Celia was looking at him in wonder. "I had no idea you paid so much attention to our music."
Jake shrugged, a little embarrassed, as if he'd been caught going through her purse. "La Diferencia always seems to be neck and neck with us on the charts so naturally I had to take a few listens to see what you were all about. My point is that you are a very talented songwriter. The music you make for those albums is consistently the best things on those albums. I'm not talking about how much airplay a song gets or how many singles it sells or whether or not it's nominated for a Grammy. Your songs are honest, written from the heart, which is the only way a song should be written."
"That's sweet, Jake," she said. "And it means a lot coming from someone like you."
"Glad I could boost your ego," he said, "but my other point was that you should push to get more of your own music on the next album."
"If there is a next album," she said. "There's a good chance they won't pick us up for the next option period after the sales of Love."
"Oh, they'll pick you up for the next," Jake said. "As long as they stand to make more money than they'll lose, they'll always pick you up. The album may sound like shit and not sell all that much but you're still a popular touring act, aren't you?"
"True," she said.
"So you should push them a little. Put together a collection of your original music and start throwing some weight around for them to include it."
"What makes you think I even have that much original music?" she asked.
"You do," Jake said. "I know you do."
"Oh really? And how might you know something like that?"
"The same way I know many other things about you. I listen to your music. As I've said before, you can tell a lot about someone by the music they compose."
"Example?" she said. "Tell me something you know about me from the music I compose."
"Okay," he said, rising to her challenge. "I know that you compose your music primarily on an acoustic guitar. I know that you tend to write your verses first and then compose the chorus later. I know that you are particularly fond of the F chord. But that's just the beginning. I also know that you tend to think liberally about social issues but conservatively on law and order issues. I know that you believe there really is such a thing as true love but that it is rare and that few people ever find it. I can tell you like romance but only if it's sincere in its offering. You would be particularly insulted by insincere compliments designed to get you in bed. How am I doing so far?"
Her eyes were wide, staring at him. "That's... amazing," she said. "You know all that just from listening to the six songs I have on three different albums?"
"Yep," he said. "And there's one other thing I know too."
"What's that?"
He took a long puff of his cigar and blew a few smoke rings with the bounty. He sipped from his cognac and then looked at her. "Someone who was able to compose a piece of music as moving and meaningful as Caribobo has dozens of other compositions that have never been allowed to see the light of day. Tell me I'm wrong."
She shook her head in bemused wonder. "All right," she said. "I do have a few."
"So why not push to get some of them on your next album?"
She sighed, puffing from her own cigar and then tapping the ash in the ashtray. "I've had to fight with everything I had just to put the six originals I already have on the albums. They started cracking down on this when we put Love together. They didn't allow me a single piece on that album."
"You gave in too easy," he said.
She seemed like she was about to get angry but then mellowed. She simply nodded. "Maybe," she said. "Sometimes it seems like it's just easier to go along with what they say."
"To do what they told you," he said.
"Yeah."
"And look what it's gotten you," he said. "You're an extremely talented musician with one of the most beautiful voices out there. You should be standing on top right now. Instead, you're stuck in a decline because you're letting other people write your music for you."
She didn't answer him. Instead she stared out at the city lights of Los Angeles and puffed on her cigar. Soon the subject changed to other things having to do with record executives who gleefully killed the geese who laid the golden eggs. When the ocean breeze started to kick up a bit, chilling them, Jake suggested they head back into the house.
They butted their cigars and chugged the last of their cognac. They went back inside and settled into the entertainment room. Jake made them each a fresh drink and then excused himself for a minute. When he returned he was carrying two acoustic guitars in his hands — his battered Fender and a newer Brogan he'd been given a few years ago when he had been playing under the old contract.
"What are those for?" Celia asked.
He dropped the Brogan in her lap and threw a couple of picks down with it. "Let's hear what you got," he said.
"What I got?"
"Show me some of your unrecorded work," he said. "I'd really love to hear it."
"Oh, Jake, I don't know," she said. "I usually keep most of that private."
"C'mon," he chided. "You show me yours and I'll show you mine."
She laughed at his reference. "How much unrecorded work could you possibly have?" she asked him. "You get to record all of your tunes."
"Not all of them," he said. "Only the ones that fit the Intemperance mold. I have dozens of tunes that don't, some dating all the way back to high school. Like you, I enjoy composing. It's how I relax. And when a song or a concept for a song gets into my head I have to strum it out. My supply is much greater than the demand."
"Yeah," she said. "I'm like that too."
"Then let's hear what you got," he repeated.
"You first," she challenged. "Sing me one of yours and I'll see what I can do."
He nodded, sitting down on the couch next to her. "Fair enough."
He put the Fender on his lap and pulled out a pick. He strummed a few times, getting the feel for the nylon strings and the wider neck after so many days of playing nothing but the Les Paul. Once his fingers became nimble and comfortable he dropped the pick and began to fingerpick a soft melody.
"This is called As You Will," he told her. "I wrote it for the last album but it was too mellow to be an Intemperance song. Still, I really like it. Hopefully I'll record it someday."
"I like the guitar work," she said.
He smiled and began to sing. Though he was somewhere between heavily buzzed and outright drunk he did not slur his words or stumble on the lyrics. His voice was as clear and crisp as it was on stage or in a recording studio. He sang through the first two verses, improvised a brief guitar solo, sang the bridge, and then rolled through the final verse. Since he'd never worked out an ending to the song he had to improvise that as well but he did a passable job of concluding the piece.
"I like that," Celia said dreamily. "I like it a lot. You're right though. It's really not like an Intemperance song and I don't think you'd want to try speeding up the tempo any."
"No, it would just make it sound like shit," Jake agreed.
They discussed the tune for a few minutes, talking about the chord changes, the key it was played in, and what sort of accompaniment by other instruments would enhance it the best if it were actually recorded. Both thought that minimal drums and minimal distorted electric guitar along with heavy piano and possibly a synthesizer track in the background would sound best.
"All right," Jake said when the conversation wound down. "Show me some shit."