“Yeah, sure, Matt,” Steve said. “How about I turn some tunes on for a bit?”
“That’ll work,” Matt told him gratefully.
Steve got up and flipped on the radio that sat in the corner. It was tuned to KRON. The song by that new group, Nirvana, was playing, as it had been quite regularly for the past month or so. Matt couldn’t remember the name of the tune—it was one of those titles they didn’t actually say in the verses—but he liked the rhythm and the energy of it, even if he couldn’t understand most of the goddamn words the singer was spouting.
“What do they call this shit again?” Matt asked Austin, who was a little more in tune with recent rock than Steve.
“They’re calling it grunge,” he told him. “Seattle sound. It’s picking up some serious steam on the hard rocks.”
“Simplistic, but it has some soul,” Matt opined. “The guitar work is not very technical, but it’s honest, you know what I’m saying?”
“I know what you’re saying,” Austin told him.
The song went through its outro and wrapped up. While the last note was still fading, the next song started to play. It was something he had never heard before, a piano melody with a little violin mixed in (again with the fucking violin? Matt thought with a shake of the head. What’s up with the all the violins lately?) And then a female voice began to sing out the first verse. Matt’s attention focused a little more on the song. That voice sounded extremely familiar to him. It was the same bitch who sang that song The Struggle. It was Celia fucking Valdez. They were playing her on a hard rock station? What the fuck?
A moment later, he understood why they were playing it on a hard rock. A distorted drop-D electric guitar kicked into gear as the song went up tempo. It was a hard rock song. And Matt did not need to hear any more than the first few bars to know exactly whose hands that drop-D guitar had been in.
“Motherfucker,” he said, shaking his head in wonder and disbelief.
“What’s up?” asked Austin.
“This song,” he said. “Have you heard it before?”
“Yeah, a couple times,” he said. “It’s the new release by Celia Valdez. It kinda rocks, doesn’t it?”
“That’s Jake Kingsley playing that guitar for her,” Matt said.
“What?” Austin asked.
“Jake Kingsley?” Steve put in. “How do you know that?”
“Because I know what his fucking guitar playing sounds like!” Matt yelled. “Trust me on this. It’s him. And he was playing the solo for her on that other song, The Struggle.”
“No shit?” Steve said.
“Is he boning her?” asked Austin, hoping that he was. He knew what the Valdez babe looked like.
“Undoubtedly,” Matt told him.
“Good for Kingsley,” Austin said with approval. “You think her hubby, the actor from that fucked-up movie knows about that shit?”
“I don’t know,” Matt said. “I don’t fucking care. Where Kingsley puts his fucking schlong is not my concern.”
“He used to tap Mindy Snow, right?” asked Steve.
“Awww, man, that’s a fine piece of pussy there too,” said Austin.
“Can we stop talking about Jake Kinsley and who he is boning or has boned?” Matt yelled.
“You’re the one that brought him up,” Steve felt obligated to point out.
“Hey, here comes the solo,” Austin said. “Check it out, Matt. He fuckin’ shreds it pretty well—not as good as you, of course, but respectable.”
Matt gritted his teeth but he listened to the solo. Austin was right. It was a respectable piece of guitar work, fast, rhythmic, and it fit the tone of the song perfectly. True, Matt would have done it differently, with a little more finger tapping mid-solo and a bit less whammy on the follow-through, but that was nothing but personal preference. Jake had done a good job with it. It was rock the way that rock was meant to be played.
“That motherfucker,” he said again, astounded, feeling an array of emotion going through him. “How come I’m the only goddamn person in the world that knows that’s Jake Kingsley playing guitar for that bitch? Why the fuck aren’t they announcing that shit every time they play the song on the radio?”
“I don’t know,” Austin said. “Maybe they’re trying to keep it on the down-low?”
“On the down-low?” Matt barked. “I heard Jake’s new tune played earlier, while I was heading in. They fucking told everyone that his goddamn mom was playing the violin for him! That don’t sound like the fucking down-low to me!”
“Yeah, I heard that tune yesterday,” Austin said. “A good piece. Really good guitar work.”
Matt gave him a glare that would’ve killed, if looks could do such a thing.
“Again,” Austin stammered, “nowhere near as good as you could’ve done it.”
“Don’t jerk me off, Austin,” Matt told him. “I’m not half the acoustic guitarist that Kingsley is and I know it. That’s not my point though. They should be letting everyone know he’s playing guitar for her. It would help both of their albums sell. So, why aren’t they? Why would they be trying to keep that shit secret?”
“I can’t think of a reason why they would,” Steve said, “assuming you’re right and that really is Kingsley playing.”
“I’m right,” Matt insisted. “I played with the man long enough to know what he sounds like. It’s as distinctive as his voice, maybe even more so.”
“Then I don’t know the answer,” Steve said.
“Neither do I,” Austin put in. “It don’t make no sense to me.”
“Me either,” Matt said as the final outro of Playing Those Games faded out and the DJ came on to tell them what they already knew, that they had just heard Celia Valdez’s latest solo effort, and didn’t it rock?
Matt had the limo driver stop at Kensington’s Records on the way home. He then gave him two twenty-dollar bills and instructed him to go inside and purchase two compact discs from the new release music aisle and then keep the change.
“Whatever you say, Matt,” Tim, the driver told him.
“And if you ever tell a single living human being what I just had you do,” Matt said, “I’ll kill you slowly in the most painful way I can think of. I’ll get a fuckin’ dentist to execute you.”
“What happens in the limo stays in the limo,” Tim assured him.
Ten minutes later, they were underway once again and Matt was holding the CDs in his hands. He looked at Celia’s first, taking a moment to appreciate the juicy shape of her tit on the album cover and to fight down a pang of envy as he thought of Jake getting to put his hands on it. He then opened up the case and pulled out the insert, unfolding it so he could look it over. There were a few more pictures of Celia in there, most of them candid shots, all of them flattering to her form. On the very bottom right of the unfolded insert was a list of the musicians and their roles in the production.
Celia Valdez – Vocals, acoustic guitar
Phillip Genkins – Backing vocals
Pauline Kingsley – Backing vocals
Ted Duncan – Drums and other percussion
Ben Ping – Bass guitar
Laura Best – Saxophone
Cynthia Archer – Piano
William Archer – Synthesizers and other keyboards
Mary Kingsley – Violin
Engineering – William and Sharon Archer
Recorded and mixed at Blake Studios, Coos Bay, Oregon
“Son of a bitch,” Matt whispered, shaking his head again. He did not have the slightest idea who Ted Duncan, Ben Ping, Phillip Genkins, or Laura Best were, but he sure as shit knew the other names. Nerdly’s mother was playing piano on the CD. Fucking Nerdly himself was playing synthesizer. Jake’s goddamn mother was playing violin for Valdez as well. Pauline, his former manager, was singing backup (I didn’t know that bitch could sing!) And the entire fucking thing had been engineered by the Nerdlys. But there was no goddamn lead guitar player listed! How the fuck were they getting away with that shit? Why was no one questioning it? Was that even legal?