Forty-Four
Miles was on the road into Manhattan Monday morning before dawn. The Lincoln Tunnel was up ahead and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw little traffic. Back and Blue was playing softly on the radio’s cassette player. He fingered the two other cassettes on the passenger seat while his mind went over what he knew about Mike Winfield. Loren Phillips asked him to come in early so he could listen to another drive time interview scheduled for seven. The change of plan puzzled him.
“We’d rather tape you later after the show is over. But Mike would appreciate it if you could come in early and be here for the one with VooDoo9 front man, Toby Maine.”
“Is this about Atlantic City? Because I don’t want to…”
“No, no. The timing is a coincidence.”
“Then why not bring me in later?”
“He thinks you might find it interesting, but if you can’t make it…”
“You’re sure this has nothing to do with Jimmy?”
“Promise. It’s won’t to come up.”
Cindy said Loren was straight shooter. He had no choice, but to trust her. He pictured Cindy in his mind. Dinner with her was now two or three nights each week. He found himself enjoying her company more each time. Sometimes, it was simply take-out brought over to the studio or his office. Other times, they took a table at Antonio’s in town, sharing a bottle of wine and talking about everything from business to the weather. The flow was easy. He wasn’t lonely when they were together.
He did his homework on Mike Winfield. He listened to his show every morning, carefully analyzing his technique and the types of questions asked. None of those interviewed were executives like him. They were mostly performers with a few songwriters and arrangers mixed in. Most were well known with hit songs either climbing the charts or sitting close to the top. Winfield, he decided, was a skilled interviewer. The on-air conversations were entertaining and informative. The reputations of those he interviewed were always enhanced. In this, McCabe was very pleased. He cared not one bit for his own ego, but he saw an opportunity, through Winfield, to get significant exposure for Blossom Records.
He knew about Winfield’s personal problems, too. The trades carried a few stories about his battles with cocaine. The sordid details of his divorce were a matter of public record. She’d been the DJ’s second wife, a former songstress who claimed to have given up her career when she had his two daughters. New York divorce law is stacked against husbands and fathers. She took him for everything. Yet, for a businessman like Miles McCabe, merely learning what the public already knew wasn’t enough. So he contacted an old friend in hopes there might be more private information out there.
“Miles McCabe, I never thought I’d talk to you again.”
“My fault,” Miles replied. “I should have called before.”
Felix Massengill was the retired head of security at McCabe’s old company. They met when Miles was negotiating the failed merger. Day after day, when the negotiating team called it quits in the wee hours of the morning, Miles would exit the building through the underground parking garage. SEC regulations were tight. No one was permitted to carry documents and each negotiator had to be carefully screened. Industrial espionage was real and publicly traded companies, especially those engaged in secretive merger talks, needed to be extra careful. Miles obligingly opened his briefcase and engaged in conversation with Felix and his men, knowing they had a job to do. In time, Felix took to personally escorting Miles to his car. Sometimes, they stood together in the semi-lit garage, just shooting the breeze. A friendship developed. When Miles saw the end, Felix was the first one he called to let him know. Felix retired a few months later.
“What’re you doing with yourself?”
“I’m in the music business, recording company over in Millburn.”
“You don’t say. Don’t tell me you’re a singer now ‘cause I won’t believe it.”
Miles laughed hard. “No, just trying to get the company back on its feet.”
“That’s sounds more like the Miles I know. How’s it going?”
The two men spent a half hour catching up. Miles recognized his former colleague as a tough-minded law enforcement type who appreciated people who respected the work he did. He also knew Felix was a warm-hearted family man. Two of his sons also went into police work. Miles steered the conversation to what he had in mind.
“One of your boys is on the force in Manhattan, right?”
“Detective, One Police Plaza.” Miles mentioned Mike Winfield and what he wanted to know. Felix asked a few questions. Miles told him what he knew. “I’ll see what I can find out. Drug conviction shouldn’t be too hard. Give me a few days.”
The Winfield/Phillips team was already in the broadcast booth for the start of their six a.m. show when Miles arrived. A young receptionist ushered him to a side room next to the booth with windows that let observers see the DJs at work. Winfield was seated with earphones cocked sideways on his head. He had thick neatly combed brown hair. He wore a maroon cardigan. Miles judged him to be about six feet tall in his mid –forties. Loren was younger with long blond hair and a slim body. She smiled at Winfield whenever he uttered some witty remark, often chiming in with a retort.
In Millburn the rehearsals were going better than expected. His band was in the studio all weekend and they were ready to start the Monday work early. Benson arrived with his friend, Chase. Jimmy had his doubts. Chase wore the same soiled black tee shirt and jeans he’d worn the Friday before when Benson introduced him to Ellis and the rest of the touring crew. Chase was unkempt. He had long, greasy black hair and a goatee. He was muscular and carried himself like he knew the rougher side of life. He took orders from Ellis without comment and spoke to no one, except Benson with whom he often stood to the side conversing in muffled tones.
Jimmy worked Melinda, Ted, Eugene, Sonny and Benson in the mornings. In the afternoons he turned the large studio over to the British groups and retired to the small studio with Sonny and Ted to work on various selections involving heavy guitar and harmonica. Benson traded time between the two studios, getting to know everyone. Cindy took the studio at night with the Canadian who was still working on his sound. Ellis and Jimmy were back on good terms after the meeting in Miles’ office.
“Everything okay between us?” Ellis asked, in the hall after the meeting.
“Of course.” That’s all Jimmy needed to say.
It took all morning to run through each track of Back and Blue. Eugene was getting comfortable and Melinda breezed through her parts with no hiccups. The hard part was synching Ted on the harmonica. He was better than Jimmy remembered. The album cuts featured Jimmy on harmonica, but Ted was far more skilled. The trick was keeping him from taking over the songs. He was that good and Jimmy didn’t want to tamp him down so much that the quality of his play got lost. Finding the right balance was tricky. Sonny and Benson merely needed repetition so the flow could be developed. Everyone expected to work long hours before the band would become a single coordinated instrument.
There were the new riffs that Sonny created for the three Whitehurst songs, too. Sonny played them for Jimmy in the New York apartment, careful to keep the amp low so the neighbors wouldn’t complain. Sonny was excited and happy to be back on his guitar, free from the drudgery of restaurant work. It showed in the quality of the chords he produced. Jimmy fairly jumped with joy when the powerful sound filled his ears. He nodded gratefully at his friend as he played them over and over so they could fit them neatly into each song. He couldn’t wait for the Australian to test them out. For both men the pleasure of playing together again was a special high. They jammed for several hours just for the fun of it.
Just before seven a.m. Miles watched as a slender, boyish looking young man was escorted into the sound booth. He wore a light blue suede vest over a paisley shirt and dark pants. The ensemble, though calculated to look casual, almost thoughtlessly thrown together, was immaculately tailored and professionally coordinat
ed so that the colors matched gracefully with one another and with the eyes, complexion and hair of its wearer. The young man’s tinted blond hair, too, was, at first view, casually thrown across his scalp and ears, thick and gleaming. But, upon closer look, its careful shaping could be discerned. It did not flutter as he threw his head back to laugh. It had to be held tightly in place by hairspray.
Miles knew Toby Maine was barely twenty and into his second year at the top of the charts with VooDoo9. He burst on the scene at eighteen with his band’s first album. All of the album’s twelve songs were written by the teen sensation, who served as the band’s front man and leader. He played rhythm guitar, backed by VooDoo9’s core unit of five others, equally young and easy to look at. An orchestra accompanied the group during all of its live performances. VooDoo9 was currently the biggest thing in pop music, riding a crest of adulation from early teen-age girls who bought every record, magazine, concert ticket and souvenir the band’s promoters could produce. The super group had been on tour for more than a year. Tonight was Madison Square Garden, followed by New Jersey’s Meadowlands Arena a day later. Both were sold out.
Winfield opened the interview with a cascade of compliments, touting the boy’s remarkable talent and his band’s meteoric rise to the top of the charts. He led him through a litany of questions, interspersing several plays from the hot selling album. After thirty minutes, Miles concluded it was all fluff, unlike the other interviews he’d listened to for weeks. After a commercial break things changed.
“How do you write your songs?” Winfield tossed the question out casually.
“It’s a process, you know,” replied Maine. “Ideas come into my head at all hours of the day and night and I have to catch them quick.”
“So you write music when it comes to you?”
“I get into this dream state. I hear chords in my head and keep a notebook handy so I can write them down. Sometimes, I lose track of time. I don’t even know where I am. It’s a rush, man.”
“Where did you get your training?”
“I learned everything on my own. It comes natural.”
“But you had to have some training, right? I mean to write the chords and notes.”
Maine hesitated before answering. “Well, uh, I read books and stuff.”
“So, you taught yourself how to play the guitar, too?”
“Sure.”
“You know there are rumors that you can’t read or write music, that your guitar play is weak. Some critics say the orchestra covers your weaknesses.” Miles suddenly became interested.
“That’s bull, man. Who’s saying that about me?”
Winfield shifted gears. “I believe you know Bethany Williams?”
“I met her once in LA. She’s a nice lady.”
“Only once? The two of you don’t collaborate?”
“No, man. I don’t need help with my music.”
Winfield addressed his listeners. “To all of you listening out there, Bethany Williams is an accomplished freelance songwriter. She works with many of today’s biggest artists. Let’s hear a cut from one of her creations.” He cued the engineer. After the opening chords it sounded like VooDoo9’s current chart topping single. This happened sometimes. Miles knew of many songs that sounded similar. Artists often sampled each other. Occasionally, a lawsuit would flare up, but they were usually settled amicably. Half way through, Winfield cut in and the song faded. “Sounds familiar don’t you think, Toby?”
“Never heard it before. No.”
“Let’s compare it with your current number one single, shall we?”
“Uh, sure, okay.” Maine fidgeted, looking from Winfield to Loren.
Winfield cued the engineer again. Maine’s voice filled the station’s speakers. The guitar riffs were sharp. The melody was identical in every way to the previous song. Winfield let it go on longer before cutting in again.
“I talked to Bethany just yesterday. She’s a good friend. She thinks you lifted this one and a few others. What do you say to that?”
Maine’s face went crimson. He cleared his throat, buying time. “Everybody knows I write my own stuff.” Defiance resonated in the nervous youth’s tone.
“When did you pick up a guitar for the first time?” Maine was guarded now. He refused to look at Winfield as he answered.
“I was a kid, maybe thirteen. My aunt gave me a Gibson for my birthday. I fooled around alone after school before my mom and dad came home from work. The rest is history.”
“That story sounds familiar, too.” Winfield reached down to his feet and brought up an album cover. Miles jumped up and hurried to the window when he saw that it was the jacket from Jimmy’s first release. Winfield handed it to Loren who seemed confused. “Loren would you read the narrative on the back of Jimmy Button’s first album?”
It took her ten seconds to get to the part that explained how Jimmy taught himself to play the Gibson he’d received from his aunt alone after school in his Chillingham bedroom when he was thirteen. When she was finished Maine was already out of his chair. Winfield leaned into the mike.
“We’ll be right back after this short commercial break.” A litany of expletives exploded from the young singer’s mouth. Miles heard it all through the window as Winfield calmly let the boy vent. Back on the air Winfield returned to asking a few non-threatening questions which Maine answered without enthusiasm. Then the VooDoo9 front man moved to close.
“Unfortunately, I gotta go, now. I got a lotta work to do before tonight’s gig. Thanks for having me on your show.” He gave Winfield a hateful stare and reached for his earphones. Winfield quickly thanked his guest and broke for another commercial.
“You’re gonna pay for this!” Maine shouted, then tore from the sound booth and stomped off.
Miles watched as Winfield calmly removed his earphones. He pointed at Loren to take over. A moment later the DJ came into the room where Miles stood aghast.
“Mike Winfield.” He approached McCabe, hand thrust out as if nothing just happened. Miles absently took it, still in shock. “Some of these youngsters are full of themselves. He’s a bit hotheaded.”
McCabe marveled at Winfield’s apparent lack of concern. He’d just accused the most popular star on the charts of stealing songs. The repercussions would be severe. “That was rough.”
“He’ll get over it.” Winfield smiled.
“The two songs were identical and his story matched Jimmy’s word for word.”
“I thought you’d find it interesting.”
“I’m shocked.”
“My listeners will be, too. I’m sure the switchboard is lit up already. Let’s go to my office. “Loren will do the rest of the show.”
Miles nodded, an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He followed Winfield down the hall to a nicely appointed office. A sophisticated tape recorder sat on top of the desk. The two men took seats opposite one another, Winfield behind the desk.
“I’d like to do something special with your interview. Instead of a one-shot thing, I thought I’d break it into several segments and broadcast them over a week’s schedule. Sound okay to you?”
“I can’t come back…”
“No, I’m sure you’re very busy. We’ll do the whole interview here and now. Later, we’ll splice in some cuts from Button’s - er, Jim Buckman’s album and give it a good intro to my listeners.”
“So, you’ll give Back and Blue some airtime?”
Winfield looked away without addressing the question then reached his hand to the tape recorder. “Let’s do the interview. After we’re done, we can talk off the record.”
Miles antenna went up, but he kept silent. Winfield pressed a button on the recorder and they proceeded to talk as if they were two long-time friends. The DJ began with a series of questions about what McCabe wanted to do with the recording company. He segued into a discussion of Blossom’s three soon to be released albums and the make-up of the groups that produced them. He included tentative breaks that would l
ater be used to play various cuts from each album. Jimmy’s successful short tour of Australia came up as did Rebellion and Weak Knees, especially their recent gigs in the UK. They delved into Jimmy’s name change with Winfield remarking several times that it was the right thing to do. He let Miles shamelessly hype the upcoming east coast tour, generously adding his personal opinion that it would be received enthusiastically. The conversation went on for an hour before Winfield concluded it with praise for McCabe’s skillful recognition of talent. Neither Atlantic City nor Jimmy’s alcohol problems were mentioned. When the off button was pressed Miles sat back in his chair thoroughly pleased, not to mention relieved that he had emerged unscathed. Winfield also looked pleased as he removed the tape from the recorder and put it to the side.
“That went well,” he said, eyeing McCabe as if he was sizing him up for the first time. “First, I’ll do an edit. There may be some repetitive stuff that I can take out so it won’t sound redundant. Then I’ll add some cuts from the albums.”
Miles reached into his pocket and brought out the three cassettes, one each of Blossom’s current stable. “I brought these along. You’re getting them first.” He handed them to Winfield.
“I think we have enough to run three or four segments during the morning drive say Monday to Thursday next week. How’s that sound?”
“Great. I can’t thank you enough.”
Winfield waved his hand. “Glad to do it. Of course there’s the WIIFM factor.” He pronounced the acronym as a single word, ‘wiifm’. Miles had no idea what it meant.
“I’m not familiar with the term.”
“What’s in it for me,” Winfield said, straight-faced, leaving no doubt that he was serious. Miles matched the words to the acronym, quickly catching up with Winfield’s meaning
“You mean you want money to air this interview?”
“In some form or another, but not necessarily just for the interview. I can push the albums for as long as you like. I can convince my friends at other stations to do the same.”
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