“Good enough,” Obie said. “What kind of particulars are we talking about with Games?”
“A couple of things,” Jake said. “On the hards, you need to instruct them to not announce artist name until after the song has played—at least not for the first two weeks after release. On the pops, the opposite. Consistently announce artist before the song is played. The same reasoning as when I did it with Easy, just in reverse. We want the hard rock listeners to hear and appreciate the song before they know who it is, and we want the pop listeners to know who they’re listening to before the tune starts. That should serve to keep those sacred ears tuned in.”
Obie nodded. “It worked before,” he said. “I’m guessing it’ll work again. Anything else?”
“Yes,” Jake said. “This is very important. No mention of who is playing the guitar for Celia on Games. I’m not credited on the album cover, of course, but there are people who know or can guess that I’m actually her guitarist. Discourage any speculation or discussion by DJs about who may or may not be putting down the licks on the tune. Let everyone assume it’s just some studio guitarist playing for her.”
“You’ve mentioned this before, Jake,” Celia said, “but I have to ask you again. Are you sure you don’t want credit for Games at the very least? Like you said about Mary, you did an awesome job on the tune and your guitar playing is what is going to make it a success. You deserve the credit for it.”
“And in addition to the credit,” said Greg, “don’t you think that having people know you’re the guitar player might actually enhance popularity of the tune and increase album sales? Especially if they knew you were playing lead on all of the tunes that have an electric guitar in them?”
Jake was shaking his head. “I think that acknowledging that I’m the guitarist on any of the cuts, but especially on Games, would do nothing but distract people from the tunes, not draw them to it. There would be so many comparisons between my playing and Matt Tisdale’s, so many disparaging words about how I’m not half the guitarist that he is, that nobody would pay attention to the music itself. This is the same reason I didn’t credit myself as the lead guitarist on my CD. This is the same reason I don’t have any classic guitar solos in any of my tunes. The music needs to stand on its own, not be judged on the individual talents of the guitarists.”
Obie was looking at him. “I think you make some valid points there, Jake, and I will, of course, follow your directions, but ... well ... I’m a man who likes to talk plain and say what’s on my mind.”
“Really?” Jake said with a chuckle. “I never noticed that about you, Obie.”
Obie chuckled in return. “Yeah, well, what I’m trying to say here is that I think maybe you have a bit of a misguided opinion of your own electric guitar skills. You play well, boy. Really well. That solo you laid down in Games is top-notch, sends fuckin’ chills down my spine when I hear it.”
“Thanks, Obie,” Jake said. “And I do know that I can play guitar with the best of them, it’s just that Matt Tisdale is the best of the best of them. He’s an asshole and I have at least half a stomach ulcer with his name on it, but nobody currently slinging a guitar can even approach him when it comes to riffs and solos—not Kirk Hammett, not Dimebag Darrel, not that new guy Mike McCready that plays with Pearl Jam, and certainly not me. I’m a realist, not someone with a self-esteem problem, and I know that having my name on that solo will only distract from the tune, not enhance it. The information that it’s me playing guitar for Celia will undoubtedly come out someday, but that someday needs to be in the future, not while the song and the album are making their initial run.”
Celia, Greg, and Obie all looked at each other for a moment and then exchanged a group shrug. “Fair enough,” Obie said. “We’ll play it your way, Jake.”
Jake took command of Pauline’s barbeque grill for the informal portion of the gathering. It sat out on her deck that overlooked the lake. Though it was December, they were in Los Angeles and the weather was still quite pleasant. The sky was blue—well, bluish-gray thanks to the perpetual smog—and the temperature was a mild sixty-two degrees, with just a hint of a breeze blowing in from the west. Comfortable short-sleeve shirt and jeans weather, which was what both Obie and Jake were wearing as they stood out next to the barbeque, cold beers in hand. Laura was out there with them, sipping from perhaps her fourth glass of white wine and starting to get a little giggly.
“How’d you prep those potatoes, Jake?” Obie asked as Jake used a pair of tongs to turn the aluminum foil wrapped tubers a quarter turn on the grate.
“I rubbed them in olive oil,” Jake replied, “put a little salt and pepper on them, then rolled them each in minced garlic before I wrapped them.”
Obie nodded approvingly. “Not bad,” he said. “You oughta try dashing them with just a hint of tabasco as well. Mix the garlic in with it.”
“Yeah?” Jake asked, always happy to get a new cooking tip.
“It adds just a hint of spice, mostly olfactory though since the flavor doesn’t make it through the skin, but it’s worth the time and effort in the end.”
“I’ll give that a shot next time,” he said, filing that away.
“And those steaks you got,” Obie said. “You’re going to sear them on high heat?”
“Naturally,” Jake said. “They’re nice marbled New Yorks, so the seasoning is minimal. Just salt and pepper loosely sprinkled on them, maybe four minutes a side, and they’ll be a nice juicy medium rare.”
Obie nodded his approval at this as well. “Very nice,” he said. “A man’s not really a man if he doesn’t know how to grill up a good steak, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“I know what you’re saying,” Jake said, closing the lid on the grill and picking up his beer.
Obie clapped Jake on the back nearly hard enough to leave a bruise and then turned to Laura. “And how about you, darlin’?” he asked. “This ugly mother hasn’t chased you away yet?”
She giggled. “Not yet,” she said.
“How goes the teaching gig?” Obie asked her. “Still learnin’ them ghetto kids they ain’t supposed to say ‘ain’t’?”
“Only for a few more weeks,” she said. “I’ve put in my resignation letter with the district. At the end of this semester, I’ll be done.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she said with a nod. “I’m a little nervous about it, to tell you the truth. It’s hard to walk away from a steady job, even if it doesn’t pay all that well.”
“Do you have something better in the works?” Obie asked. “Or are you just gonna have Jake here be your sugar daddy?”
“Jesus, Obie,” Jake said, shaking his head a little.
“I’ve got something else in the works,” Laura told him. “I’ve been getting pretty regular sessions down at the National studios doing some fills and overdubs with my sax. I’ve had to turn some sessions down because of my teaching commitment or I would’ve picked up a lot more. I figured it’s time to stop screwing around and go for it.”
“Yep,” Obie said approvingly. “Sounds like a shit-or-get-off-the-pot situation if I’ve ever heard one. What kind of tracks they got you blowin’ down there?”
“I’ve done some overdubs for Bobby Z, a few radio commercials, some fills on a movie soundtrack. It’s all very interesting, really.”
“Bobby Z, huh?” Obie said. “I heard he’s about as queer as a three dollar bill. Is that the straight shit—uh ... so to speak?”
“Yes, he’s pretty flamboyant,” Laura agreed. “He’s a great singer and composer though. I’ve enjoyed working with him and hope I get to do it some more.”
“How come his sax player ain’t doing the overdubs and the fills?” Obie wanted to know. “He’s hooked up with that black guy, right? What was his name?”