“I would think the money you make would be the best part,” Greg said.
“I do appreciate the money,” Jake assured him. “And I also love composing and arranging new tunes, but performing live has always been the best part of this job for me. Hanging out with G lets me get a little taste of it again. It also shows me how much I’ve changed over the years.”
“What do you mean?” Obie asked.
“I don’t party like I used to,” Jake said. “G and his band after shows are kind of like me and Matt and Coop were back in our heyday. They do the whole bit. Cocaine, drinking whiskey out of the bottle, smoking out, tapping groupies.”
“Tapping groupies?” Greg asked. “Bigg G does that? He’s married now!”
“Apparently marriage doesn’t count out on tour,” Jake said with a shrug. “What happens on the road, stays on the road and all that.” He gave Greg a sharp look. “Don’t tell Celia about that, okay? She might tell Laura, and Laura is good friends with G’s wife.”
“My lips are sealed,” Greg promised. “I assume you were not engaging in such behavior.”
“I was not,” Jake said honestly. “After a show, I generally have a few beers and maybe a bonghit or two, but I retreat to my own area once they start rolling the groupies in.” He smiled. “Not that I wasn’t getting lots of requests.”
“Black groupies?” Obie asked.
“A lot of them were,” Jake said. “But there was a fair and reasonably equal representation of other races and creeds as well. One thing I’ll say about G and the boys, they don’t discriminate when it comes to their groupies.”
“That’s good to know,” Obie said with a grin.
“In truth,” Jake said, “I was a little disappointed in G. I thought he was above that kind of thing. But ... well ... what can you do? I’m not the morality police.”
“None of us are,” Greg said somberly.
“That ain’t no shit,” Jake agreed and then held out his right hand to Greg.
Greg simply stared at it. “What’s that for?” he asked.
“Oh ... sorry,” Jake said, putting his hand back down. “When you’re hanging with G and his people and someone says something profound, like ‘none of us are’, the proper response is for someone else to say, ‘that ain’t no shit’ or ‘that’s the fuckin’ truth’ and then an elaborate handshake is exchanged.”
“Really?” Greg asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Really,” Jake said. “And a lot of profound things get said when the coke and the bonghits come out. I’ve gotten rather good at the ritual.”
“That’s some interesting insight there, Jake,” Obie said. “What other rituals are there?”
Jake thought for a moment. “Well, there’s the whole ‘that shit ain’t right’ thing.”
“That shit ain’t right?” Obie asked.
“Yeah,” said Jake. “Someone is supposed to say that anytime someone describes an injustice of any kind. It doesn’t matter to what degree the injustice is. It could be anything from a brother got shot in the back by the police during an unjustified traffic stop to you didn’t get a straw attached to the side of your juice box. Someone always has to solemnly say, ‘that shit ain’t right, man,’ and then everyone takes a moment to reflect upon the state of the world and the perpetual state of institutional racism that exists in it, nod quietly in agreement, and then the normal conversation can continue.”
“Are you making this up, Jake?” Greg asked.
“I am not,” Jake said. “That shit wouldn’t be right.”
Greg shook his head a little, unsure whether he was being teased or not. He then changed the subject. “So ... anyway, I heard Celia’s new song on the radio this morning while I was getting ready for the flight here.”
“Yep,” Jake said. “The Aristocrat promotion department came through. Saturation airplay of It Never Happened and my tune, Teach Me, is now in progress, both on the pops and the hards, all across the US and Canada. The CDs will be released for sale on December 5th.”
“I heard Celia’s tune yesterday,” Obie said. “I liked it. Good melody, good mixing of the instruments. And the lyrics are kind of profound too. Almost like a good country song.”
“There’s no reason to get insulting, Obie,” Jake said.
Obie grinned and took a hit of his cigar.
“What did you think of the tune, Greg?” Jake asked him, perhaps a little nervously. After all, the song was about the night that he and Greg’s wife had spent in Portland, although, so far, no one else seemed to suspect that. “Was that the first time you heard it?”
“No, I listened to the whole master CD when she first brought it home,” Greg said. “I like the song. Her voice is as beautiful as ever.”
“Does she ever to sing to you when you’re slipping her the salami?” Obie wanted to know.
“Uh ... no,” Greg said, blushing a bit. “She does not do that.”
“Have you ever asked?”
“No,” Greg said firmly. “Anyway ... as I was saying, I’m not a music expert by any means, and perhaps I’m a bit biased, but I think It Never Happened might be one of her biggest hits yet. It just sounds good when you listen to it. It causes an emotional response of sadness and regret.”
“That’s exactly what a good tune is supposed to do,” Jake said.
“Who is she singing about anyway?” Obie asked, causing Jake to look sharply at him.
“What do you mean, who is she singing about?” asked Greg.
“I mean, it’s obvious she’s singing about some one-night stand hookup she had with someone she was intensely attracted to. Now, I would assume this is something that happened before she met you, Greg. But who is it? It must’ve been some kind of night.”
“She is not singing about anyone in particular,” Greg said firmly. “It’s just a song.”
Obie raised his eyebrows a bit but did not argue the point, though he, as a songwriter of considerable talent, knew that rarely was anything penned on that level ‘just a song’. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I guess that makes sense.”
“So...” Jake quickly interjected, changing the subject, “speaking of songs, Obie. Paulie told me you’re gearing up to hit the studio for your next release?”
“That’s right,” Obie said. “We’re doing the workups right now. I’m hoping to convince the Nerdlys to come up to Oregon and work their magic for me.”
“They might agree to that,” Jake said. “You’d have to make it worth their while though.”
“Naturally,” Obie said. “That’s the way the world works.”
“That ain’t no shit,” Jake said, holding out his hand. Once again, no one shook it. He sighed a little. It really was kind of a cool ritual. White people should learn to embrace it. “Anyway,” he continued, putting his hand back down, “they’ll be working with Celia and the band dialing in the concert sound until December 23. That’s when they’ll do the final dress rehearsals for the tour. After that, they all take a Christmas break and then the roadies and the techies will start their roll-in/roll-out training. Once they’re done with that and they load up the trucks to head for the first date on January 1, the Nerdlys will be free and clear, probably until we bring Brainwash back into the studio over the summer.”
“That sounds like a doable timeline,” Obie said. “I can plan to hit the studio in early January. We’ll be ready by then.”
They talked for a few minutes about some of the tunes that Obie was working on for his next release, or rather, Obie and Jake talked about it and Greg sat and looked bored. Jake then got up and popped back inside to refresh everyone’s drinks, pouring more wine for himself and Greg and another neat bourbon for Obie. After handing them out and then taking a few puffs on his cigar to maintain its combustion, Jake threw another handful of wood chips on the coals of the barbeque, causing a fresh billow of savory smoke to erupt. They all watched it drift away in the breeze for a bit and then Greg, seeming almost nervous, broke the silence.