“So, I’ll just be left on my own?” Jake asked, more than a hint of bitterness in his tone.
“No, I’m sure they’ll try to stick their little noses into your crotch as well,” Obie assured him. “And I don’t want you to get me wrong, Jake. I like your music and I have great confidence in it. Don’t go projecting onto me what those assholes believe. And, most certainly, don’t go projecting it onto yourself. I’m just telling you the plain facts about how they feel in there, about what their motivating factors are. This is information for us to use against them, not to believe in ourselves. You copy that?”
“Yeah,” Jake said, nodding his head slowly. “I copy that.”
“All right then,” Obie said. “Let’s finish up our breakfast and then get our asses over there to look this thing over. Remember, they’re likely to start trying to put the pressure on for Celia right away. If y’all want to keep their sleazy little hands off of her, you establish your no interference maneuver firmly and immediately. Copy?”
They copied.
They finished their breakfasts. Obie picked up the check. Once it was paid, they headed for the National Records Building, two blocks away.
For Jake, the meeting was a little blast from the past—an unpleasant past that he associated with conflict and getting screwed in a figurative manner as opposed to a literal one. Steve Crow, Intemperance’s long-time adversary and the face of the evil record company they had most seen and dealt with, was the host of the meeting. Also present were James Doolittle, Crow’s boss and the man they would be sent to when Crow could no longer control them, and Rick Bailey, who was so fond of telling them his opinions on what they should do to their music to make it sell better. But the real treat was Eric Frowley, the lead lawyer for National Records.
“Frowley, my man!” Jake greeted when he saw him sitting there amidst two of his flunkies, all of them dressed in custom fitted Italian suits. “How the hell have you been, brother?”
“Uh ... fine, Jake,” Frowley said. “It’s good to see you. You look ... well ... different.”
“And you look just the same,” Jake assured him. “Still whoring yourself out for these freaks, huh?”
“Uh ... well, you know how it is?”
“I know how it is,” Jake assured him, remembering all the times that he and Frowley had butted heads and measured dicks. The man was as unscrupulous as any lawyer and would do whatever he needed to give an advantage to his side, legal, quasi-legal, or even outright illegal. This was the man who had arranged to have one of his fraternity buddies from college take the case of National vs Intemperance when their contract dispute had been raging—a move that Pauline managed to neatly counter. This was the man who had tried to threaten Jake and Matt with legal action if they did not agree to use pre-written material for Intemperance’s third album. This was the man who had vehemently argued against National Records’ renegotiation of the Intemperance contract, trying to call what he thought was a bluff—and which might very well have been one. He was also the man who had stood up in a Cincinnati courtroom and defended Jake Kingsley against obscenity charges—successfully, no less—like he was defending Jesus Christ Himself. He was a punch-clock villain, of that there was no doubt. But he was a good one.
“All righty, y’all,” Obie announced one all the preliminaries were done. “How about we get this rodeo in operation here?”
They got the rodeo in operation. Frowley passed out copies of the contract that he wanted Obie to sign, the contract for manufacturing, distribution, and promotion of two albums being released by the entity known as KVA Records.
“All of the terms that we discussed and agreed upon have been put down in that contract,” Frowley assured them when he saw that Pauline, Obie, Nerdly, and Greg all seemed to have every intention of reading through the twelve-page document word by word.
“Well, Mr. Frowley,” Pauline said sweetly, “it’s not that we don’t trust you, but ... oh hell, who am I bullshitting? We actually don’t trust you, and with good reason. We’ll just peruse this document a bit before Obie signs it, if you don’t mind.”
“Be my guest,” Frowley said.
They read it over and, sure enough, there were numerous subtle loopholes inserted into the language that could have been construed as giving the power of promotion decisions over to National Records under certain circumstances. Pauline found the first two such clauses. Nerdly found the third. Greg the fourth and fifth. Obie the sixth and seventh. At that point, they simply stopped reading and threw the copies back at Frowley.
“It’s pretty obvious you’re trying to screw us without lube here, Frowley,” Obie told him. “Didn’t I warn you about shit like that?”
“I told you,” Frowley insisted, “you’re being paranoid. None of those clauses were intended to circumvent the rights of KVA Records in promotional decisions. They were all just innocent wordings meant to address what would happen in the unlikely event that Jake and Celia decided to not exercise those rights.”
“Uh huh,” Pauline said dryly. “And how about that little phrase in chapter nine, subsection three that states: ‘... dependent upon National Records’ approval of the plan’?”
“That’s just saying that the promotion department has to approve of all of the plans made by Jake and Celia,” Frowley told them. “It doesn’t mean that National’s approval is necessary.”
“That’s how it reads,” Pauline told him.
“That’s just a housekeeping clause that outlines how National is going to carry out its responsibilities under the contract,” Frowley said. “I’m telling you, you’re reading way too much into this.”
“No, you’re putting way too much into this,” Obie said. “Didn’t I tell you people not to fuck with me?”
“I see no need for that kind of language in this setting,” Frowley said huffily.
“I do,” Obie said plainly. “Take these contracts away and bring me back what we fucking agreed to in negotiations. Do not try to slip any of this shit into the next copy. We will read it over just as carefully. You have one hour to make this happen. If you do not have the contract in front of us in one hour, I walk and take my business elsewhere. If you try to slip one more sleazy little lawyer trick into the next contract, I walk and take my business elsewhere. Do I make myself clear?”
He made himself clear. An awkward silence developed around the table as Frowley and his merry men disappeared to rewrite the contract, but they had fresh copies before them in forty-nine minutes.
Once again, Pauline, Greg, Obie, and Nerdly examined them with all the care of forensic analysts perusing an ancient text document. There were no sleazy lawyer tricks in this one.
“All right then,” Obie said. “I think we got ourselves a deal.”
“Finally,” Crow said.
“Who has a pen?” Obie asked.
Frowley handed him one. A minute later, it was official. KVA Records had a partner for manufacturing, distribution, and promotion.
Chapter 10: On the Radio
Los Angeles, California
July 2, 1992
KPID was the most listened to radio station in the Los Angeles basin. Licensed by the FCC since 1956, its format was pop music, primarily songs that were currently on the Top 100 list, with heavy emphasis on those in the Top 20. For that twenty percent of airtime in which they were not playing something from the current Top 100, they used approximately half playing songs that had been in the Top 10 in recent years but were now off the charts, and about half playing up and coming songs that were projected to hit the Top 100 soon.