Eventually the topic strayed away from the turmoil in the Middle East and back to the music biz. Jake made mention that although Gordon was on a different label now, he was still able to perform material from his earlier albums, which had been under the National Records label.
"That's because C-Block Records ain't exactly as independent as people believe. Remember when we talked about this over at your pad? Cedric is still using National Records as his production and distribution network. Since I'm still affiliated with them, it's in their best interest to let me do my old material on tour."
"So you record and engineer the tunes in your own studio and then pay National to manufacture and distribute the album?" Jake asked.
"For the most part," Gordon agreed, "although in truth, Cedric don't own a recording studio either. For my album we rented studio time from Jam-On Productions up in Oakland. It's owned by a couple of friends of Cedric's from his earlier days. We put together a master and gave it to National. We paid for the promotion costs and they did the rest."
"And what percentage of the profits does National keep, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Forty percent," Gordon said. "Like I told you before, being hot commodity brings in a better deal."
"So you're doing pretty good now that you're independent?"
Gordon barked out a cynical laugh. "I ain't in the poorhouse or nothing, but remember, it ain't me who's independent, it's Cedric. I still had to sign a contract with him and I still only get paid royalties for Down With It."
"Oh yeah," Jake said. "Did you at least get a good royalty rate?"
"Twenty percent of retail rate," Gordon said. "A little less than what National and Aristocrat were offering. A few more recoupables too."
"So you're losing money by going with C-Block?" Jake asked. That didn't sound like a very good way to do business.
"Not really," Gordon told him. "Making the move to C-Block gave me the street cred I need to sell my album in the numbers it's been selling. Remember, for a rapper, street cred is just as important as talent, sometimes even more so. I couldn't go out and rap about how I got your sell-out right fucking here if I'm signed with a record company owned by whitey and therefore, by definition, a sell-out myself."
"But you still use their network," Jake said. "Does that not meet the requirements of being a sell-out?"
"Not if it's not common knowledge, which it isn't. If you look at my album cover, nowhere does it say National Records on it. National knows the game just as well as Cedric does. They're the silent partner in the deal and they just quietly and anonymously collect their money off the top."
Jake shook his head. "What an intricate and self-deprecating game this business is."
"That ain't no shit, homey," Gordon agreed.
"So what's next for you?" Are you gonna stay with C-Block for awhile? How many option periods is your contract for?"
"It's an album by album contract," Gordon said. "I can walk away from it at any time. That's the only way I'd do business with Cedric. He wanted me to sign for at least three options but I held my ground on that. I took ten percent less royalties and twenty-five percent more of the production costs and tour expenses, but he finally agreed to it."
"So are you walking after the tour?"
"Hopefully," Gordon said. "Though I may have street cred by working for Cedric, in reality it's no different than working for National. Cedric is a brother but he's just as sleazy and money-grubbing as Doolittle and the boys — maybe more so since C-Block Records is not a publicly traded corporation."
"Interesting," Jake said.
"Not exactly the word I would've used," Gordon said. "And then there's the fact that I can't stand the motherfucker."
"Oh?"
"He's a fuckin' has-been rapper who doesn't want to admit that it's over for him. He's lost his touch. He's been living the good life so long, consorting with rich white people so much, that all of his new material is lacking in authenticity. And most of his older material, the shit that made him what he is, is too dated to be relevant."
"The half-life of a rapper is not very long, is it?" Jake asked.
"One of the hazards of the business," Gordon agreed. "Cedric's problem is he can't accept that, can hardly even conceive that no one takes him seriously as a musician anymore. I'm on top of my game right now and my album has sold five times as many copies as his. Most of the people out in that audience every night are there to see me, yet he made himself the headliner. We sell out every show but every time he steps out on that stage, half the audience has already left. And every time he sees that, he gets more and more pissed off and harder and harder to deal with. It's got to the point where we just avoid each other. I haven't actually been in the same room with the man for almost a month now."
Jake nodded sympathetically. "Believe me, my man," he said. "I know what you're going through."
"Yeah," Gordon said. "I guess you do." He drained the last of his drink and then stood up. "And, on that note, I'm gonna go hit the shower and then enjoy me a nice round of groupie sex."
"Have fun," Jake said, standing as well. "Thanks for the drink."
"Anytime, Jake," Gordon said. "Glad you could make it to the show."
They shook hands and Gordon offered Jake a piece of unsolicited advice.
"Don't compromise on your music, Jake," he told him. "Don't let The Man tell you what you should and shouldn't be playing. Even if it means getting less than you deserve, it's worth it."
Jake nodded. "Thanks, Gordon," he said. "I'll keep that in mind."
And he did.
Chapter 21
Lyttelton, New Zealand
January 31, 1991
Jake opened his eyes slowly, trying to focus on the softly spinning ceiling fan above his head. After a few moments, he was able to do so. He watched it spin round and round, casting faint shadows on the vaulted ceiling of his bedroom. The light in here was dim. It was always dim in the mornings, usually until eleven o'clock or so during these summer months. His newly constructed house, and the bedroom within it, faced southwest, toward the town of Lyttelton below. On New Zealand's South Island, the rising sun was in the northeast. It wasn't until it cleared the Port Hills that its rays were able to directly penetrate his house. Jake liked it that way. It allowed him to sleep in most mornings — something that he usually needed to do since he was in the habit of staying up very late each night.
The sound that had awakened Jake was the rumbling of a diesel engine and the crunching of tires across the asphalt access road of his property. This sound was followed by a few clanks and thumps and then the revving of that diesel engine as it settled into a high idle. Jake had been in occupancy of the house long enough to know what those sounds were. It was the propane service, coming to check and fill his tanks. Though he had a throbbing headache, a dry mouth, and his mind was not quite clear enough yet to remember just what he had been doing last night or what time he'd gone to bed or if he had anything that needed to be done today, the fact that the propane truck was here meant it was Wednesday morning, 9:45 AM, New Zealand Standard Time. In New Zealand, you could set your calendar and your watch by such a service.
Jake took a few breaths, trying vainly to expunge the headache a bit. It was to no avail. Yet another hangover was rooted well within his body, the result of drinking far too much alcohol the night before. This was, of course, nothing new. He turned his head to the right, looking at the nightstand to confirm the time. He could not see the digital clock that sat there. Two wine glasses, four Steinlager cans, an overflowing ashtray, and two empty condom wrappers obstructed the view.