"Exactly," Jake said. "They want Intemperance sound-alike tunes and I refuse to do that. We've been over this."
"I know we've been over this," Pauline said. "And I know how you feel — believe me, I know. But, Jake... don't you think it's time to compromise on this?"
"No," he said firmly. "I will not compromise on this."
"But you just said..."
"Never mind what I just said," Jake interrupted. "That is irrelevant to what we're talking about now. I will not agree to National's terms. I will not sign a contract that will force me to perform made-to-order songs in which the only selling point is that they kind of sound like new Intemperance material. Especially not when the record company holds the promotional reins and can promote only the songs they think will sell, leaving my real work buried in the deep cuts."
"Jake, I think you're reading too much into this thing," Pauline said.
"And I know that I am not," Jake countered. "You can call me a drunk if you want, Pauline. You can say I'm borderline suicidal. You could even say that I'm a little fucked up in the head at this particular juncture in my life. I won't disagree with any of that. But don't think, even for a moment, that I don't know exactly how my future will pan out if I go down the path you're trying to push me down."
"Jake..."
"No!" he said. "My mind will not change on this! If I cave in and accept the terms of the contract National is offering, this is what will happen: The first album will sell like wildfire and make lots of money for everyone involved. But it will be a farce. The radio stations will overplay the three or four acceptable songs until people are sick to death of them and my real work will be unheard by anyone except those rare people who buy the album and make a point of listening to all the tracks instead of the just the airplay tunes. And then, when I make the second album, it won't sell as much and the new radio-friendly, Intemperance sound-alike tunes won't get as much airplay because people will start to see them for the phony pieces of shit they are. The album will get bad reviews and might even bomb. If National even backs a third album, it will bomb even worse. Five years from now I'll be nothing but the has-been rocker who used to play for Intemperance, the singer who couldn't keep up with the times and is now lost in obscurity. By the year 2000, very few people will even know who I am anymore."
"That might be true, Jake," Pauline said. "I'm not saying it is, but I can at least visualize that as a possibility. But even if it is... isn't putting out another hit album better than doing nothing? If you stay out here in New Zealand, hiding from the world, you'll still fade into obscurity, won't you?"
"I might," he acknowledged. "But at least I won't go there as a sell-out. At least when people do remember me, it will be for the work I did with Intemperance and not for the crap I put out after we broke up. I'm sorry, but if I'm going to make any more music, I'm going to make it my way."
Pauline shook her head in frustration. "Christ," she said. "I can't believe I traveled halfway around the world to have this conversation. I could've just stayed home and had the same talk with Celia."
Jake perked up a little at the mention of Celia. When he'd left the United States, she had been in an even worse situation than Jake. The only recording contract she was being offered was one in which the label maintained complete and total control over the music she would perform and which had strict guidelines on her weight and other physical attractiveness attributes. In short, the contract was designed to turn her into a brainless pop-music sex symbol that they could exploit for an album or two and then toss aside.
"Still no headway on getting Celia recorded, huh?" Jake asked.
"No, although in her case, I can't say I blame her much. They're basically trying to get her to sign up for indentured servitude."
"How's she doing?" Jake asked.
Pauline looked up at him, getting confirmation of something she'd long suspected in Jake's eyes. "She's kind of in a funk these days," she told him. "Her and Greg both. After that whole Northern Jungle fiasco, nobody is offering Greg any roles — not even as a supporting actor — except for one director who was planning on making a series of comedy movies spoofing action-adventure flicks. And he's only offering him a few million dollars a film for the privilege of being typecast for life. Greg turned him down, by the way. And Celia, well, she's starting to think that she's never going to be recorded again. It's hard to comfort her when I'm about three-quarters convinced she's right. Those last two La Diferencia albums really did a number on her reputation."
"That's just not right," Jake said, shaking his head at the injustice of it all. "Celia is an incredibly talented musician and songwriter and she has one of the most beautiful contralto voices there ever was. She shouldn't be silenced."
Pauline shrugged, showing a little of her own frustration with Celia's plight. After all, she was Celia's manager and, so far, there was nothing to manage. She had not made so much as a penny off of her yet and probably never would. "I'm with you on that one, bro," she told Jake. "But really, what can she do? No one is willing to let her go into a studio and crank out ten tunes of her own making. They won't even listen to a demo tape from her."
"Christ," Jake said. "I need a drink." He got up and pulled a bottle of wine from his day to day storage rack just inside the kitchen. Without even looking to see what it was — other than noting it was something red — he grabbed a corkscrew and had it open in less than twenty seconds. He carried it back to the table and poured his glass full.
"Anyone else?" he asked.
"None for me, thanks," Jill said with a yawn. "I really don't think I can stay awake much longer."
"Me either," said Pauline. "I know it's still a little early, but I'm gonna go hit the rack, if that's okay."
"Sure," Jake said, partially disappointed that he wouldn't have any more company this evening, partially glad that he wouldn't have any more company this evening. "You should be able to sleep through until tomorrow if you work at it."
"I feel like I can sleep through tomorrow as well," Pauline told him.
"Me too," agreed Jill.
Jake promised the ladies that he would make them breakfast in the morning. They thanked him for his hospitality and apologized for their fatigue.
"Think about what we talked about, Jake," Pauline advised him as she headed up the stairs. "There has to be some way you can agree to make more music."
"I'll think about it," he promised.
Pauline and Jill went off to bed. Jake smoked another cigarette and then cleaned up the kitchen and the dining room, putting the dishes in the dishwasher, wiping down all the cabinets, and sweeping the floor. While he was performing these tasks he turned on the small transistor radio in the kitchen, tuning it to a Christchurch station that specialized in playing American music — a genre that was very popular in New Zealand.
There was no particular format to the American music other than it was from America. They played country, rock, pop, teeny bob, and even rap. As Jake was rinsing the dishes they played Lines On The Map, the title cut from the last Intemperance album and the last radio airplay tune to be released as a single. Jake sighed a little as he heard it. Lines really was a pretty good tune, an example of what he was capable of when unfettered with record company concerns. Jake listened to the lyrics with pride, envisioning, as he always did when hearing one of his tunes, some nameless, faceless, intelligent listener somewhere in the local audience comprehending the meaning of the tune for the first time — getting what Jake had been saying when he'd written it.
Will I never have that feeling again? Have I reached the end of my musical legacy just because of those short-sighted, money grubbing bastards?