“I’m not sure I do,” Jake said.
Gordon sighed. “I’m gonna tell you something right now that could destroy my reputation if it got out, you dig?”
“Uh ... yeah, I dig,” Jake said.
“I’m not just a rapper, Jake, but a full-on musician as well. I can play the drums, the fuckin’ harmonica, some ‘bone, and even a little guitar, though I was never good at that shit.”
“I didn’t know that,” Jake said.
“I try not to let that get out,” Gordon said. “Especially not this part: my primary instrument, the one I actually compose the basics of a lot of my shit on, is the piano.”
“The piano?” Jake asked incredulously, trying to picture Bigg G sitting at a bench and fingering the ivories.
“The piano,” he said, his face showing shame. “I’m actually classically trained, like my homey Nerdly, though I’m nowhere near as good as him.”
“Ain’t that some shit?” Jake said wonderingly. He looked back at Gordon. “Where you going with this, G?”
“I got a tune I want to put on the next album,” he said. “It’s called Step In and it’s about putting yourself in the place of someone in a fucked-up situation and learning not to judge them. Some strong lyrics in the piece, but something I don’t think translates well into a rap song.”
“Okay,” Jake said. “Sounds intriguing enough. What does it have to do with me?”
“I composed it on my piano and I really like the melody that goes with the tune. I don’t want to change it, but having a piano play it on a Bigg G album might be just a little too much for my audience. I was thinking that maybe a strong acoustic guitar might be what I’m looking for.”
Jake’s eyes widened. “An acoustic guitar? You want me to play for you?”
“You’re the best fuckin’ acoustic guitarist I know, Jake,” he said. “You would be able to lay down that melody with style and really bring out what I’m trying to do. And having you credited on the album would probably help with sales and airplay as well, especially if your shit sells as well as you’re hoping it does.”
“Interesting,” Jake said. “Tell me more about the piece.”
“The melody would be in G-major and the guitar would be the primary instrument with a little gentle drum beat, heavy bass behind it, and some rhythmic turntable for secondary melody. Three verses and a bridge with a fade-out of the primary chorus for the outro.”
Jake nodded. “That would be something new,” he offered.
“That’s what I’m counting on. Will you help me with it?”
Jake smiled. “I will,” he said. “I’m intrigued. When can we get together and try jamming it out?”
“How about tomorrow?” Gordon asked. “My place? Say around noon?”
“Well ... I normally go to church on Sundays, you know,” Jake said with a grin.
“Yeah. Fuckin’ right!” Gordon scoffed.
“I’ll be there,” Jake told him. “It’s about time I got to see the notorious Bigg G’s crib.”
Obie’s suite was on the top floor of the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills. It was quite opulent, with a large sitting room, a fully stocked bar, a sunken jacuzzi tub, and an inspiring view of the Hollywood Hills from the main bedroom.
At 11:00 AM on Monday morning, while Obie was dozing contentedly in the large bed, the phone rang. His bare arm shot out, groped around for a few moments, and then found the phone handle. He grasped it and hauled it in, putting it to his ear.
“This is Obie,” he grunted. “Speak to me.”
“Mr. Blake,” a female voice, annoyingly chipper, said in his ear. “This is Darla from National Records. Can you hold a moment for Mr. Doolittle?”
“Why not?” Obie said with a yawn, feeling the sleep slip away bit by bit.
The phone clicked in his ear and the Muzak version of Daniel, by Elton John, began to play. It barely made it past the first chorus before there was another click and a gruff male voice was on the line.
“Obie?”
“The one and only,” Obie told him. “What’s up, Doolittle?”
“I’m calling to let you know that we’ve decided to accept the terms of your proposal,” he said.
“Very nice,” Obie said, smiling. He’d had a feeling they would. But they were also notorious game players. “I trust you mean all of the terms I presented?”
“Well ... the board didn’t like some of those terms, Obie. I have to be honest with you about that.”
“I don’t give a fiddler’s fuck if they like the terms or not,” Obie told him. “Those terms were part of the contract I proposed and they will be spelled out in detail on anything I sign. Jake and Celia absolutely insist upon that.”
“I understand that, Obie, but ... well ... it is our opinion that letting Jake and Celia dictate the manner and the order in which their tunes will be released and promoted ... it’s very hard for us to do business that way.”
Obie sighed, sitting up a little straighter in the bed. There was a half a glass of scotch sitting next to him, the ice long since melted, but enough of the liquid left to still have a somewhat amber color. He picked it up and swigged it down, wincing a little at the watered-down taste but knowing he needed it. “Listen up, Doolittle,” he said. “If you don’t do business that way, then I guess we won’t be doing any business at all, and this whole goddamn phone call is nothing but a waste of my time. Those terms are not negotiable. I though we went over this shit when he had our little sit-downs last week. I thought I’d made myself perfectly goddamn clear with you people. Jake and Celia will retain rights to dictate the promotional aspects, release dates, and release order of both the songs and the albums of the project. Why are you jerking my fucking chain with this shit now?”
“We’re not jerking your chain,” Doolittle protested. “I’m just expressing the concerns we have with putting the promotional aspects of the releases into the hands of people who don’t really know what they’re doing. This is really unprecedented.”
“Everything is unprecedented until someone comes along and sets a precedent, right?”
“Uh ... well ... I suppose,” Doolittle said. “In any case, our promotions department has a combined total of more than three hundred years of experiencing dictating how and when songs should be released. We really think those decisions should be in their hands, not in the hands of a couple of musicians who have no idea about the ebbs and flows and the ins and outs of music promotion.”
“Ebbs and flows and ins and outs are kind of the same thing, aren’t they?” Obie asked.
“Uh...”
“But that’s neither here nor there,” he continued. “I’ve gotten to know Jake pretty damn well over this last year. He seems to have his head on straight to me, and he seems to know what he’s talking about when it comes to promotion. I trust the man with this thing, otherwise I wouldn’t have agreed to it in my contract with him.”
“Jake talks a big game, and he can sound very convincing,” Doolittle said, “but...
“Ain’t no fuckin’ buts involved here,” Obie told him. “I have a contract with KVA Records that says Jake and Celia get to dictate promotion. I have to allow that or I’m in breach of contract with them and putting my royalties at risk in this deal. We ain’t having that shit, Doolittle. If you want me to sign, then those clauses related to Jake and Celia being in charge of promotion had better be there. You with me, or should I go over to Aristocrat and see if they’re ready to play some ball? I’ll sacrifice that extra two percent y’all offered me to keep those promotion clauses in place. That ain’t no shit, there.”
Another sigh. “We’re with you,” Doolittle said. “We were just hoping some common sense might erupt.”