well as disgusting," Pauline said.

"I'm not going to worry too much about it," Celia said. "I have no intention of signing a contract as restrictive as what I'm being offered anyway. I'm not going to starve myself and work myself to death in the gym just to make music. And I'm sure as hell not going to give complete artistic license to a record company again. That was my mistake the first time around, and look where it got me."

"What does your agent say about all this?" Jake asked.

"He tells me to take whatever they offer," she said with a frown. "He'll try to work on the advance fees and the number of option periods, but he maintains that the record company knows best when it comes to musical direction and image."

"Holy Jesus," Jake said. "Who the hell is this moron?"

"Rodney Growtana," Celia said.

"Who?" Pauline asked. "I thought I'd heard the names of all the major music agents in Hollywood by now."

"He's not exactly a music agent," Celia said. "He works for the same firm as Greg's agent. He came highly recommended."

"There's your problem," Jake said. "He's not a music agent. He's used to working with actors and actresses. He probably knows nothing about the music business."

Celia nodded. "I'm starting to figure that out. I thought he would be useful for his negotiating skills and that I could handle the part that has to do with artistic license. So far, however, his lack of skill as a music agent is immaterial. National is the only company that is even the slightest bit interested in me and their offer had the unmistakable feel of 'take it or leave it'."

"So what are you going to do?" Jake asked her.

"What I've been doing for the past year now," she said. "I'll keep composing my songs on my twelve-string, writing them down, and waiting to see what happens next. My hope is that Greg's movie will be everything he's predicting and I'll be able to ride his coattails to a better contract offer."

"Well then," Jake said, raising his glass. "Here's to The Northern Jungle being everything Greg is predicting."

"I'll drink to that," Celia said.