"Unenforceable provisions?"
He gave her a brief rundown on what that term meant. "Basically it means if you put something into a contract that was so outrageous — like agreeing to a lengthy term under conditions that almost guarantee you'll go into debt — it doesn't matter if the person who signed the contract was in his right mind and understood the provision. By their very nature they are unenforceable."
"Wow," she said. "And that worked?"
"I'm not saying anything worked," Jake said. "I'm just saying that if the scenario you're suggesting ever took place, that might be how it was done. You see, the record company would be willing to sacrifice Intemperance and all the future revenue we represented just to make an example of us to future bands. What they wouldn't be able to tolerate, however, is a threat that cuts to the core of their very industry and profit margin. If a court — most likely the California Supreme Court itself — were to rule that Intemperance's contract was null and void under unenforceable provisions, that would mean that every single first-time contract signed with any record company based in California would also become null and void. That would be something that could force a renegotiation now, wouldn't it?"
"Hmm," she said thoughtfully. You could almost see the light bulb going on over her head.
"Before you start getting any wild ideas," Jake said, "allow me to derail them. This scenario might have been possible back in 1985 but it probably wouldn't fly now. Rose Bird and most of her cohorts have been voted off the California Supreme Court and they were all replaced with conservatives whose asses are so tight you probably couldn't stick a baby thermometer in there. I don't think a record company would take the threat as seriously today."
Celia's face fell a little. "Well, that sucks ass."
"Indeed it does," Jake agreed. "Let's have another drink, shall we?"
"That sounds like a grand idea."
They actually had three more drinks before it was time for Jake to put the steaks on the barbeque. He grilled them to a perfect medium-rare and brought them back to Elsa, who put them on plates and carried them to the dining room table. In addition to the steaks there were sliced portabella mushrooms sautéed in garlic and red wine, homemade red beans and rice, and steamed asparagus spears with cheese sauce. To round it all out she opened a bottle of 1982 Cabernet Sauvignon from the Berringer vineyards in the Napa Valley. Jake and Celia both tore into the food with a vengeance, eating every last scrap of everything with hardly a word exchanged.
"Oh my lord, Elsa," Celia told her when she come in to clear the dishes. "That was absolutely fantastic. I've been eating nothing but cheap, catered food and greasy hotel kitchen food for the past five months. Thank you so much for a real meal."
"You're very welcome, Celia," Elsa said, displaying a small smile of satisfaction.
"I must agree, Elsa," Jake said. "The thing I was looking most forward to about this little vacation back from the road was getting some of your food in my stomach."
"Thank you too, Jake," she said. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. How does eggs benedict sound for breakfast in the morning?"
"Sounds good to me," he said. "How about you, Celia? Do you like eggs benedict?"
"I adore it," she said. "If I wasn't so stuffed right now I would be drooling."
"Eggs benedict it is," Elsa said. "Now please clear out of the dining area so I can clean it."
They obeyed, heading into the entertainment room. Jake poured each of them a snifter of cognac. Celia warmed hers in her hand and then took a sip. "Very good," she complimented. "You do seem to know your booze, Jake."
"I'm working on a PhD in booze," he replied. "This stuff is really nice with a good cigar."
"Now that's an idea," she said. "Do you have any?"
"You want to smoke a cigar?" he asked.
"I'm a woman of the world," she said. "Do you have any, or what?"
Jake grinned. "I think I just fell in love with you," he said. He walked behind the bar and opened the humidor that was installed there. He pulled out two of his finest illegally imported Cubans. "Shall we retire to the smoking area?"
"By all means."
They went out to the patio and sat down at the outside bar. Jake prepped the cigars with a cutting tool he kept out here just for that purpose and they lit up. Celia smoked it expertly, even commenting on the aftertaste.
"If the paparazzi could only get a shot of you now," Jake said. "Sitting out in Jake Kingsley's backyard, sipping cognac, and toking on an illegal stogy."
Celia only shrugged. "Who knows?" she said. "Maybe it would give my career a little boost. God knows I could use one after that last album."
Jake nodded. La Diferencia's fourth album — Love Is In The Air — had not done nearly as well as the first three. It had gone platinum, but only barely and only in the last month. Nor had it ever broached into the top ten on the album chart, stalling at number twelve for two weeks shortly after its release and then plunging rapidly downward. Similarly it had only produced one hit single — a song called How Much Can I Take? — instead of the three to four top ten singles produced by the first three albums (although, to be honest, How Much Can I Take? had parked itself at the number one spot for six consecutive weeks, denying Intemperance's song Cold Reality from the top spot).
"What happened on that album?" Jake asked, although he already knew. He had listened to the album several times and found it to be full of clichéd rehashes of the previous La Diferencia albums, some hokey enough that you had to wonder if they were jokes or not.
"Over-formulization, what else?" Celia said. "All of the tracks on Love sound like crappy imitations or our other hits. I knew it the whole time we were rehearsing it and recording it. The writers went back to the well a few too many times and the fans who loved our music so much have grown older and become more musically sophisticated. We didn't grow up with them. They just kept feeding us a bunch of sappy songs about teenage puppy love and dancing and being sad while your boyfriend is away and our fans got tired of it."
"Wow," Jake said respectfully. "That's a brutally honest self-examination."
"Above all else," she quoted, "to thy own self be true. I'm just being true to myself. We're a teen pop band and our fans have outgrown us. You guys, on the other hand, have done exactly what we failed to do. As your fan base grew older and wiser your music grew more sophisticated, more daring. Your lyrics became deeper and more relevant. Even Matt's lyrics, as much as I hate to admit it. That song of his, Can't Chain Me, is very moving in a disturbed kind of way. It was able to elicit an emotional response in me when I analyzed the lyrics. And your song, I Am Time, is simply brilliant, both in lyrics and instrumentation. There is nothing on Love that can even come close to that. That's why you're heading for triple platinum already and we're floundering at barely over platinum."
"You're right," Jake said. "Nothing the Aristocrat songwriters gave you for this one is worth a shit and it honestly sounds like they've flat run out of ideas. It doesn't have to be that way though."
"What do you mean?"
"You're a very good songwriter and melody composer if the few cuts they've allowed you to record are any indication."
"Nice try," she said with a pout, "but those were only bones they threw at me. You'll notice that none of them were ever released as singles. None were even played on the radio."
"Is that what you think makes a song good?" Jake asked. "Whether or not they play it on the radio?"
"Well... no," she said.
"I think Caribobo is one of the most moving and descriptive songs I've ever heard. It made me feel empathy for soldiers in a battle I'd never even heard of. And then there is Calling You on your second album. A very adroit analysis of the turmoil a person goes through after breaking up with someone who is no good for them."