“It is,” Ben said in awe. He reached over and turned up the volume a little. He then laid there mesmerized as he heard his bass guitar playing on the radio. That’s really me! he thought in wonder. I really am a recording artist. The emotion he was feeling was quite similar to what he’d felt when he’d seen Aubrey’s big head making its emergence into the world from between his wife’s legs—not quite as powerful, true, but the same emotion.
They listened to the tune without speaking, just enjoying the moment in time. Soon—too soon—it ended and the DJ told them what they already knew: That they had just heard the title cut from Celia Valdez’s new solo album. The station then went to commercial and Ben reached back over and turned down the volume.
“That was really cool hearing you on the radio,” Lisa told him. “My husband, the music star.”
“Well, I’m not quite a star,” he said, “but it was cool. I’ll never forget this moment and what was happening when I first heard myself on the radio.”
Lisa giggled. “It’s a good thing we were doing something fun right before it happened, huh?”
“A good thing,” he agreed.
She rolled over and got out of bed, standing naked next to it. She picked up the beach towel that had been on her side of the bed and used it to wipe down her torso, cleaning off the milk and other liquids that were still clinging to her. Ben, taking the hint, did the same on his side of the bed.
“I’m gonna shower before the little monster wakes up,” Lisa said. She gave him a saucy look. “Hopefully you left enough of the supply so she doesn’t go hungry.”
“I just had a few sips,” he said, with mock defensiveness.
She stroked his cheek affectionately and then walked into the bathroom portion of their room. Other than the toilet itself, which was contained behind a door, there was no partition between the bedroom and the shower area. She turned on the taps and then dropped her towel into the hamper. While she was waiting for the water to heat up, she turned back to her husband, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring thoughtfully into space.
“What you thinking about?” she asked him.
“I’m still kind of in awe about hearing Struggle on the radio,” he told her. “It’s making me kind of miss the sessions and all that.”
“I thought you said it was tedious as hell,” she said.
“It was,” he said. “But it was a good tedium, if that makes sense. We had fun. That was really one of the best times of my life.”
“The recording process?” she asked.
“Well ... that was part of it, but mostly just having a regular gig to go to every day. When I was playing with them in the studio over in Santa Clarita every day, it was a grind, playing six days a week with only one day off, but I felt like I was doing what I was supposed to be doing, what I was put on Earth for, you know what I’m saying?”
“I know what you’re saying,” she said. “You’re always happiest when you’re playing in a band. Even when you were playing with that Led Zepplin bunch, you were walking around in a good mood all the time, always wanting to get it on with me.”
“Are you complaining?”
“I am not,” she said. “I suspect that we made Aubrey one of those nights after you came home from a gig.”
“Quite possibly,” he said.
“Anyway, if it makes you happy to be in a band, why don’t you get in one again?”
He gave a sideways frown. “I’m a father now,” he said. “I have more responsibilities. I don’t have the time to commit to playing in a band.”
“Being a father doesn’t mean you’re dead,” Lisa told him. “You can find the time. If you want to play, you should play. Aubrey and I will understand, and I’ll pick up the slack.”
“I can’t ask you to do that,” he said. “You’re going to be starting third semester soon. Didn’t you tell me that that’s the most difficult semester in nursing school?”
“That’s the rumor,” she said, “but don’t worry about me. I’ll get by. Your band practices and gigs are always at night, right?”
“For the most part,” he agreed.
“Well, my school is during the day. And, thanks to all that money you hauled in working for KVA Records, I don’t have to work while I’m in school. We’re in good shape. If you need to be gone a few nights a week to play with a band, that’s fine. I can study while Aubrey and I hang out.”
“But...”
“No buts,” she said. “I want you to be in a band, Ben. I really want you to do this.”
“Why?”
“I already told you,” she said. “You’re in a better mood and you’re happier when you’re playing regularly. You’re a musician, honey, and you should make music. Do what you were put on Earth to do.”
He had no counter-argument to share. In truth, he felt a wave of love for his wife washing over him that was powerful and almost breathtaking. She really did understand him. And she was willing to accommodate his wants and needs. “All right,” he told her, surprised to find himself almost near tears. “I’ll do it.”
“Good,” she said, smiling. “I’m glad that’s settled. Now, are you going to try to hook up with those Led Zepplin guys again?”
He shook his head. “A bunch of hackers, except for Ted,” he said. “I can do better.”
“Who then?”
“I have a little idea.”
“Oh?”
“I think I’m going to give Ted and Phil a call.”
“Phil? The gay guy that sang backup?”
“That’s him,” he confirmed.
She raised her eyebrows up. “Something you need to tell me, honey?”
He chuckled. “You’re funny,” he told her. “It occurs to me that if Ted and Phil are willing to get together and jam with me, we’ve got a complete rhythm section and a vocalist. All we’d need is a guitar player and we’ve got ourselves a band.”
Matt Tisdale had heard the rumors floating around about Jake and his solo album. He had also heard that he had formed an independent label with Celia Valdez, that mouthy bitch who had once called him a cabron (whatever the fuck that meant), who was working on a solo album of her own. He had even heard the whispers that Jake had to be boning Valdez. But that was pretty much the extent of his information. He went out of his way not to listen whenever that traitorous mole’s name came up in conversation. As such, he did not even know that the CDs were done and getting airplay until two days before their actual release.
On the evening he did find out—July 12, 1992—Matt had spent two hours after dinner working on new material for his planned second album. He had been doing this in his normal manner. He had retreated to the music room of his mansion and locked himself inside with his old bong, his Strat, an amplifier, and an eighth of an ounce of good Humboldt skunk bud. There, he had pounded out new riffs he was developing and occasionally jotted down some lyrics to go with them.
He was not looking forward to his next album as much as he knew he should be. He was still quite wounded from the dismal sales and airplay of Next Phase and the dismal tour numbers that had followed. National had actually cancelled the third leg of the tour, citing pathetic west coast ticket sales as the primary reason. Matt had fought them on this but they were insistent and, most importantly, they had the legal right to do that shit under the terms of his contract. For the past two months now he had been home, drinking, smoking, and snorting a lot more than normal and trying to come up with new material.
The problem was that any new material he came up with was going to be subjected to the whims of the audio engineering teams in the recording studio. He had made his gamble and he had lost. And unlike fucking Coop, he had some honor in him and was going to abide by the terms of that deal. Even if it made him a sellout rat.