by Mark All
“Dude, it’s got to happen,” she said firmly but with a dash of optimism. “This is your dream.” And Sage’s money.
Danny sniffed. “Kind of a shit tour, anyway. I mean, Brewster Billy’s in Maynard? That bar is where has-beens go to die. We sold like five CDs after that show.”
“The last date on the tour is opening for the Shins. That could make your career!” If they didn’t suck.
“I realize that.” The guy sounded forlorn. “I don’t know if Pete does or not, but he will not perform with this lineup.”
Pete was the drummer. Jeff, the lead singer and guitarist, had stolen Pete’s girlfriend, Karen, the keyboard player. Intra-band relationships inevitably tore groups apart. It was no wonder the Cranks hadn’t moved any units at Brewster Billy’s. They’d had a knockdown drag-out on stage.
“Danny, we can replace Pete. I have five drummers who can audition today.”
The bassist sounded exasperated now. “We can’t replace Pete. It’s his band. He founded it, he’s the driving force. He says Jeff’s out, but Karen says she’ll walk if Jeff goes.”
“We can bring in a new drummer and another keyboard player, but we can’t replace the singer. That’s what any band is all about. People don’t give a shit about drum styles or guitar solos. As long as the drummer keeps a solid beat and plays in time behind the singer, you’re good.”
After a prolonged silence, Danny muttered, “Pete and I go way back. We’re a team. We’re the rhythm section, for god’s sake.”
Jessica’s eyes narrowed and her voice iced over. “You have a contract.”
“Yes, and we all signed it. Including Pete. We can’t throw him out of his own band.”
“Danny, I love you guys. I think you have potential. But we’ll sue you, every one of you, if we have to. I’d lose sleep over it, but we’ll do it.” She hated having to threaten her musicians, but they were behaving like high schoolers. Let them compare dick sizes with Sage’s Legal Department and then reassess their commitment to the tour.
After another sad silence, Danny said, “Get in line. You can’t get blood out of a stone, Jessica. The bank foreclosed on my house yesterday. My fucking house.”
At last she’d arrived at the real bottom line. “You’ve moved in with Pete, haven’t you?”
Another sullen pause. “Yes.” A snuffling sound. “This music thing just isn’t working out. I’ve got to get a real job.”
That was hard to counter.
She looked up to see her boss, Ben Westfeldt, approaching with a serious expression on his face. He leaned in through the doorway and whispered, “My office. Now.”
Ben didn’t even spare his customary glance at Charlene Hanscomb as he passed her cubicle on his way back to his office.
This didn’t bode well.
Frowning, Jessica returned her attention to Danny, who was again lamenting the sorry-ass state of his life, describing how he would be donating blood and sperm just to buy beer next, and so on.
“Danny. I’ve got to go,” Jessica said. “Think about it, babe. You can still do this. You need the money anyway, and you’ll get paid for the gigs.” At least enough for beer and gas, she didn’t add. “Audiences love you live. Don’t give up when you’re on the verge of making it.”
“I don’t know, Jess—”
“Get them together to smoke the peace pipe. You can pull it off, I know you can. I’ve got to go now. Call you tomorrow. Buh-bye.” She hung up before he could start in again, took a deep breath to compose herself before fighting the next fire, and headed for Ben’s office.
When she tapped lightly on the doorframe, Ben looked up from a spreadsheet on his computer and motioned her in. She sat down and waited as he turned to stare out the window at the Atlanta skyline.
Ben was a mentor to Jessica. He could be a bit paternalistic at times, but he was genuine. Genuine people were hard to find in the music business. Except for genuine assholes, who were as plentiful as starlings on a shit-covered statue.
He’d hired her as an A&R rep five years ago, confident in her ability to recognize talent—or, failing that, commercial viability—in the endless parade of bands that formed, maintained a holding pattern for a while, then fell apart and sometimes merged with the detritus of other broken groups. Although she knew she’d exceeded his expectations, things were not rosy in the recording industry, and despite the heroic efforts of her and the other adept reps, Sage was not doing well. As Ben sat silently ruminating, an oppressive heaviness settled over Jessica.
Finally he turned to her, folding his hands on the desk. “Jess, I just had a meeting with Jack Hurwitz. You know we’re not doing well. Digital piracy, lack of compelling product, blah, blah. You may not be aware of the extent we’re hemorrhaging talent. We’ve lost three of our more successful bands in the last month, one to another major label, one to an indie, and one because they think they can do better as their own publishing company, distributor, and online retailer.”
Jessica didn’t like where this was going, but she understood. “With bands having to do so much of their own promotion, they’re starting to view us as an unnecessary middleman. Financing themselves through Kickstarter, keeping all the profits.”
“Well, it’s worse than even I realized, at least for Sage Records. We’re going under.”
She went cold. Going under? She’d always believed she could deal with anything, but that phrase produced an unaccustomed feeling of helplessness in her, like bad news from a doctor. Her brain felt like it was on Pause, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“The board is panicking,” Ben continued. “They issued an ultimatum: we have a month to turn things around. We need strong new bands. Now. Artists in tune with the musical zeitgeist. Electronic dance, alterna-pop; maybe we'll revive the girl rocker genre that’s been on the wane for a couple of years. An act with the potential to break out in a big way. Possibly shore up our reputation with something different, like a relatable prog metal band. We have to maintain at least a façade of the innovative company we used to be, either by strengthening our brand or rebranding ourselves.”
“Right, Ben. We can do that. I’ve found this Americana duo with serious crossover potential. They need polish, but—”
He put up a hand. “We need bands that are ready to be signed. Groups with an album in the can. If we don’t get some serious results within a month, they’re going to lay off ten percent of the staff. Everybody, not just VP’s or middle managers.”
Layoffs. She felt like a deer in the headlights, but the realization hit her that she’d known this was coming. She’d just been in denial.
“You’re my best A&R rep, Jess. You know that, I know that, I think even the senior VP’s know that. You have a well-deserved reputation as a Cool Hunter, but you’ve had a stretch of bad luck, and Accounting’s calling the shots now. If you can’t sign a significant talent in the next few weeks…”
This wasn’t happening. Except it was. She closed her eyes and remembered her father’s mantra: there was always a way. If she just believed that, she could find it. She’d made the big time in her twenties. She could pull her own ass out of the fire.
“Okay, Ben. I’m on it. I’ve got some leads.”
She wished.
She’d find a killer band anyway. She was good at it. At least she had been. Where the hell was she going to find a killer band?
Chapter Three
Friday morning
David sat behind the mixing console staring at the neat stack of DVD’s, excited yet apprehensive; hesitant to find out what mysteries they contained. The discs were labeled Oblivion 1, Oblivion 2, and Oblivion 3. That had been the tentative title for the album Penumbra was working on before the crash killed Vince, the band, and their hopes and dreams.
David had awakened with the key still clutched in his hand. He tried to convince himself he’d hallucinated Vince’s return from the grave. He’d never experienced a flashback in his life, never known anyone who had, but maybe some of th
e acid he’d dropped in college had returned to haunt him. That was more logical than his dead band mate coming back to life.
Still, that hypothesis couldn’t explain the key. After a pot of coffee that did little to clear the fog of confusion in his mind, he'd made a pragmatic decision to put aside his questions for the moment, to accept reality as it presented itself and see where it led. He needed a reason to live, and if believing in ghosts facilitated that, so be it.
He’d gone to the First Bank of Athens main branch, downtown on East Broad, and retrieved the contents of Vince Buckley’s safe deposit box. Not being family or heir, he’d had to argue the manager, Bob Finster, into it. Fortunately Bob was a long-time fan of Penumbra, and bought David’s story—that he’d found the key in an envelope with his name on it while cleaning out some of Vince’s gear left in the studio.
Now, back home with the discs, he inserted the first DVD in the drive, his hand trembling. He half expected the songs to be duplicates of the files he already had on his computer, but found himself desperate to fall again into that ephemeral universe of music, that alternate dimension of awe and wonder.
The file names on the disc were identical to those of several tracks the band had recorded before Vince’s death. With a mixture of relief and disappointment, he ejected the disc and popped in the second DVD. This one appeared to contain the rest of the old tracks. He was about to eject it as well when he spotted a folder titled Posthumous.
With a shiver, he double-clicked it to find a list of Word documents. He opened a couple with unfamiliar names to discover song charts with lyrics. Some of the words to the songs were complete; others consisted mainly of placeholders, la, la, la and the like, below the chord names. He opened more files. Four were for songs the band had begun but never finished. Even those contained entirely new sections, under headings such as Theme C and Bridge 2. Some had new lyrics, some were clearly instrumental, such as those labeled Guitar Break, Bass Solo, Development Section 1, Development 2, and Cadenza. They all had pretty elaborate song structures.
Six of the Word files appeared to be entirely new songs. Adding them to the four the band had been working on made ten, a good number for a CD, although they were lengthy.
He read through the new songs again with growing excitement. The lyrics were provocative and evoked vivid imagery, conjuring an uncanny world, like a Hieronymus Bosch work painted with input from Francis Bacon and H. P. Lovecraft. Ancient rites, sacrifices, and dark desires manifested. Yet they were eloquent, possessing a lyricism Vince had never exhibited in life.
Had never exhibited in life?
Did he actually believe Vince had come back from the dead with new music? Music he’d written—where? Hell, knowing Vince.
David looked down at the safe deposit box key in his hand.
Could this all be real?
How could it not be? Here was the key, there were the discs, and he was looking at new lyrics and song charts.
He wasn’t sure what he believed, but the song lyrics were creeping him out. He closed the file and ejected the second DVD.
The third and final disc lay before him on the mixing console, the title, in Vince’s forceful handwriting, visible through the clear plastic of the jewel case.
David was reluctant to play the DVD, but also curious if the music was as extraordinary as the lyrics, as the song he’d already heard. The song charts were as intricate as symphonic structures.
The album they were destined to make.
He snatched the third disc out of its case and inserted it into the computer’s drive. After a few seconds during which he found himself holding his breath, the DVD’s icon appeared on his desktop and he double-clicked it before he could stop himself.
The window displayed a list of folders, their names matching the new song titles. With a twinge of excitement laced with fear, he launched the first song file in Pro Tools. It opened to show a dozen or more WAV and MIDI tracks. He pressed the spacebar.
The music began with ethereal waves of synth sounds, panned to wash through the listening space of the studio so expertly that he was engulfed in a sonic sea, his soul drenched with almost liquid emotion, a desperate yearning. The shimmering reverbs and ghostly delays made him nauseous. Just when he thought he would drown, a pulsing bass emerged from the bottom, bringing with it a heavy freight of despair, joined by a cannonade of furious drums.
As the uneasy realization came to him that he was literally, physically experiencing the music, layered guitars crashed onto the scene, as if announcing the approach of a dark overlord come to shatter the universe and replace it with his own. Percussive strings joined the attack, striking like sparks from a live wire.
The real world receded and David drifted into an ecstatic trance. Eons seemed to pass as he descended to the depths of his soul, churning the primordial ooze of his id.
Eventually the music ended. The reverb tail of the last cymbal crash slowly soaked into the sound treatment on the walls, leaving his ears ringing in the silence. He opened his eyes to see the time marker moving steadily to the right past the ends of the color-coded audio and MIDI tracks, off the screen.
After some time—he was not sure how long—David leaned forward to tap the space bar and stop playback. He fell back in the chair, exhausted, his gaze unfocused.
“Holy shit,” he muttered. The music was profoundly disturbing—but he’d never been moved so deeply by sound, by anything, in his life.
He toggled back to the list of files. What the hell was this music? The songs were magical, digital drugs, and he knew they would be addictive. The material needed reworking, and many parts would have to be rerecorded by the band, the arrangements finessed, but this album would be a hit. This album would redefine hit. It would redefine music.
His gaze roved restlessly across the screen, then came to a stop on the Date Created column. Blinking, he scanned down the list of dates, unable to believe them, yet sensing their truth.
Vince had completed the album over the year since his death.
Chapter Four
Friday morning
After three hours of phone calls, web research, and emails, Jessica didn’t have shit. Lunchtime had come and gone unheeded. It wasn’t just that she was committed to her mission and couldn’t stop to eat, she wasn’t hungry.
She’d even spoken with Danny Morgan again, only to learn that the Cranks had disbanded since their conversation earlier this morning. He’d actually phoned the other band members and given it another try, but the reality of the shit-or-get-off-the-pot moment had pushed them over the edge into the oblivion that swallowed most bands sooner or later. Another One Hit Wonder would sink without a trace. After the scathing reviews and now the aborted tour, the new album was going to tank. More red ink on Sage’s books, from her most promising band.
The only lead she’d turned up was from Bobby Sykes, manager of the Hellfire Club, one of the best live music clubs in Atlanta and a semi-reliable judge of new talent. He'd suggested a band that was fortuitously playing at the bar tonight. They were called Black Chasm of Eternal Sorrow. Jessica sighed when she heard that. She didn’t care how good they were, she couldn’t sit through another death metal show and have her ears shredded by hoarse, retching Cookie Monster vocals screaming about murder and destruction, let alone peg her career on them and deal with their sordid shit on a long-term basis.
Then her mother had called, wanting to know if she was free tonight. Struggling to escape another Dinner From Hell, Jessica had cited her workload as an excuse to decline dinner. Her father had been nagging her to apply for an opening at an event planning business owned by one of his friends, and if she let slip any hint of her precarious work situation, she’d never hear the end of it.
Jessica was determined to prove herself, to achieve a large measure of success without falling back on her parents’ money or connections—and by doing something she loved. She’d gotten a good start, even in the worst time ever for the music industry, but the business had s
ince fallen into the lowest pits of hell. She suspected that the digital revolution was not the only problem, either. All the new music just sucked. Sure, she could start out as an assistant to the event planner, learn the business, and eventually start her own company, but she didn’t give a damn about planning snooty events and weddings for the plutocracy. She loved music, not making money. Jessica had a well-deserved reputation as the Musician Whisperer; she would somehow make this work.
She checked her email again and found only a recommendation for movie rentals she might like. It was some seriously off-the-wall crap. Topping the list was Penumbra, an Argentinian horror film. What the hell had she rented and rated high enough to generate this recommendation? Even the junk email was leading her to loser art.
Although still devoid of appetite, she needed a break. She refilled her coffee mug and wandered over to Charlene’s cubicle in Accounting. Charlene, a perky blonde, was Jessica’s best friend at Sage. Smart but geeky, Charlene was also a major hottie who turned heads every time she accompanied Jessica to check out promising bands, unintentionally throwing Jessica’s failure to find a long-lasting relationship in her face with each outing. With the lack of promising bands, those outings became less and less frequent, leaving Jessica more time to stir in her own juices alone at home and contemplate her lack of a love life and her deteriorating career. Charlene was sweet and cheerful, and Jessica needed a good dose of that just now.
“Whatcha doing?” Jessica asked, leaning over her friend’s shoulder. Charlene’s monitor was a blur of frenetic motion. “Seriously? Gaming?”
Charlene paused the game. “Hey, girl. I had to get away from my depressing spreadsheets for a minute. Look, I found this cool new game, Penumbra.”
Jessica’s face went slack. “Penumbra?”
“Yeah, check this out! It’s a horror game. Is that cool, or what?”