by Steve Brewer
When she had added everything she could think of, Megan turned to Eddie, who still had his guitar in his lap. “A drum roll please,” she said. Eddie obliged on the soundboard of the guitar. Megan made a drama out of hitting the calculator’s ‘total’ button, then she leaned close to read the number. “Holy eight hundred pound Jesus!” She showed Eddie the calculator. “Sixteen billion dollars and forty-two cents!”
Eddie looked closer. “I think you hit an extra zero or something.” Laughing, Eddie flopped back into the pillows and reflected on how well his life was turning out. It occurred to him that his one-of-a-kind record deal was exactly the sort of thing Jimmy would want to put in the biography. Eddie’s expression changed from contentment to curiosity as he realized how long it had been since he’d spoken to Jimmy. Then he realized he’d never given Jimmy his new, unlisted, number. But what could he do now? Call Jimmy and say, “Hi, how’s the book going? Thought you’d want to know I just signed a fantastic deal with Big World Records. Oh, and by the way, I’ve got my hands in Megan’s pink panties and she sends her best.” He looked at Megan and for a moment thought about asking if she’d talked to Jimmy lately. But there was something peaceful about her expression that stopped him.
Megan looked like she was lost in a dream. She was still toying with the calculator, trying to figure what her cut of the total might be if she managed to secure the position as the second Mrs. Eddie Long. She made a mental note to find out if Tennessee was a community property state and, if not, how she might get Eddie to move to one. She turned to look at him. “Have you ever thought about living in California?”
47.
Jimmy made it from Hinchcliff to the casino in Vicksburg in just under three hours, arriving just as Foghat hit the stage. The show was everything he expected, except that the band consisted of something less than the original line up, owing to the untimely death of ‘Lonesome’ Dave Peverett. Actually this ‘Foghat’ turned out to be fronted by a guy who had played cowbell on one song on the “High on the Hog” album. He had licensed the rights to the band’s name and had been playing around the country for several years without anyone noticing that only one of the band members was over the age of 30. Of course that really wasn’t surprising when you figure the only people interested in seeing Foghat now had to be so stoned that they wouldn’t have been able to do the math. But the upside was that compared to Foghat’s ‘77 live album, these guys were fabulous. Jimmy enjoyed the free show, took his notes, then headed back to Jackson.
He was back at his apartment by eleven and slugged out the review in less than an hour. He e-mailed it to the editor who had hired him, then he poured himself a big drink and crashed on the sofa. He was hoping just to drift off to sleep but a question had been nagging at him ever since he left Quitman County, plus he couldn’t get ‘Slow Ride’ out of his head. Jimmy finally surrendered. He sat up and looked at the clock. He knew someone who could answer his question but he didn’t know if he should call this late. Screw it, he thought, she shouldn’t have become a doctor if she didn’t want to get paged late at night.
Five minutes later Jimmy’s phone rang. He picked up. “Helllloooo, Dr. Glick.”
“Jimmy? What are you doing calling so late?”
“Sorry Cris, I just—”
“Wait, lemme guess. You just got back from covering some lame concert where you had too much to drink, and you want to talk dirty again.”
Jimmy paused. “Boy, one lapse in judgement and you’re labeled for life. I wish you’d let that go.”
“Can’t,” she said with a smile in her voice. “It’s too much fun.”
“Still with the cheap shots, huh?”
“I know, I should be ashamed, but you’re so darn cute when you squirm. Are you squirming?”
Cris and Jimmy had dated off and on during high school. They’d drifted apart during college, but reconnected one night a few years later when they ran into each other at Hal and Mal’s during Christmas vacation. The following week, after covering a B.J. Thomas show at one of the casinos, Jimmy, slightly toasted, called to invite himself over to Cris’s apartment for a late night get-together. When she declined, he tried steering her toward a little smutty conversation. Cris told him to call her back when he was sober then hung up. He called the next day to apologize. She accepted. But she still enjoyed giving him grief about it.
“You know it doesn’t speak well of you that you still hold that over my head,” Jimmy said, “but I’ll let it go since I need a favor.”
“Get over it,” Cris said. “What do you need?”
“I need you to interpret a coroner’s report . . . for something I’m writing.”
“Really?” She sounded surprised. “Sounds like you’ve wandered off the old entertainment trail, Jimmy. What’re you working on?”
Jimmy told her about Eddie’s biography and Tammy’s death. “So can I fax it over?”
“Sure. Give me half an hour,” Cris said. “I’ll meet you in the cafeteria on the third floor.”
48.
Jimmy faxed the coroner’s report, then left immediately for the hospital. It was only a five minute drive from his apartment but, by Jimmy’s reckoning, the University of Mississippi Medical Center was one of the largest medical facilities in the universe. It was a sprawling, ponderous puzzle of tedious architecture and Jimmy knew he’d need at least twenty-five minutes to find the particular third floor and cafeteria Cris was talking about.
Dr. Glick was finishing a cup of coffee when Jimmy burst through the door ten minutes late. “Sorry,” he said, “they’ve added a few new wings since the last time I was here.” He sat down across from his old flame. She was still the beauty with the curly reddish brown hair he’d had such a crush on, except now she was an MD with a husband and two children, so he had to remember not to make goo-goo into her brown eyes the way he used to. He leaned toward her. “Just between you and me,” he said, “how many patients go missing in this maze every year?”
“I’m not allowed to say.” She smiled.
Jimmy smiled back. “Have I ever told you how great you look in scrubs?”
Dr. Glick clicked her fingernails on the coroner’s report. “Let’s try and focus. I’ve got real work to do.”
“Right. So, what’s the answer?”
“Well, actually, you asked the wrong question,” she said. “People who show the sort of adverse response to MSG that you’re thinking of aren’t having an allergic reaction. They’re showing an intolerance. By that I mean it doesn’t trigger a histamine cascade or anything like that. The common reaction is what’s known in the literature as ‘Chinese restaurant syndrome.’”
“Get out.”
“It’s also known as MSG symptom complex, but how much fun is that?” Dr. Glick looked at her watch. “All right, I’ve got time for the short course on MSG intolerance versus your run-of-the-mill allergic reaction, so take notes. Monosodium glutamate is the sodium salt of glutamic acid, which is a form of amino acid, plus a form of glutamate, okay? It’s found naturally in the human body and in things like cheese, milk, meat, peas, and mushrooms.”
Jimmy pretended to hit his Jeopardy buzzer. “What are protein-containing foods? I’ll take medical mumbo-jumbo for two hundred, Alex.”
Dr. Glick rolled her eyes sweetly then proceeded to talk for five minutes about glutamate in its ‘free’ form, lymphocytes, antibodies, antigens, and immunoglobulin E, followed by another five minutes on hydrolyzed proteins, protein hydrolysates, and enzymatically treated proteins which contain salts of free amino acids, like glutamate.
Finally Jimmy held up his hand to stop her. “You are truly amazing,” he said. “How do you keep all that stuff from spilling out of your head and staining your shirt? And more importantly, how can you possibly say all that without answering my question? That’s what I really want to know.”
“I had to learn it. You gotta hear it. Okay, in a nutshell, the brain, among other organs, is rich in glutamate receptors.” She made a hand
gesture representative of a glutamate receptor. “Glutamate’s in constant flux with the amino acid glutamine through several very boring biochemical reactions. The interesting thing is these two chemicals play an important role in clearing the waste product of protein metabolism, which is ammonia. And ammonia is a bad dog for anyone’s neurons, and thus causes headaches.
Jimmy pointed to the results of Tammy’s blood screens. “So you’re talking about this ammonia count? Is that high?”
“Seriously high.”
“And that makes my deceased a textbook case of Chinese restaurant syndrome?”
“Not necessarily. Ammonia levels tend to go high post mortem.”
“Damn.”
“But—”
“I like but,” Jimmy said. “Go on with the but.”
“Okay, but don’t quote me. I’m a little out of my field. I’ve never seen an ammonia count this high post mortem, so I think you’re MSG theory is sound. Your deceased probably had a headache the size of Hinds County when she died.”
Jimmy slapped the table and smiled. “Thank you. I really appreciate your help.” He looked at Cris and tilted his head slightly. He waggled a finger at her outfit and lowered his voice. “Seriously though, what are you wearing under those scrubs?”
49.
The front pages of Billboard and Radio & Records are usually given over to general news from the radio and record industries. A story about a company’s stock split might compete for space against a story about a Senate subcommittee hearing on music piracy issues. But this week both industry trade papers featured headlines about Eddie Long’s unprecedented deal with Big World Records. “Big World Takes Long Shot” scrolled across the top of R&R. Billboard’s headline was, “Going Deep — Big World Throws Long.”
Everything, the saying goes, is negotiable. And the articles in the trades bore that out. It was all there. The two-points-higher-than-usual rookie royalty rate, the high six figure non-recoupable signing bonus in lieu of the standard advance against royalties, the guaranteed marketing budgets, and the small, but not insignificant, gross profit participation. But the most incredible aspect of the deal was the one that approached Garth status. Eddie actually shared in control of the masters. He didn’t own them outright and license them back to Big World Records the way Garth did with Capitol, but he shared ownership, which was unheard of until Eddie Long showed up. There were other unusual clauses in his contract, but what really mattered was that Eddie Long and his management team ended up with a deal that earned them roughly $2.00 for every record sold, more than twice what anyone in their right mind would’ve expected.
The lengthy front page articles were continued in the ‘Country’ sections of each of the trades where they featured photos of the parties in question. One picture showed Eddie and Megan smiling deliriously, flanked by Herron and Peavy and the Big World Record executives. Another showed Eddie shaking hands with the president of Big World while the others looked on.
Asked about the street date of Eddie’s record, Big World’s president said, “We’re sending parts to both our east and west coast duplication facilities. We’re having to ‘cut in line’ so to speak, and that’s going to delay a couple of our other projects, but Eddie’s got the heat, so we hope to have him in stores in two to three weeks.”
It was a fantastic projection. Typically, the process of going from a master tape to having a CD on the shelf of the nation’s music retailers took a couple of months, but only because they scheduled it that way. And that made sense on an ongoing basis where there was a steady stream of product coming down the pipeline. But when something big had to happen fast, that time could easily be cut in half since any major label CD duplication facility could turn out 500,000 copies of a new CD, in jewel box, with artwork, shrink-wrapped and ready to ship — in a day. It was shipping all those units to retailers all over the country that took most of the time.
The articles also contained an analysis of the incredible industry buzz resulting from the spread of the MP3 file. It was this, the writers pointed out, that had led to the frenzied auction at the Vanderbilt Plaza and the unheard-of contract. There were insinuations that the Internet business might have been, at least partially, contrived. And, they went on to say, if that was the case, it signaled the triumphant rebirth of Big Bill Herron as one of Nashville’s principal players.
50.
Whitney had just finished working the lunch shift at the Smoke House. He was sitting at one of the tables counting his tips, nursing a beer, and trying to fend off a sense of discouragement. Since moving to town he’d spent all of his time either working or writing songs. As a result he’d made no friends, so he spent most of his free time alone. To make matters worse, nothing was happening with his career. It seemed like it had been forever since Big Bill recorded his demo but he hadn’t heard a word about it since. On top of that, between rent, food, and a new set of strings for his guitar, Whitney hadn’t been able to save a dime to get his truck back from the mechanic. And Herron and Peavy still hadn’t paid the thousand dollar ‘signing bonus’ they’d promised. He was starting to wonder if he’d made a mistake coming to Nashville. As he picked up his beer someone suddenly walloped him on the back, sloshing Whitney’s draft onto the table.
“Hey now!” Big Bill said, “Gotcha some good news there, son.” He grabbed a chair and pulled it up across the table from Whitney, a smarmy smile smeared across his fat face. “You’re gonna wanna kiss me.”
Whitney doubted it. Still he couldn’t help but get his hopes up. “You got me a deal?”
“What, a record deal?” Big Bill waved a hand to erase the thought. “No, but believe me, I’m workin’ on it. Gotta walk before we run, am I right?” He stopped a passing waitress and asked for a sweet ice tea. “Tell you the truth, I’m running into a little resistance on your songs. They don’t exactly fit what country radio’s looking for, if you know what I mean. But I think this might help.” Big Bill pulled some papers from his coat pocket and handed them to Whitney.
“What’s this?”
“Row Fax,” Big Bill said. “Comes out every week.” Row Fax was a weekly newsletter ‘Serving Nashville’s Creative Community.’ It noted which record executives had left which labels and which ones had been promoted. It announced artists’ television appearances, trumpeted hallmarks in record sales, proclaimed award winners, and otherwise acted as a vehicle for press releases. Big Bill pointed at one of the feature headings: The Cutting Edge. “Check that out,” he said. Whitney studied it for a moment but wasn’t sure what to make of it.
The Cutting Edge was the weekly listing of the types of songs artists were looking for at the moment. It might say Collin Raye was looking for ‘uptempos only’ or that Trisha Yearwood was looking for ‘great songs’ or that Amber Marie was trying to find a ‘Power ballad a la Martina McBride.’
Big Bill knowingly wagged a finger at Whitney. “I think it’ll help you get more in step with what the labels and the artists are looking for.”
Whitney’s face coiled in skepticism. “Lynyrd Skynyrd meets Alan Jackson?”
“Yeah,” Big Bill said, “I think that’s a good one for you. Put a little more Muscle Shoals into one of your Texas troubadour things, see what happens. Maybe we can get somebody interested. Irregardless, I think we need some new songs to shop you around. But you really gotta write stuff that’s more. . .accessible. You know?”
Whitney read a little further down the list. A lot of them just said they were looking for ‘great songs.’ “What do they mean by that?” he asked. “That doesn’t seem real helpful. I mean how can I know what they want if that’s all they put in here?”
Big Bill poured some sugar into his sweet tea. “Well, like my daddy used to say, don’t worry about the horse being blind, just load the cart.”
Whitney kept reading and suddenly he sparked to one of the descriptions. “What about this one?” He pointed at the list. “This ‘alternative country’?”
Big Bill shook his he
ad and gestured toward the street with his glass of tea. “You might as well just go play on the sidewalk with your guitar case opened up for all the money you’ll make with that stuff.” He pointed at the list. “Trust me,” he said, “try that Lynyrd Skynyrd, Alan Jackson thing and just see if something good don’t happen.”
Whitney folded the Row Fax, stuffed it in his back pocket. “So what’s this good news you were talking about?”
“You’re gonna love this,” Big Bill assured him. “Remember how we recorded your song at that session with Eddie Long? Well, I don’t know if you heard, but we got Eddie a deal with Big World Records. And after they listened to the tapes from that session, you’re not going to believe this,” Big Bill chuckled lightly, “the folks at the label demanded we include your song on the record.” This wasn’t strictly true. Big Bill planned on including it from the get go, but he didn’t want to admit to that.
Whitney was dumbfounded. “But I thought you said—”
Big Bill threw his hands up. “Nothing I could do about it,” he said, “they absolutely loved your song. Kept asking about you too after I told ‘em you were the original writer on it. Said they weren’t going to sign the deal unless your song was on the record.” Big Bill slapped his hand on the table top. “So, guess what, my friend? You’re fixin’ to be a published songwriter.”
Whitney figured this was at least some progress. “So when they asked about me, did you give ‘em my demo tape?” There was a glimmer of hope in his voice.
Big Bill frowned and shook his head. “No, and I’ll tell you why. Based on the feedback so far, I figured that would hurt more than help. That’s why I wanted to bring you the Row Fax, get you started on some songs that suits what they’re lookin’ for. Then I can go back in.”