Sound Effects

by L. J. Greene

  At one point, he took out a small camera and asked a crowd of thousands to lean in for a picture.

  “I think I’ve got you all,” he mugged. “Except maybe you in the blue shirt,” he added, to which about four hundred people looked down at their shirts and then grinned back at the camera.

  Fueled by the party atmosphere, he and Greg shared a mic often, arms around each other and beaming as if they couldn’t believe how lucky they were. Even Nash, who was not normally prone to dramatic flair, tapped into some secret reserve and pulled out an array of flamboyant fills that drew approving laughter from his band mates.

  Watching them in their element brought about a crazy assortment of emotions for me. Pride was the overwhelming one. And joy for their joy. Some trepidation, also, for what we might be returning to.

  And envy; I was a little ashamed to admit it. These past four days had been some of the most exciting of my life. But tomorrow, I would return to patents and briefs, while they would continue to have this incredible thing in their lives. I didn’t begrudge them anything; they’d earned every bit of their success and more. It just reminded me that I’d never quite found anything like that of my own.

  “I’m still trying to figure out if I was a genius or an idiot for asking these guys to open for us.”

  I was so absorbed in the show that I didn’t immediately register the presence of Derek White, Echo Transit’s lead singer, until he spoke beside me. He was very tall, like Danny, but wiry rather than athletic, and he had the kind of nerdy quality that looked cool on a musician.

  “Better bring my A-game tonight,” he said, laughing as he watched Jamie engage the balcony in an exercise of call-and-response.

  Derek shook his head kindly, and I smiled in return, before he disappeared into the wings from where he had come.

  In his departure, I recognized in myself one final emotion.

  Fear.

  Derek was right–Cadence was becoming a hard act to follow. Their momentum felt more like a freight train barreling down the track. It wasn’t just that they were drawing bigger crowds; it was that the crowds were becoming more voracious. These crowds knew the words to the songs, could sing them back to the band with no assistance, pushed their way to the front to swipe the set lists off the stage and take hold of Jamie’s pant leg if he wandered within arm’s length. He was becoming remarkably skilled at fending off their admiration and lust.

  As I looked out over the sea of fervent faces, there were dozens of people holding up signs for Jamie–most with some witty variation of “Jamie, let’s get lucky!” –but many of the signs indicated that these people had traveled quite a distance to see the band perform: L.A., Denver, Idaho, even. I could no longer deny that he and I were trying to build a relationship of substance within a hurricane of intensifying pressures–the next hit, the next pretty face, the next prolonged separation. These felt as inevitable as Cadence’s success, and I wasn’t sure Jamie and I could withstand them.

  I watched as he and Killian dueled with their guitars to the unadulterated glee of the audience, and I felt fear. It trickled down my back like a bead of cold sweat, pulsing inside my body with the monstrous low-end of Greg’s bass. Despite the upbeat tempo of their new song, Two Seconds From Now, my heart was sinking fast.

  And rising above it all, Jamie’s voice rang out like a swan song:

  “From where I’m standing here, we’re nothing more than strangers.

  But two seconds from now, I’m gonna make you mine forever.”

  These strangers who know you, I couldn’t help but think to myself. And who, from here forward, will never want to let you go.

  Chapter 18

  Jamie

  I WAS STARVING. AND WELL on my way to getting good and thoroughly plastered if I didn’t have something substantial to accompany the Sapporo and sake. I would gladly settle for anything I recognized as edible or, at a minimum, anything that had been cooked without its tentacles still on. But amongst the colorful assortment in front of me, there appeared to be fish eggs–a meal fit only for a fish just larger than the one that had shat the eggs out in the first place–and what I gathered to be tofu, helplessly tethered to a bed of rice by a piece of seaweed. What man-sized hunger could possibly be satisfied by such crumbs?

  With my finger, I pushed a few soybeans onto the end of my chopsticks, but they fell off into my lap before I could get them to my mouth. I was definitely going to starve.

  “Try that,” Killian whispered beside me, pointing to the backside of a shrimp that looked as though someone had shoved rice up its arse. I squinted suspiciously at it. “Don’t eat the tail, though.”

  No danger there, mate.

  For the love of God, I wanted a steak and some potatoes.

  “So Jamie, now that we’ve gotten our appetites out of the way, why don’t we talk a little business?”

  Richard Stapleton, Vice President of A&R at Spire Records, wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned forward in his low-back chair. I guessed that he was in his fifties and as music executives go, he was far more ‘executive’ than ‘music.’ His suit likely cost more coin than I made in a month.

  He was clever, though; I’d give him that. I had no doubt that he had called me out specifically because he sensed that I was the one most at odds with Spire’s present offer. This dinner–with he and Matt Kayes, our attorney, Gavin Barnett, and the band–was suggested by Spire as a way to iron out the remaining contract issues that largely centered on creative control.

  I couldn’t fault Gavin for our present state. He had negotiated stronger financial terms across the board. But he had warned us that concession in this area sometimes became the label’s sticking point on creative control. And I sensed from the tone of the negotiations to date that he was right.

  What made things complicated was that Greg and I were still very much divided on the question of how much control we were willing to give up in order to make this contract happen. We had cautiously approached the subject a couple of times since our return from Seattle, but backed off as soon as things got tense between us. We’d made a lot of decisions together about the band through the years–some quite difficult, in fact–but we had never before encountered anything that we couldn’t openly discuss. I absolutely hated this.

  And it was obvious by the way that Killian and Nash were avoiding the discussion that they were hoping we could resolve our differences before they had to take sides. I couldn’t fault them, either.

  There was just no way through this but through. And if Richard wanted to talk business, we’d best get on with it before I passed out from hunger or drunkenness.

  I felt Greg’s eyes resting heavily upon me as I set my chopsticks aside and nodded to Richard in agreement.

  “So, I understand you have some reservations with Section 10.3.”

  Section 10.3. Such a tidy and sterile way to refer to an issue that was highly emotional for the rest of us. It made me wish for the umpteenth time that Mel were here. I liked Gavin; he was an exceptionally capable attorney. But Mel, by her own admission, had a protective instinct that she had been told was even more lethal in a lawyer than a killer instinct. And suddenly, I completely understood that. Gavin would fight skillfully for our interests; I had no doubt about that. But Mel would have fought for us, and I wondered what a difference that might have made if we had had someone like her to represent us.

  To Gavin’s credit, he snapped to attention at the mention of the contract. He was seated directly across the round table from Richard and me. I sensed that he was assessing the distance between us should the need arise to throw himself bodily over the table in order to gag me if I spoke out of turn. I would have quite liked to see it, actually, but I was as eager as anyone to conclude the discussion quickly and without any devilry.

  “That’s correct,” I said, matching Richard’s dispassionate tone. I did not look at Greg. I simply had no idea what I might see in his face and the unspoken strain between us was hard enough.


  Richard nodded slightly and at first seemed to accept this without further comment. Then he lifted his sake, pausing half way to his mouth, and gestured at me with the glass, meeting my gaze with narrowed eyes.

  “Did you know that I started my career as a booking agent when I was just about your age? And then I got my first job in A&R. That was almost thirty years ago.” He took a sip and set down his glass; he seemed to be carefully selecting his next words.

  “I’ve seen thousands of bands in my time,” he said, studying me with a look that was cool and inscrutable. “Some made it, most didn’t. Do you know what they all had in common?”

  I shook my head but said nothing.

  He was quiet, too, for a moment. Then he adjusted his body, placed both forearms on the table and laced his hands together in front of him. His eyes locked on mine, so dark blue as to be nearly black, and he smiled without any warmth. “They all thought they were special.”

  In the span of that one short sentence, the atmosphere around the table changed irrevocably. His words hung between us like an accusation–a cold, wet blanket laid atop of a false air of congeniality. In the pit of my stomach, anger began to rise. I struggled to keep it in check. This wasn’t a negotiation; it was a warning shot fired across the bow. Around us, the restaurant was bustling with the clatter of plates and the dull roar of conversation, but at our table, no one said a word; even Matt Kayes was absurdly focused on his chopsticks.

  And that’s when the sobering assessment of our reality truly set in.

  It was much like the discovery of a loose thread on a sweater. One small tug and everything begins to unravel. All of it: the future that seemed right there in our grasp, our hopes of finally breaking through, the end of our shit jobs, the justification that the significant piece of ourselves that we’d given over to our craft had value and purpose. And maybe even something more sacred than that: the brotherhood that had carried the four of us through years of exhaustion and sacrifice.

  “Of course, we think Cadence is special,” Richard added in a well-calculated afterthought that plainly entertained his own sense of cleverness.

  But I’d lived my entire life with a bully, a man who had mastered the art of intimidation. And sitting before one now, I was reminded of the vital secret they never wish you to know: no one can take your power without your consent. And I did not consent.

  I arranged my features into an expression that didn’t quite sell itself as a smile. “Just not special enough to merit the right of approval, is that it?”

  Surprise flashed on Richard’s face and he laughed out loud. “I like you, Callahan.” Under the circumstances, it was not a compliment. “Did you know that record companies have only a five percent success rate with the albums they produce? That means that only five percent of all records released by major labels go gold or platinum.”

  “And yet record companies get away with a 95 percent failure rate that would be wildly unacceptable in any other business.”

  He leaned in closer, as his growing fascination with me overcame his surprise. “Why do you think that is?”

  I drained the last of my Sapporo and set the bottle gently down on the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Greg look down at his hands. His expression was unreadable.

  “Because record companies keep almost all the profits,” I said, meeting Richard’s gaze and not looking away. “Recording artists get paid only a tiny fraction of the money earned by their music. Labels like Spire offer royalty rates that are absurdly low to begin with and then you charge back every conceivable cost to an artist’s royalty account. We pay for recording costs, video production costs, tour support, radio promotion, sales and marketing costs, packaging costs and any other cost you can conceive of. We’ll probably end up paying for this dinner, am I right?” I asked him pointedly. “With all due respect, Richard, you can keep your Valentine.”

  Richard didn’t respond immediately, yet an extraordinary change went across his face. I happened to glance up at Gavin, whose expression now closely resembled the gaping fish head on the platter in front of him. Nash and Kayes were wearing junior versions of the same thing. Greg wasn’t looking at me at all.

  The conversation was quickly going to smash and I suddenly had no stomach for the games and the bullshit.

  “We want final approval on album content.”

  Richard pressed his lips together, breathed in through his nose and shook his head. “Can’t do that.”

  “Then why are we here?” I shot back. “Why would you want to sign us?”

  “I think we can be successful together,” he said simply. “You’ve got talent; you’re entertaining. And I like your look.”

  “Our look?” I could hear my accent growing stronger over the course of our discussion, which was a sure sign that I was losing control of my anger.

  Richard waved his hand dismissively. “And your voice. And your stage presence. The whole package.”

  “But not our music?” So far beyond fury now, I was amazed to hear any calm in my voice at all.

  “I didn’t say that. It’s definitely an asset that you write your own material.”

  “Then why not give us creative control?”

  “Because of the five percent. Do you know what your problem is, Callahan? You don’t sound like anyone else.”

  I barked out a humorless laugh, richly embroidered with disbelief. “I hardly consider that a problem.”

  “In a perfect world, that’s probably true. But don’t be naïve, Jamie; I have to be able to sell you. Program directors have to want to play you on their stations. People need to want to buy your CDs. Otherwise, every penny I spend is just a waste of money. Five percent.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but he stopped me.

  “Take False, for example. What do I do with that song?”

  “Our crowds love that song.”

  He made a face, tilting his head back and forth. “Perhaps. But it’s not quite loud enough to be played on alternative rock stations and it’s far too edgy for adult contemporary. We need to make you more commercially acceptable. There will be a time and a place to work in more of your own stuff. But for the moment, I need your assurance that you’ll allow us to guide you. And in return, I’ll make you a lot of money. Sound good?”

  I felt my lips forming the words ‘time and place,’ but no sound actually emerged. It was no wonder; I could not breathe. I was staring at his face, and then at the faces of the rest of our party, and I suddenly felt very, very sick.

  “You want to turn us into a fucking boy band?”

  “That’s an overstatement. We want Cadence to be Cadence. We just want to guide you.”

  I made a noise in my throat, on the verge of rudeness, indicating what I thought of Richard’s ‘guidance.’

  “You’ll need to be more specific, Richard,” Gavin cut in diplomatically, but I had stopped listening entirely.

  All I had ever wanted to do was to play music. It had been the one constant in my life from the time I was very young. When my life fell to shit as it did often in my youth, I could always find solace with my guitar. Songwriting, in particular, had helped me to make sense of a world that, at times, seemed purely senseless. I hadn’t dreamed of fame and fortune then; I had dreamed merely of survival–just making it through that one day, and then, God willing, the next. Music had been my talisman. It was still my talisman.

  I had no idea how to be myself if I couldn’t play music that was my own. Just the thought of it made me feel entirely hollow.

  I looked up at Greg, and for the very first time that evening, he was also looking at me. His eyes were as blue as the sky, outlined with dark liner and weariness. They were pleading, and I understood their need implicitly.

  Greg and I had met in a record store when we were seventeen. He worked there, and I was in, browsing the aisles for inspiration. But between my accent and his habit of talking insanely fast, neither of us could understand a damned word the other was saying. It was
mad. We were in America, both speaking English and both squawking at each other like two parrots in a pet store. Two odd birds who both liked telling stories and who loved to have a good laugh. We’d been the closest of friends ever since.

  As I discovered, his father was a Lutheran minister who neither understood nor supported the choices Greg made. So he had left home at sixteen and lived on the street for a time. Like me, music had been his salvation, and it had given him one singular, obsessive point of focus for his life. It was justified; he was among the most brilliant musicians I had ever met. He was creative and unconventional, taking my songs and working out new arrangements that became the cornerstone of our unique sound, the same sound that Richard was so ready to dismiss.

  A part of me could not understand how Greg, of all people, would be willing to accept any interference from the label when it came to our sound.

  On the other hand, a part of me did understand. For Greg, this contract represented the end of an era of literal hunger and fear in his life. This was his ultimate validation–a chance to silence those critical voices in his head that had told him for years he was nothing.

  Furthermore, we had worked so hard to make this contract happen. There were thousands of struggling bands, just like ours, who would have given anything, accepted any terms, in order to have this kind of offer. To turn it down under any circumstances seemed absolutely bats–like looking a gift horse in the mouth and telling it to fuck right off. This was a rare opportunity to actually live the life we’d dreamed of. We had no idea if or when we’d ever have a chance like this again.

  And yet, for me, the choice was not so simple. Without creative control, I could easily imagine scenarios in which the contract became a noose around our necks. I imagined bubblegum pop songs with no substance or relevance to our lives, and silly videos of us making hijinks with cartoon characters. And even more basic concerns: what if they insisted we work with a producer that we didn’t connect with? Or wanted ultimate control over album cover artwork and the selection of our first radio single? If we became puppets for a struggling label in a struggling industry, there was no telling what we may unwillingly become.