G was shaking his head now. “I’m going for these potato skins with the bacon and sour cream. You know? Some shit that’s not disgusting.”
“You ever thought about how they make sour cream?” Jake asked him. “They let milk rot. Sour cream.”
“Still better than fuckin’ snails,” he countered.
Jake looked around and saw that the tighty whities were still shooting disapproving glances at them and whispering. He turned back to G. “Before we leave, we need to bring the whole crew in here. Can you imagine what these assholes will do if ten brothers come in here at once?”
G grinned. “I’ll have ‘em put on all their black shit before they come in,” he said. “Purple suits, medallions, earrings, white fedoras. These fuckin’ suits will think the uprising just started.”
“They’ll probably run screaming out into the streets,” Neesh said with a giggle.
“Clutching their briefcases,” said Jake.
They laughed over this for a few minutes and then got down to some drinking. Before their appetizers even came, all of them had two drinks in their stomachs and were starting to feel good.
“How’s the recording going?” Jake asked.
“On schedule,” Gordon told him. “Maybe even a little bit ahead of schedule. All the basics have been laid down except for Signed, obviously. Once we get the tracks for Signed down and you go back to LA, we’ll be able to start the overdubs on everything else.”
Jake nodded. “You’ll need me back for the guitar and vocal overdubs on Signed at some point, right?”
“That’s right,” G said. “Probably in about two weeks or so. That work for you?”
“Yeah, no problem,” Jake said. “We’re coming along pretty good working up the next batch of tunes for both me and Celia. We’re scheduled to go into the studio in Coos Bay on July 5, so as long as you hit me up before then, it’ll be cool.”
“You’re not going to miss our wedding, are you?” Neesh asked. Their date was July 15 in Half Moon Bay, a beachfront town northwest of G’s hometown of East Palo Alto. Jake and Nerdly were both groomsmen.
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Jake assured her. “We’ll shut down production for the weekend and be there on the 14th for the rehearsal. I already got the jet chartered and everything.”
“Too bad you’re gonna miss the bachelor party,” G said.
“That is too bad,” Jake agreed with real regret. Ricky, G’s best man, had rented the entire top two floors of Harrah’s Hotel and casino in South Lake Tahoe for two full days and three nights for the occasion.
“And you’re going to miss my bachelorette party,” Neesh pouted to Laura. Her maid of honor—a wild and crazy woman she had been friends with since grammar school—was going the more traditional route of Las Vegas, financed, of course, with G’s money, which meant high-roller status.
“I’m sorry I can’t go,” Laura told her, sounding sincere enough although she had privately confided to Jake that the thought of a wild weekend with Neesh and her friends was actually kind of terrifying to her.
“It’s a shame, Teach,” Neesh told her. “There’s gonna be some serious-ass girl time going on down there in Sin City.”
Jake noted that for some reason this statement made Laura blush deeply.
“I can imagine,” Laura said.
“I bet you can,” Neesh told her with a giggle.
“Anyway,” Gordon said, “I’m hoping we’ll only need you for one session for your guitar and vocal overdubs. Two at the absolute most.”
“Just tell me when,” Jake assured him.
“Will do, homey,” G said.
The server brought their appetizers to them and set them down. They all ordered more drinks and dug in, tearing through everything by the time the drinks arrived. They then ordered dinner, all of them going with seafood, which was the specialty of the house. They talked of normal things for a bit—the OJ trial was still high on the list of conversation topics—and then Gordon worked the thread back around to music again.
“Last time we talked,” he told Jake, “you said you didn’t want to be credited for the guitar work on Signed.”
“That’s right,” Jake said. “Just put me down as co-writer of the lyrics and music and one of the vocalists for the cut and I’m happy enough.”
“But you fuckin’ shred on that tune like no tomorrow,” G protested. “You need to be credited for that shit.”
Jake shook his head. “I’d rather not be,” he said. “All that would happen is that people would start the comparison game between me and Matt, and I wouldn’t measure up. It would take attention away from the actual tune. That’s why I don’t credit myself as the lead guitarist on my CDs or Celia’s CDs.”
“That’s bullshit, homey,” Gordon protested. “You ain’t got nothing to be ashamed of when it comes to playing that guitar. Fuck what people think about it.”
“It’s not as good as Matt would play it,” Jake insisted. “I know this to be true and I accept that, just like I know Matt can’t play an acoustic as well as I do or sing as well as I do.”
“That might be true, but you ain’t no slouch at it either,” G said. “And besides, Tisdale takes credit for his singing on his CDs, don’t he?”
“He does,” Jake agreed. “And reviewers and fans constantly tell him that he’s not as good at it as I am.”
“But he doesn’t let that stop him, does he?”
“No,” Jake had to admit.
“And you shouldn’t let that stop you,” Gordon insisted.
“I don’t know,” Jake said. “I just don’t think I’m ready to go there yet.”
Gordon looked at Jake seriously. “Check it, homey,” he said. “I have an ulterior motive here. I’m not just concerned about you getting credit for your shit.”
“Oh?” Jake asked.
“I have an idea about how to pull in some serious coin once I start touring, but it kind of depends on people knowing that it’s you putting down the riff and the solo on Signed.”
“Really?” Jake said. “What’s the idea?”
“You told me that you ain’t planning to tour when your next CD comes out, right?”
“That’s right,” Jake said. “Celia will go out again. We haven’t even opened negotiations yet, but Aristocrat has already promised a fully financed Celia Valdez tour if we sign with them for MD&P. But I don’t see there being a Jake Kingsley tour at any point in the future unless I agree to do some Intemp material, which I won’t.”
“And your Brainwash peeps,” Gordon said. “They’re selling CDs like a motherfucker still. You won’t be putting them back in the studio for at least another nine months, right?”
“That’s right,” Jake said. “No sense putting out new Brainwash while we’re still cashing in on the old Brainwash. Where you going with this, G?”
“Well ... I been thinking about this whole new thing with tour revenue being an untapped source of income for the artists and the labels.”
“It is quite lucrative,” Jake said. “I told you how much we made on Celia’s tour by utilizing the strategy.”
G nodded seriously. “You said you pulled in more than six mil in profits, right?”
“Six point four for KVA Records alone,” Jake said. “Are you planning to follow the trend?”
“I am,” Gordon said. “I’m hot commodity still because, unlike most rappers and hip-hop artists, I’ve kept up with the trend, evolved with my audience, keep putting out music that’s relevant, and doing experimental shit, like having a whitey motherfucker play acoustic guitar for me and, with this next album, having that same whitey motherfucker doing a duet with me.”
“All true,” Jake said.
“I’m thinking that as things stand right now, I could charge pretty much what Celia was charging for concert tickets and people will buy them. And since I’m a brother, they won’t even accuse me of being a sellout. They just expect that shit from a brother; you dig?”