“My work has gone in such a different direction since Woman at the Well that it’s been hard to determine how to bridge two worlds while giving you honest music that will work for Dominique’s voice.”
Ephraim read my outline, without reacting.
“I’m proposing a two-CD set that creates a ‘he said, she said’ story with the music. On one, Dominique does these six new songs. Ian and I will back her, in the style and musical range suitable to her voice. The other half of the “she said” CD will be cover songs she’s already recorded. After listening to the demos that Ephraim gave me last week, I believe that I can add a guitar line to ensure continuity with the six originals.”
“I only have to do six songs with you?” Dominique said at last.
“That’s the idea, yes.”
“What are you doing on the other disc?” she asked, wariness ringing in her voice.
“The same six songs in the way Ian and I play them, in that style you disparage as cowpunk. The other songs are reworked live music from when you first started singing with the band. That includes two songs from Woman at the Well, played the way I intended them. With lots of Beau Rufus’s bass line, but without your vocals.”
She sputtered. “Those songs belong to—”
“On both CDs, every song was written within the time for when you claim to be my co-writer, Dominique. No matter what style we choose to play the music, you still make money.”
Ephraim shushed her with a gesture. “Let’s hear what you have.”
I put the first CD in Karl’s player, to play Side 1 Track 1 of the proposed She Said side, but without vocals. I could hear every minute adjustment we had made to get that sound. Play it the way we like it, then tone down, slow down, re-pace everything so it would sound like a Clear Channel radio hit. Perfect in its own kind of way, but not a way that suits my taste. It felt like the work of an idiot savant: careful re-creation of precise notes and rhythm, played in a world where real feeling doesn’t exist.
“That’s easy to sing,” Dominique said. She sang a few lines, having bothered to learn the lyrics and music I’d sent her. “It sounds nice.”
Then we listened to Side 2 Track 1 of my He Said version. I’d written this song a year ago, so it shouldn’t have any of the sound we’d been practicing lately. We recorded it only last week, jamming hard before we restrained ourselves to create the tracks for Dominique to sing over. The difference to me was like cadaver versus living flesh. You could hear that living musicians played this music, and they loved it. When the vocals came in, it was that weird mix of my tenor versus Sonny’s rocky bass which we’d discovered when kidding around with old Johnny Cash tunes. I always hear my voice as too sweet and high, because it buzzes that way in my head. On tape, with Sonny’s voice amping up the vocals, it kicked the song into a separate galaxy far, far away from Side 1.
“The song means something else this way,” Karl said, puzzled.
I played half of Side 1 Track 2, and then stopped it to play Side 2 Track 2, where Toby’s mandolin threatened to peel paint and Ian’s guitar interrupted to peel your eyeballs. I smiled, thinking of what a damn good time they had the day we recorded that. As I started to replace Side 1, to play the next track, Ephraim held up his hand.
“That is sufficient.”
“Are you satisfied, Ephraim? If you don’t send me back to the beginning, we can be done on June second.”
Ephraim was shaking his head, which had a physical effect on me. Like being kicked in the gut and having to choke back a need to vomit. “The delivery clause in your contract mandates ‘technically satisfactory’ and ‘commercially satisfactory.’”
“Don’t look for another way to screw me, Ephraim. This is a demo. You know the final masters will be as technically satisfactory as possible without God Himself serving as engineer. You asked me to do production, so you must want my definition of perfection. You will get it.”
“Your lack of modesty shocks and amazes me, Jason.”
“Don’t hit me on the ‘commercially satisfactory’ clause. I don’t like mainstream, but I know what it’s supposed to sound like. This is a faithful creation of what makes up nine out of ten songs on Billboard. Just because I don’t want to do it doesn’t mean I can’t. If I wanted to play whore for you, I could give you six more just like these, but—”
“I don’t want more,” Ephraim said. “I don’t even want this half dozen.”
“But they’re good!” Dominique said.
I was contemplating cold-blooded murder, which Karl must have seen because he stood and settled his hand heavily on my shoulder.
Ephraim said, “I spent the past week with the marketing studies the label did against the videos and audience reactions to the last album. I read every review and comment I could find on the Internet since last Saturday. I don’t think it would be good for Stoneway to repeat the toned-down sound I mistakenly introduced in Woman at the Well.”
“What do you want, Ephraim?”
“People want to hear your music the way you like to play it. Albion Records wants the He Said half, but not the She Said.”
“You bastard!” Dominique hissed. For once, she got it faster than me.
“Relax, Dominique. If you want to work with Albion Records, you have already laid down an entire album. I’ll arrange for you to work with another A&R man and producer, so you won’t have to work with me.”
She used the bad mother word.
Ephraim was still shaking his head. “Let’s separate business from everything else, Dominique. You can’t ride with Stoneway to get what you want. It is not good for Albion Records if people become confused about whether they are buying Jason’s work or your voice.”
She started to speak but Ephraim once more stopped her with a gesture. He spoke quietly, the way people do to command absolute attention.
“You can call Eric in the A&R group to finish the work we started this winter. Or you can go party with your new friends at Commodore Records. Whichever you prefer. Meanwhile, I have business to discuss with Jason.”
I tried counting how often in the past twenty-four hours that my sense of reality proved to be one hundred eighty degrees out of plumb.
Dominique stood, smiling in the way that used to scare me. “Is it true what they say? Your new bitch girlfriend is replacing me?”
“Please don’t call names,” I said, not venturing into the rest—that Susi isn’t my girlfriend and she isn’t performing with us. I didn’t have to say anything, because Ephraim (of all people) said:
“As of right now, there are no bitches performing with Jason Taylor.”
94 ~ “We Gotta Go On Meeting Like This”
JASON
WHEN SHE CLOSED THE door—slamming it for what I hoped was the last time that I would hear—Karl burst out in dismay.
“No offense to your joyous reunion, but how the hell can you get back in bed with Ephraim?”
Ephraim and I stared at each other, feeling out what this might be.
“I gave Ephraim a hint about the phone bill, since I figured that I’m not the only naïve guy in the world. Is that about right, Ephraim?”
He nodded. “Unlike you, Jason, I rather expected that she would entertain other bed partners. I can accept that.”
“Oh, yuck.”
“When you’re my age, Jason, fidelity might look different to you.”
“Nope, I don’t think so. We aren’t wired the same. I believe I’ll still draw the same firm line.”
“In my case, I draw the line on a partner sleeping with other recording companies. However, I don’t believe that Dominique’s last scouting trip resulted in everything she desired. I’m sure that granting her freedom from the contract won’t please her the way it would please Jason if I’d flipped the other way and let him off the hook.”
“Um—” I felt like hugging him. It seemed like a long time since there had been anything good news.
“We’re digressing from our discussion of your work,
Jason. Rumor has it that you are working your ass off, cleaning up your live work. Show me what else you have.”
I took a breath, gathering the courage to begin. Karl put his hand on my shoulder again, which buoyed me. I put three more CDs on the table.
“There is a long CD of older material, live and studio, from before I met Dominique. It’s clean and ready to release, or will be in just a few more days. No one owns rights to any of the songs except me, Ian for two instrumentals, and Beau for the tracks where we covered Lost Sons’ material. This music beats anyone else’s garage band anywhere. It is not too alternative, so it will appeal to more than a handful of interested listeners. Stoneway’s new listeners from Woman at the Well will like it as much as our old fans. The live work will earn money for the new label. That will be the last of any new work by Stoneway. As we agreed yesterday, after this summer’s tour, there is no Stoneway.”
I managed to mean it, and found I was ready to say goodbye to Stoneway, since no one else would be taking the name.
“What about the Jason Taylor Band?”
“We have this other collection—we call it backporch music—that a reasonable number of people will want to hear. It is mostly acoustic, and it is either old-time mountain music or songs of mine.”
Ephraim nodded. “If this was where you’re stopping, I’d warn you against it, but I heard you play last week, so I want to know what’s on this one.” He tapped the edge of the final CD.
“It’s the next logical step after the He Said material.”
“What we heard at the Showbox last week?”
“And beyond. I need two more tracks. The others are done and set. I have the songs. We just haven’t finished the arrangements.”
“Susanna Childs sings on all of them?”
“Five of them,” I said. “Not the final two. She’s a guest of the band. She is not a member.”
Karl let out a breath again, as if he’d been kicked. Ephraim, still playing poker with me, just nodded.
“This is goodness,” he said. “Are you bringing this as an artist who wants to sign with my brother’s label, or are these chits for re-signing with Albion Records? Mind you, Albion will make you take your backporch music and peddle it on the Internet, and my brother’s label won’t take you without all three discs.”
“Karl knows what I want because I asked him to make overtures. As soon as Albion Records accepts He Said, I want to sign with Rama Jam.” I named a label that, like Subpop and Hightone, works for artists and does right by them. “Rama Jam has done an excellent job of figuring out an Internet business model.”
Ephraim laughed. “I didn’t know you understood the term ‘business model,’ Jason. Have you talked with my brother personally?”
“Listen to me. I don’t want to shop around. I don’t want to be romanced by your fellow sharks. I’m going to focus on Rama Jam, because I like how they do business.”
“Rama Jam is my brother’s label.”
Yikes.
“Ephraim—”
“You couldn’t know. He hates my father—his stepfather—so he never mentions it. Will you work with me? Why don’t you consider coming to Rama as an investor, too? That’s where I’m putting all the money you made for me.”
“Partner with you?”
“You are a better judge of others’ talent than most A&R guys in the trenches, when you let your guard down and speak your opinion out loud.”
“Jason’s capital is tied up, for the most part,” Karl said. “Though I wish I knew who I was negotiating with about what right now.”
Ephraim watched as I tried to find firm ground. “Partner with the label,” I repeated, stupidly.
“What can you bring besides this material? Your royalties? You have the Lost Sons catalog, which I know my brother lusts after. Re-issuing that catalog could be lucrative, with the right promotion.”
“I don’t have the catalog anymore.”
“Oh screw, Jason. Who did you sell to? Is it too late?”
“Susi’s father has it.” It made me smile to think about it. “You know, Chas Neville is the perfect person to work with. He’s smart and informed. He’s been chasing down rights to other old material as a hobby.”
“What about your royalties from Woman at the Well?”
“I gave the songwriting royalties over to an institute that trains young musicians in roots music.”
“Your girlfriend’s gig?”
“She is, unfortunately, not my girlfriend, but yes. Her nonprofit holds my share in future earnings.”
Karl had his head in his hands, but Ephraim was laughing. “Dominique is going to love auditing royalty statements. This will be a thorn in her side for the next twenty-five years. Who do we contact to start negotiating for the Lost Sons catalog?”
“Probably Chas himself.”
“Do you want to do this, Jason? Can you work with me?”
I held out my hand to shake Ephraim’s, like grownups do.
“You’ve been right all along,” I said. “I want the Jason Taylor Band to succeed in every way possible. A small crowd of devoted fans won’t be enough. I need partners I can trust, and I can’t shop for that among strangers. I realized this morning that you and Karl are the only people I know well enough to trust.”
“When did you decide to trust me?” Ephraim said.
“Ian made me listen. And Susi.”
“What did Susi say?”
“Besides goodbye? She said you were trying to keep me from hurting myself, the same as you’ve been saying. As things go right now, that sounds about perfect. Also, I finally heard what you were saying, that you tried to take care of business when I lost it over Beau. I was a basket case for most of last year, and everything I have in the world right now I owe to you and Karl for taking care of my business.”
Karl laid a yellow pad on the table. “Shall I take notes and prepare an agreement? Do you need to bring in an attorney, Ephraim?”
“I am an attorney. How do you think I survived this long, swimming with you sharks?” Ephraim said. “Why don’t we go to lunch and beat out details while we eat? Are you really Jason’s business manager? What do you know about the business?”
Karl said, “I hope there’s a cram course at night school so I can catch up on the details. When I last managed anything for the band, it was as roadie ten years ago.”
“That is too modest. Karl helped Beau get back the rights to the Lost Sons catalog,” I said. “That experience is worth a lot to us. The way I see it, there are two kinds of work to discuss: the band and the label. For my interests, I would like Karl to represent the band and Ephraim the label. Is that a good starting place?”
When the three of us stepped into the elevator, Karl—damn his eyes—said, “So if Ephraim is going to be your partner, are you going to tell him about the stolen tapes while he’s still the Albion rep?”
Watching Ephraim blink, and having mastered false bravado that morning, I said, “Since we don’t have to spend the next two weeks recording with Dominique, there is no reason why he should be concerned about what it takes us to deliver the final masters.”
I smiled at Ephraim for the first time in over a year, and he decided not to have a coronary.
We spent almost three hours at lunch, sitting in a sports bar on Lake Union, with TV news blaring in the background. They could make veggie burgers, which is another benefit of living in Seattle again. Just when the time came to meet Ian and the others at Temple Bell, the local news showed close-ups of Dominique in plastic handcuffs, with Quentin Henderson trying to be sure his face also got on camera.
95 ~ “Concrete and Barbed Wire”
SUSI
I DIDN’T SLEEP AT ALL.
I know I did the right thing in closing the door on Jason. Yet the right thing should make it possible to put one’s head on a pillow, close one’s eyes, and drift off to the land of Nod. I re-read everything I had scribbled in my mental health journal, which was like reading a precise history o
f self-deceit. As humiliating as it was to review, I could at least take comfort in knowing that there was a modest sort of integrity I could claim: I only lied to myself.
I went running at dawn, pounding pavement, hoping that it would pound out of me whatever had taken away my self-assurance. I came back throbbing from the run, but never emptied my mind. Showering, dressing for work, making my lunch—it was all too mechanical to be diverting.
The truth flashed before me every moment: I’d tried to venture into the world, but I had done so in a cowardly, half-hearted way. However much I might privately decry Jason’s arrogant wrong-headedness, I had hurt him.
Since my boss had made it clear that my every action would be watched, I vowed to perform each act with scrupulous attention to all the rules, both overt and covert. My attendance sheets would be one hundred percent accurate, though I’m sure that in the final weeks of school, I’d be the only member of the faculty still doing that to the seniors. All student papers would come back marked in detail the day after being turned in for grading. Every class would follow the day’s lesson plan rigidly, with no time out for detours of thought or inspiration. An observer would be able to walk into my classroom at any moment and find a model classroom of calm decorum and the orderly progression of tuition. An atmosphere in which no learning could possibly be taking place.
“Everyone read about you and Jason Taylor on the Internet,” Jamie Clayton said after fourth-period voice class. “We have a bet that the principal can’t stand that you’re more famous and important than he is. So we’re supporting what you’re doing, Miss Neville. We know what’s happening.”
I did not take comfort in that.
Asking what the Internet said about me was more than I could do. Looking for myself? The idea was out of the question. I had to believe that if it were bad, my brother Steven would tell me, since he lives on the Internet. Wasn’t the Internet the well-spring of hideous rumors? I hear them from students all the time:
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