The band pulled up to Black Wolf Studios just as dawn was breaking. The vowels from the neon studio sign on the front of the building were all out, leaving only the consonants.
“Hmm… fitting,” Skullen muttered as he climbed out of the back of the van, one of his cymbals crashing onto the road like a herd of cats dumping over trash cans in an alley.

They entered the studio through the front door, where a janitor cleaning the lobby explained that they needed to load their gear through the loading bay on the east side of the building. So they trekked everything around and began setting up in Studio A.

Their producer, assigned by the label, was the leading producer in town—a guy named John Haddon.

He had a string of number ones with several artists and a reputation for shaping bands up in a hurry.

The problem with this pairing was that Roth had to pay premium studio time just to get Haddon at producer hours—the worst hours at the cheapest rate, when no one else wanted them. Bad for everyone involved.

Roth figured John Haddon’s name on the project would get a few sales before anyone discovered how mediocre the band was. He never had any real faith in the band selling, even after getting his socks blown off by the only track he listened to from their demo tape. Still, he wanted his money’s worth, so he went all out.

Ira Roth had a way of shooting himself in the foot and coming out ahead anyway. Only this time, the band he was dealing with weren’t wild-eyed schoolboys, naive enough to think they had already made it.

This was a gang of brothers who had stood by each other through more than Roth could ever imagine.

Whatever Roth might gain, he would end up having to share it with a band of misfits he hated—for no apparent reason other than that they were good, and he hadn’t seen it.

Haddon hadn’t even heard the band’s single when he took the job, so he knew nothing about them when he walked in carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a lit joint in the other. He took a hit and walked straight up to Stix.

“Hey man, you the guy I heard singing on this tape I listened to this morning?”

He handed Stix a cassette. Stix tossed it back to him.
“That’s me.”

Haddon gazed at him through bloodshot eyes.
“Okay,” he said. “Then let’s do this.”

He walked into the control room, where Richie Statler—a Grammy-winning engineer and producer in his own right—sat behind the board, dialing in microphones. The two-inch master tape was already loaded, and he’d confirmed signal was hitting the deck.

Haddon looked at Richie and said, holding up the joint, “You don’t want this this morning. I think they laced it with something. I feel like I’m hallucinating.”

He flicked the snuffed-out joint into the trash and drained his coffee in one gulp.

“Well,” he said with an exasperated sigh, “this is what we’re here for. Let’s get to it.”

Richie punched the talkback mic.
“You guys ready to set levels?”

The band answered enthusiastically, all talking at once.

Haddon nodded.
“Let’s track their practice song. I want to hear what they sound like without any pressure.”

Stix and the boys had always warmed up with Sweet’s classic Ballroom Blitz. They were so accustomed to playing it live that it seemed like the perfect song for an engineer to set levels with. Everyone played with full intensity and confidence.

Skullen kicked off the familiar drum groove, and Stix stepped to the mic.

“You ready, Fingers?”
“Uh-huh.”

“Tyred?”
“Yeah!”

“John?”
“Okay.”

“Let’s gooooo!”

Stix screamed into the microphone, and the band shredded the room.

Haddon—now wide awake—stared intently through the studio glass. Richie smiled ear to ear as he dialed in the final settings.

Ira Roth may not have understood what he had, but John Haddon and Richie Statler knew immediately.

This would be a real record.
With a real shot.