Matt and the boys gave them more. They did a two-song encore that lasted another eighteen minutes. The first song was Coming Down Fast, an unrecorded piece that had been worked up but not included on Next Phase due to time constraints. Matt intended to put it on the next album, although he was already cringing when he thought of what those sound engineers in the studio were going to make him do to it. The final song was Stir it Up, the multi-tempoed, multi-guitar soloed final cut on Next Phase—the song that had been Matt’s favorite of them all.
At last, they put their instruments down and left the stage after taking their bows. The house lights came up, signaling to the audience that it really was over this time. As the crowd began making its way to the exits, Matt, Steve, and John headed back to the dressing room, where the requisite food trays, tubs of beer, and, of course, marijuana and cocaine, would be laid out.
“Not a bad show, guys,” Matt told his band as they each grabbed a bottle of beer out of the ice and popped them open.
“Thanks, Matt,” said Steve. “I felt like we were really clicking up there tonight.”
“Yeah,” agreed John. “Me too. We were really in the groove.”
“I guess,” Matt said with a shrug. “Of course, you are both nothing but studio hackers, remember? There is only so much groove you can actually slide into.”
“Well ... just because we worked in the studio before hooking up with you...” started Steve.
“Don’t give me that fucking shit again,” Matt said. “Granted, you’re the best of the studio hackers, but you are still, by definition, studio hackers. Ass sucking little moles employed by the biggest ass in existence. Just because you’re not shitty, don’t let that shit go to your head.”
“Right,” Steve said sourly.
John simply grunted.
“Now then,” Matt said, picking up the cocaine kit that had been placed next to the beer cooler. “Anyone want to light up their life?”
All three of them did. Matt, though not the kindest boss in the world, was at least generous. They each snorted up two lines of pure, uncut Peruvian flake. That put everyone in a better mood—or at least it did until the dressing room door opened and Greg Gahn walked in.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Matt demanded of him. “I thought I was very clear in my tour instructions that I wanted to see as little of your hypocritical ass as humanly possible.”
“You made it quite clear,” Greg said. He was looking a bit haggard these days as well. Greg was quite fond of the white powder himself—this despite being an allegedly devout Mormon. Unlike when he went out on other tours, however, he was not allowed to imbibe in the drug, at least not from the supply that Matt maintained for himself and his inner circle. This was not out of any concern for his health or well-being, or even his performance, but for financial reasons. Cocaine was expensive and Matt’s contract stipulated that “entertainment expenses”, i.e. the cocaine, marijuana, and alcohol that flowed each night, did not cover National management members. Though Greg was a well-paid National Records employee, he was not well paid enough to finance his own considerable habit. And so, he was currently in a clean phase, having been dumped in a rehab center just prior to the tour heading out.
“Then explain yourself,” Matt said, holding up the cocaine mirror. “Did you come to offer to suck somebody’s dick for a little hit of this shit?”
“He ain’t sucking my dick,” said Steve.
“Mine either,” put in John.
“I do not and would not engage in homosexual sex!” Greg said firmly. “Not for anything in the world. And as for the devil’s powder, I am now almost eighty days clean. Heavenly Father has, once again, guided me out of the addiction.”
Matt simply shook his head. “You’re so full of bullshit,” he said. “What do you want, Greg? Speak and get the fuck out.”
“Well ... it has to do with the upcoming tour dates,” Greg said. “It’s good news, really.”
“The upcoming tour dates?” Matt asked, alarmed. “What about them? They’re not fucking canceling us, are they? I’ll fucking kill someone!”
“No, no,” Greg said hurriedly. “It’s nothing like that. As I said, this is actually good news. There are going to be some changes of venue, that’s all.”
“Changes of venue?” Matt said. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Greg said, pulling a sheet of paper out of the jacket of his tailored suit, “starting with the show in New York, which will be November 5, you’ll be moving to smaller arenas whenever we can make the arrangements.”
“Smaller arenas?” Matt asked. “What the fuck?”
“Yes, smaller,” Greg confirmed. “You won’t be playing Madison Square Garden in New York. Instead, you’ll be playing Queens Memorial Auditorium.
“They’re pulling me out of MSG?” Matt asked angrily, his cocaine cheer evaporating in an instant. “Why?”
“I would think that would be obvious, Matt,” Greg told him. “The decision is financial in nature. We’ve only sold seven thousand tickets for the New York show. Why would we pay to rent MSG with eighteen thousand seats when Queens Memorial, with a capacity of eight thousand, rents for half the price, even with the cancellation fee for MSG thrown in.”
“They can’t do that!” Matt nearly screamed.
“Oh, but they can and they have,” Greg countered. “Tour composition and set list are yours to do with as you please under the contract. But tour management, including venues, cities, and ticket prices are the exclusive responsibility of National Records. And they are exercising their management powers to downgrade the venues across the map. There’re nothing you can do about it, Matt.”
Matt clenched his fists nearly hard enough to draw blood in his palms. “Those motherfuckers,” he grunted.
“You’re looking at this the wrong way, Matt,” Greg told him. “As I said, this is good news.”
“How the fuck is this shit good news?”
“I would think that would be obvious,” Greg said. “With the reduced costs of venue rental, the tour may end up being profitable after all. In New York, for instance, instead of losing thirty-eight thousand dollars, we’ll be in the black by more than five thousand, and that’s without even accounting for merchandise receipts.”
“Fucking money,” Matt said in disgust. “That’s what it’s always about with you dickwads. I thought you were always spouting off about how the purpose of a tour is not to make money, but to promote the album.”
“That is true,” Greg said. “But the purpose of the tour is not to lose money hand over fist when the same promotion aspect can be accomplished at a lower cost. There is no downside to this, Matt. I don’t understand why you’re protesting so much.”
Matt was not about to explain it to the grinning freak, but he knew why he was protesting. Madison Square Garden was where top acts performed when in New York City. It was where Intemperance had performed every single time they’d visited the Big Apple. Queens Memorial—which Matt had never even fucking heard of—was a second-rate arena. It was where second-rate acts were booked. And now they had booked him there. Matt fucking Tisdale at Queens Memorial? That was humiliating! And New York was only the start. They were going to do this shit to him all across the country, moving him from top billing to second-rate status just to save a little money.
“Get the fuck out of here, Greg,” Matt told him.
“Don’t you want to go over the...”
“I don’t want to go over shit,” Matt said. “Get out of my dressing room before I decide to vent some steam by twisting your fuckin’ head around and then bending you backward so you kiss your own ass.”