“That’s probably the pizza!” Skullen exclaimed as he ran to the door. “Man, that was sure expensive! If we didn’t have the buy-one-get-one coupon, we wouldn’t have been able to order anything!”
“Get over it,” Johnny said, using his knuckle joint like a bottle opener to pop open a Coke. “We’ve got a record contract now. We can afford to have sushi delivered!”
Before the lightning strike, Johnny had only consumed Guinness Draught. Even as an infant, he’d sneak it into his bottle from his father’s liquor cabinet. Fingers wasn’t much help in Johnny’s nurturing—he tried to get him to drink GlenAllachie twelve-year-old Scotch. Johnny wouldn’t have any of that, but he’d drink the Guinness. Which is why their father eventually started locking the liquor cabinet.
Ever since that fateful day, though, Johnny would only drink Coca-Cola. He wouldn’t touch Pepsi, RC, water—anything else. Just Coca-Cola.
Stix had joked early on that they should try to get Coke as a sponsor.
They even offered to do a Halloween commercial in exchange for some promotional assistance and a lifetime supply of Cokes for Johnny. The rep who came to meet with them said, “I don’t think so, guys,” and left without even hearing the pitch.
Skullen passed out plates and napkins. “Hey Johnny,” he said, “I bet that Coke rep is wishing he’d taken our deal now, huh?”
Johnny flipped the bottle cap at him in fun. “Probably not, big guy. A contract and a shot is all we’ve got right now.”
Johnny instinctively ducked, like he knew what was coming. One of Skullen’s drumsticks sailed over his head and buried itself in a potted plant.
“Well,” Fingers said, “if you lose the gig as our drummer, Skullen, you can always throw knives in the circus, ya big freak!”
Fingers barely turned his head before the other drumstick whizzed past his ear and stuck in the same plant.
“Yep—you’re a natural,” Fingers continued, without missing a beat.
The place roared with laughter.
Then a soft, painful female groan came from the kitchen table.
“No,” she said. “No. No. No.”
The room fell silent.
Finally, Tyred—who had been quiet this whole time—said, “I knew it. Our goose is cooked. Well, if we had a goose, it’d be cooked. What’s the matter, Tammy?”
“You remember how excited you were to be recording an album?” Tammy said, with the faint edge of a yeah, well behind it.
The band looked at her for a second. Then, all at once, they said, “Yeah?”
Tammy took a deep breath. “Yeah, well… you’d better get busy. You’ve got five days to turn it in. Or our goose is cooked.”
Tyred hit a jarringly out-of-tune chord of impending doom.
The rest of the room stayed silent.
Roth was walking on cloud nine! That was the cloud from the ninth Camel he had had this morning. Jenkins, head of press and marketing, stepped into the office.
“Well, you were right. They signed without even reading the contract completely. What do you think they’ll do now?”
Roth smiled like a victorious gladiator after cutting off the head of his opponent.
“They’ll come crawling back here and give me 50% of their royalties for an extra month to get the record done, and we will have them right where we want them. They’ll sign a long-term deal at favorable terms to us, and who cares about the band? In two years we’ll have picked them clean and be on to the next big thing… whatever that is.”
“Whatever you say, boss!” Jenkins replied as he headed out, worried his head would be on a chopping block as soon as Roth was done using him.
Tammy was distressed. She had felt prepared going into the meeting, but now she was realizing that there is no substitute for experience, and Roth had snuck one by her. She felt wounded by the lack of respect Roth had shown her, although to be fair, Roth had treated her like anyone else he would have been making a deal with. She really felt bad about letting the band down. She felt she was way overconfident and it was all her fault.
“It’s not entirely your fault, Tammy,” Stix said in a calm, quiet voice. “We’re just as much to blame. We signed it too without reading — that means six of us are at fault. Now is not the time to be assigning blame anyway. We need a plan. We could record, but we only have enough songs for a side. Not enough for the full platter. Plus, under that kind of pressure, I’m not too sure if they would be as good as we could do them. Can we offer Roth anything else in place of a master tape that would appease him until we could get the record done?”
“Tape!” Tammy exclaimed as she jumped to her feet, visibly excited. She grabbed a garment bag from the chair and went into the bedroom. She came out a few minutes later dressed like Sandy Olsson, minus the cigarette in Grease.
Tyred rolled his eyes into the back of his empty skull and said, “Don’t tell me you’re gonna turn tricks for Roth on our behalf!”
Tammy giggled as she kissed Tyred on his bony cheek. “No, silly. I’m going to see a friend. If he has what I think he does, we’ll have Roth in a corner. Hopefully this time we won’t get bit or mauled.”
She disappeared out the front door, hopped on Johnny’s Harley he had left parked in the drive, and sped away.
The boys returned to the leftover pizza and a rerun of Motorcycle Gang.
Tammy eased the Harley to the curb outside of a bar called The Soundcheck. It was a little dive where sound engineers and tech nerds hung out. It was dank, musty, and dark. Tammy’s outfit made her blend right in, and no one even paid her any mind as she strolled up to a tall, lanky, and rather good-looking guy in the corner booth. Nursing a rum and Coke, he looked like he was waiting on someone.
Tammy slid into the booth across from him.
“Hey, Jimmy!” she said cheerfully. “Having a good time?”
Jimmy’s mouth curled up in a crooked smile. He took a sip of his drink, swallowed it slowly, and when just enough time had passed, said, “What can I do for you? It must be important for you to get all dolled up and come down here!” he added with all the sarcasm he could muster.
Jimmy clearly liked Tammy, just like every other red-blooded American male who worked at Venom Records. Tammy liked Jimmy too, but she always kept him at a distance because she wanted to be taken seriously. She felt that wouldn’t happen if she was flirting with the chief sound engineer like some teeny-bopper schoolgirl. So he remained at arm’s length, in spite of his efforts.
“Yes, it is,” she said. “I know your secret.”
Now Jimmy’s curiosity was piqued. “What secret?” he asked suspiciously.
“The one about you and the band recordings,” she whispered. She just proved to Jimmy she had his interests at heart — at least somewhat — because she didn’t say it loud enough for anyone else to hear.
“What do you want?” Jimmy asked.
“Just the tape of the Stix Stonz and the Skeleton Bonz show. I know you made a copy before you gave it to Roth,” Tammy said, laying her cards on the table. No demands or promises. Just a simple request.
“What happens if I give it to you?” Jimmy asked, expecting the bomb to be dropped any second.
“Nothing!” Tammy said in a regular voice with all sincerity. “I’ll keep your secret, the band will have gotten one over on Roth, and you can go on recording whoever you want. As long as it is a first-generation copy, you can even keep the original tape. This band is gonna be huge, so it might be worth a great deal of money!”
Jimmy, realizing that Tammy wasn’t blackmailing him, agreed to give her the original tape. He had already made a safety copy to hold against Roth trying to blackmail him, so he agreed to keep the safety copy for himself.
It was half past midnight when Tammy roared into the driveway and bounded in the front door with a big cardboard box in her hand. The boys were all passed out in various poses on the floor or furniture, sound asleep. Pizza sauce on all of them, a spilled Coke or two. The TV showing static and every last light in the house on.
This scene reminded her of the three years she lived with her older brothers in Los Angeles when she was attending UCLA. They were pigs too, but she tolerated them, so she could tolerate these slovenly bums too, she thought. She smiled and said very loudly…
“What’s going on in here?”
The whole band jumped to their feet at the same time. When they realized it was only Tammy, they all fell back into their reclined positions. Still groggy, they stared at her for a minute, and Fingers said, “What are you grinning about at almost one in the morning?”
She kept grinning and said, “I have your album. All 11 tracks!”
“What do you mean 11? We’re supposed to have 12!” mumbled Tyred.
“Yes, but did you read the contract? Ten songs for the album, two songs for pre-release promotion. Roth shot himself in the foot when he released your test pressing. That counts as promotion. So we only have to give him 11 songs, and we have thirteen, plus the one he already released!” Tammy said, now beaming with just a little bit of pride.
The band, now energized, were all sitting up, wiping the pizza sauce off and trying to look presentable. After all, even though it was almost 1 a.m., they were still in a business meeting. And now they had real business to conduct.
“We can give him the tape tomorrow, and then address any other grievances we have because we will have the high hand,” Tammy said, almost defiant and seeking a little revenge on Roth. She wanted to look him in the eye when she handed him the tape. Here, Ira Roth, that’s for trying to put one over on me, she thought.
“Okay, guys, the ball is now in Roth’s court. I don’t know what he’ll try next, but I do know after working for him he won’t quit, so be prepared — and I will be too.”
Tammy exhaled, slumped onto the sofa, and fell asleep. Stix covered her with a blanket. He turned out the light, and the band returned to their former sleeping positions.
Tomorrow would be a good day!
Roth was smiling as he arrived at the office. Roth never smiled. Today, though, he was going to get what he was after — a big, fat contract on his terms — and Venom Records would be back.
He’d stopped on the way in for a bagel and a coffee. The office was quiet, and he enjoyed his breakfast in peace. Then the phone rang, jarring him back to reality. The reality that he needed a new receptionist.
Where was he gonna find another dumb blonde like Tammy who’d work for the peanuts he paid? he thought. Then again, maybe another dumb blonde like Tammy wasn’t what he needed after all. Maybe a dumb brunette? Definitely not a fiery redhead. Maybe he’d get himself an immigrant who didn’t speak much English and was being deported. He could control her. Treat her badly if he needed to.
No — that wouldn’t work. She’d still have to answer the phones, and listening to her talk like that all day would annoy him too much.
Roth could’ve been Archie Bunker. Except at one time, Roth had been highly successful — kind to everyone and charming. He’d been screwed over, and he vowed never to let that happen again. So he became bitter, self-absorbed, and guarded. It was why he smoked so much. Why he drank in private. Why he was alone.
His wife had died early in his career, when everything was going well. When things went south, he shut everyone out. Now he played the game for the thrill of annihilating his enemies — not merely defeating them, but shaming them in the process. Venom paid the price.
But today, baby… everything was gonna be alright.
Tammy came through the door alone.
The band had complete confidence in her, even if she didn’t have that same self-assurance right now. Roth smiled when he saw her standing there — alone, vulnerable, and in his mind ready to grovel.
“We have the band’s first album,” Tammy said cheerfully, “and the second of the two promotional songs required by the contract, Mr. Roth.”
She sounded confident. She wasn’t.
Roth, stunned by the news, dropped the ever-present Camel from his mouth into his lap, jumped up, and stomped it out on the carpet.
“Where did you get twelve recordings that fast?” he demanded.
“Same place you did, Mr. Roth,” Tammy replied evenly. “You recorded the band’s performance surreptitiously before they were under contract and without their permission. Those tapes belong to the band.”
She continued, finding her footing.
“We are submitting eleven songs per the contract as our first album. The remaining songs will be held for a future release. And since we only have a one-album deal with you, we’ll be shopping them elsewhere once the first album is released.”
She finally stopped and took a breath, nearly choking on the secondhand smoke filling the office as Roth lit another cigarette.
Before he could speak, she pressed on.
“We’ve fulfilled our obligation to Venom Records. We’re free to pursue other deals if we choose. We’ll be sending an invoice reflecting full royalty rates for the song you released without our permission, along with royalties owed on the completed album.”
Roth raised a hand.
“I admire your spunk, young lady,” he said, “but you’ve forgotten one key ingredient. In order to release your album, you must have artwork — artwork approved by the label.”
He leaned back.
“Since you have no artwork, your album is not finished. And we will not approve anything not produced in-house, at our sole discretion.”
He smiled thinly.
“So here’s how this works. I approve the artwork from our design staff and release your album. The cost of that approval will be an additional twenty-five percent of the royalties, bringing Venom’s share to seventy-five percent total.”
He paused.
“You’ll also forfeit royalties from the first promotional single, and I’ll take seventy-five percent of the second.”
Roth stood.
“You can purchase the remaining songs for one thousand dollars each — payable in cash or from future royalties. Then they’re yours to use as you see fit.”
He left the office.
Tammy had seen him do this before — giving his prey time to make peace with surrender. But she wasn’t about to give up. The band trusted her, and she was going to fight for what was fair.
By the time Roth returned, she knew exactly what she’d do.
It felt like an hour, but it was barely ten minutes.
Roth sat behind his desk, lit another Camel, blew a smoke ring, and asked, “Well? What’s it gonna be?”
Expecting tears, he was shocked when Tammy stood.
“Here’s what it’s gonna be,” she said. “You get seventy-five percent on royalties, and we forfeit royalties on the first single — as long as that song counts as track twelve.”
Roth frowned.
“We do not sell you the remaining songs. At any price. And you will release our album with artwork per the agreement.”
She sat back down.
“Well?” she asked. “What’s it gonna be? We have a deal, or I walk — with all the songs — and sue you for back royalties on the track you stole.”
Roth thought long and hard. Losing the band would kill Venom Records, already gasping for air.
He’d get seventy-five percent of the album. He’d keep everything from the first single.
“Okay,” he said finally, giving nothing away. “You have a deal.”
He scribbled out a handwritten amendment.
“Pleasure doing business with Venom Records, Mr. Roth,” Tammy said.
She walked toward the freight elevator — old habits dying hard.
Once she was far enough away, Roth flicked his finished cigarette at her.
“Well,” he muttered, “it could’ve been worse.”
He picked up the phone and called Jenkins.
Tammy didn’t breathe until she was out on the street.
She drove back to the house the band was renting, barely aware of traffic lights or turns. A million thoughts crowded her head. When she pulled into the driveway, she stayed in the car for a moment, hands on the wheel, bracing herself.
She knew she had to tell the boys they didn’t win — but they didn’t lose, either.
She thought they’d take it well, but she’d been optimistic before, and that hadn’t ended so gracefully. She exhaled, opened the door, and went inside.
The “boys,” as Tammy called them — overgrown and adolescent, especially in their humor — were gathered around the kitchen table playing Monopoly.
“All right, guys, listen up,” she said, pulling the handwritten addendum from her briefcase. “It was a draw.”
They abandoned the game and moved into the living room as Tammy tossed her jacket and briefcase onto a chair. She handed the addendum to Stix and walked them through what they’d gained — and what they hadn’t.
To her surprise, they were happier than she expected.
“Hey,” Stix said, optimism creeping into his voice, “look at it this way. Without you, Roth would’ve taken all the money, and we probably would’ve lost the contract because we couldn’t deliver the songs in time. Now we’ve got an album coming out, time to do it right in the studio, and we didn’t lose anything we didn’t even know we had recorded.”
He grinned. “Sounds like a minor victory to me.”
The rest of the band agreed. Tammy felt the knot in her chest loosen. She still saw it as a Pyrrhic victory, but as long as the boys were satisfied — and she still had a job — relief was enough for now.
Roth was no more pleased with his end of the deal.
After instructing Jenkins to release a statement to the press and get artwork moving, he hung up and jabbed the intercom. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that the most practical and reliable employee he’d ever had was now positioned against him in every future negotiation with that gang of bony little—
The phone rang.
“What now, Jenkins?” Roth snapped.
Jenkins spoke calmly. “What if we keep the cover simple? Black background, white type. Just the band’s name. No photos. No credits. No titles.”
Roth paused.
“It slows recognition, but it boosts early curiosity,” Jenkins continued. “We recoup our investment quickly. If the band flames out later, it doesn’t hurt us.”
Jenkins sounded almost reptilian. Almost.
Roth smiled — or rather, sneered. “Good idea.”
He dropped the receiver into its cradle and lit another cigarette.
If Venom stayed solvent and the band collapsed, he’d still be head of A&R. That would be victory enough. Satisfied, Roth decided to take the afternoon off. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper drink in a bar.
Today would do.
Tammy was studying the contract in the living room when the boys finished their Monopoly game. Stix approached her.
“I believe I’ve got a rain check to cash,” he said.
Tammy smiled. “Okay. Where are you taking me?”
“Anywhere I can get ribs,” Stix said, grinning. “Mine are starting to show through my shirt.”
She laughed, and they left the band to fend for themselves.
Over dinner, Tammy worked up the courage to ask, “Why did you ask me out that day?”
Stix didn’t answer right away.
“I figured you were used to every guy in every band hitting on you to get something,” he said finally. “I thought it might be nice to spend time with someone who’d just treat you like a regular person.”
He shrugged. “Plus, we kind of shocked you when we walked in. Tyred throwing that broken sign probably didn’t help. You looked like we were about to pillage the place. So I took the pressure off.”
He smiled. “And it worked. You relaxed. You backed us up when Roth was trying to convince us nobody would ever appreciate the act.”
Stix took a breath, then kept going.
“When Roth said you were afraid of spiders — I told him that you were having dinner with me. He didn’t believe it until you said yes. I bluffed that you might come work for us, too. At the time, I didn’t know how much you understood the business. I was just playing his game.”
He paused as the waiter arrived with a bottle of champagne. Stix popped the cork, poured two glasses, and raised his.
“What was supposed to be a casual dinner between a down-and-out frontman and an undervalued receptionist turned into a partnership,” he said. “One that keeps getting stronger.”
He smiled. “Welcome to the family, Tammy Powell — manager extraordinaire, and our new best friend.”
Tammy hadn’t expected a speech. Or champagne. Or a toast.
She clinked her glass with his and took a sip, then sat quietly. She hadn’t thought her efforts were anything special — but to the band, they were monumental.
They’d been down long enough to take a meeting with a label that had fallen even farther. Roth wouldn’t have touched them if she hadn’t vouched for them — something she never would’ve guessed, and something Roth would never admit.
Which only made him angrier now that she was gone.
Tammy looked up.
“I know we can do this,” she said. “Even with the deck stacked against us. But when you go into the studio, I’m going to have to step up. Roth probably thinks he outplayed us. I know the people he isn’t on good terms with — and I never burned those bridges.”
She met his eyes. “You make a great record. I’ll dig up everything I can on Roth. I’ll talk to a lawyer friend about the contract. There may still be a way to get the upper hand.”
She smiled slightly. “Family tells each other the truth. If I let you down, I expect you to tell me.”
Stix extended a bony hand.
Tammy shook it without flinching.
With the deal sealed, they ordered dessert.
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.
The alarm clock by the bed was blaring as Tammy awoke face down on her mattress. She had been up all night studying the contract she had negotiated for the band. Roth’s sleight of hand and misdirection during their negotiations had netted him almost everything he wanted—at the expense of the band.
The more she thought about it, the more it galled her that Roth had changed strategies. She had been a little too eager and a little too trusting when she first agreed to represent them. Roth was a veteran negotiator—and a jerk. He had probably counted on her being prepared for his usual shenanigans, the ones she had witnessed countless times in the office. He knew she had typed up the lopsided contracts he had arranged with every other act he had ever signed, many of whom had long since been bled dry and discarded like lab rats from a macabre experiment—something that had once existed for her only as numbers on a spreadsheet.
But she was responsible for this mess, and she was bound and determined not to let it happen again.
Her lawyer friend had given her an early-morning appointment. He was set to try a major case later that afternoon and would be unavailable for weeks once it began. She had fifteen minutes to get there. Tammy splashed water on her face to wake up, threw on the dress she had wisely laid out the night before, and did her hair and makeup at seventy miles an hour behind the wheel of her car. Under the circumstances, she had done a pretty fair job when she parked and checked the vanity mirror before getting out.
Schuester, Simon & Roberts was the largest law firm in the state. Tammy’s connection was the only reason she would have been able to walk through the front door at all. She wasn’t looking for representation—she just needed ammunition. Todd Roberts, an associate at the firm, was the son of Brad Roberts, the third partner, and a college classmate of Tammy’s.
Tammy approached the receptionist.
“Hi, I have an appointment with Todd Roberts.”
“Yes,” the woman replied. “Have a seat, Miss Powell. He’ll be right with you.”
Todd emerged from an office moments later, shaking hands with a man as they parted. He turned toward Tammy and smiled.
“Hey, Tammy! It’s good to see you. What’s it been—three years?”
“’Bout that,” Tammy said as she stood, and they embraced.
“Come on back to my office,” Todd said. “What’s so big that you need a law firm like ours?”
“Well,” Tammy replied, “I’m hoping you can help me so I won’t need your law firm.”
Todd waited for her to sit before settling behind his desk. He cocked an eyebrow.
“You want me to help you not need us? Isn’t that counterproductive?”
Tammy smiled. “Yeah… well, sort of.”
Todd chuckled. “Is this gonna be like that time in college when we went for pizza after the football game and you couldn’t decide what you wanted, and we ended up getting Chinese takeout?”
“You could think of it like that, I guess,” Tammy said. Then she dug deep for conviction. “What I really need, Todd, is advice from a friend so I don’t sink my new gig and put five people in a position where they’ll need every lawyer in this firm on twenty-four/seven standby.”
Todd leaned forward, curiosity piqued.
“What did you do?”
“I made a deal with Ira Roth,” Tammy said, followed by a long sigh.
Todd burst out laughing. “No wonder you were beating around the bush. I warned you about that clown when you first moved here, remember?”
“Yeah,” Tammy said, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “Some lessons are best learned the hard way.”
“I want to make sure Roth doesn’t get any more than what’s already in this contract,” she continued. “Then, when we renegotiate, your firm can handle that one and make the kind of fee you’re used to. Right now, the best I can offer is Chinese takeout.”
Todd laughed. “As enticing as that sounds, I’ll have to take a rain check until after this case is over—but I will take a rain check.”
Tammy smiled and handed him the contract.
After several minutes of careful, guarded study, Todd looked up and slid it back across the desk.
“There’s one clause where Roth has you over a barrel. He gets to hear the next six songs you
record. If he likes them, he can release an EP. I can see how you might’ve missed it—it’s buried in the wording—but it’s legal.”
He paused.
“So if you’ve got songs you don’t want Roth getting his hands on, don’t record them yet. It’s only the next six.”
Todd continued, “One more thing. Great job getting the band their songs back in that addendum—but Roth bit you again. Since he’s already heard those tracks, they don’t count toward the six. They have to be newly recorded.”
Tammy felt her stomach tighten.
“If you want to protect the band’s best material,” Todd said, “you need them to write and record six throwaways. Once Roth rejects them, you’re free and clear. If he takes them—which,
knowing him, he probably will out of spite—you won’t lose the songs that matter. Either way, you’re done with him.”
Tammy felt both relieved and newly angered. Roth had still managed to get the better of her—but now she had a plan, and it needed immediate execution.
“Oh no,” she said, standing abruptly. “They’re in the studio right now. I’ve got to get over there and stop them.”
Todd stood, shook her hand professionally, and smiled.
“It really was good to see you. And the next time you need me—”
“I know,” Tammy said, cutting him off. “It’ll cost me Chinese takeout.”
They both laughed as Tammy hurried out, already reaching for her keys.
“Send the first track to radio and do it now!” Roth yelled into the phone, slamming it down hard enough to crack the earpiece.
“Incompetence. Stupid
people.”
Obviously, today was not a good day for Ira Roth.
First, Jenkins had sent out the press release for the wrong song—the one they didn’t have one hundred percent of the royalties on. Then the single had been pressed with an incorrect label, which meant more money spent instead of earned. And now, to top it all off, Roth had to interview Tammy’s replacement.
He hated this job almost as much as he hated Tammy right now—and that was saying something.
“Backstabbing, smart-mouthed, little…” His voice trailed off as he stepped into the lobby, where four women sat waiting.
“Beth Johnson?” Roth barked.
Beth stood and approached him, offering her hand. Roth ignored it.
“Go wait in my office.”
She did—her smile already gone, uncertainty replacing it. Less than a minute later, she emerged, walked briskly to the elevator, and stepped inside. As the doors closed, her sobbing echoed into the lobby.
One of the remaining women stood. “I’m a professional with fifteen years of experience. I won’t ever take a job like this.”
She left.
Roth smiled inwardly. One less interview.
“Jennifer Baldwin? You’re up,” he called.
A tall, confident blonde entered, unfazed by what she’d seen. Her interview lasted seven minutes—right up until she pointed out something Roth hadn’t known.
That was the problem.
Too much like Tammy.
“Thanks, but I don’t think we’re the right fit,” Roth said.
Rona Rivers, the last candidate, waited nervously. Young. Smart. Fresh out of marketing school. Smart enough for the job. Not smart enough to know what the job was.
“Give me a couple minutes,” Roth told her.
She used the time wisely—made him a cup of coffee.
When she entered, Roth sat behind his desk with an unlit Camel dangling from his mouth. Without a word, Rona lit it for him. As he muttered about a missing receipt, she spotted it instantly and slid it across the desk.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Roth?” she asked softly.
Roth paused.
Processed.
“Can you start tomorrow?”
She could.
“Eight a.m. sharp. Now get lost—I have to call Jenkins.”
She closed the door, exhaled, smiled, and left.
Jenkins didn’t answer the phone, so Roth went down to the basement. Production.
Jenkins’ office was empty, but he’d just stepped away, one of the flunkies said.
Roth waited, fuming.
“Boss? What’re you doing down here?” Jenkins asked when he returned.
“Trying to find you. I called twice.”
“I’ve been on the floor all day fixing everything,” Jenkins said evenly. “The labels are correct. The press release is corrected. The single you wanted is already out.”
Roth nodded. “Good. We’re trying to make some money off these freaks so we can get us some real artists again. Like the old days.”
Roth had made a killing in the old days.
Jenkins hadn’t.
Demoted twice, promoted once—twenty years later, he was right back where he started.
Roth offered his hand. Jenkins shook it.
Why stir the pot?
Jenkins knew how to keep his mouth shut. Roth never had.
And someday—sooner or later—Roth would say one thing too many.
Jenkins would be listening.
The band was just taking a break when Tammy got to the studio.
“Hey guys—listen. We have to be really careful what you choose to record,” she said, a little breathless from the run from the car.
“Why’s that?” Stix asked, handing her a cup of water.
“Roth gets first pick on the next six songs, and we can’t use anything from the live tape. They all have to come from these new sessions.”
She took a breath. “Todd says Roth will probably take whatever we give him, just to squeeze as much as he can out of you. His suggestion is… you write six throwaways. Record them fast and cheap. Meet the obligation without ever handing him the real songs.”
“Contract fulfilled. Songs protected,” she said, not entirely sure how being told to do their worst would land.
Skullen spoke for everyone. “You want us to sell out?”
The words hit Tammy like a sucker punch. “No. I want you to protect what’s yours—so you can give it to your fans without Roth’s fingerprints all over it.”
“But you want us not to try?” Johnny asked.
Haddon leaned forward. He’d been here before—he and Richie had watched dozens of bands get cornered like this.
“Look, fellas. I took this gig for the money. I didn’t know anything about you—just that Roth was paying out the wazoo. Producer’s hours, premium rates. I figured I’d collect my check and disappear.”
He paused. “Then you played Ballroom Blitz.”
“You don’t have to sell out to protect your material. Write songs Roth won’t want. We’ll make them solid enough that if he passes, I can pitch them to other artists and you still collect publishing. If he takes them? Either they flop and you’re free, or they hit and you’re still holding all your best songs.”
He looked at Tammy. “Your manager’s right. You don’t give today’s work to Roth for EP fulfillment. You get nothing, and he gets rich. We scrub the tapes tonight. Richie starts clean tomorrow.”
The band agreed—quietly, but decisively.
Still uneasy about what they were supposed to write, Fingers finally spoke up. “Hey, I’ve got this power-pop thing I’ve been working on. I was thinking of giving it to Dwight Twilley… but it could work as something that won’t work for us.”
After a beat, the room erupted in laughter.
And just like that, everyone was on board.
The band arrived early at the studio and could hear John and Richie arguing loudly before they even reached the door. They weren’t angry with each other—just animated, frustrated, and clearly losing.
“What’s up?” Tyred asked, grabbing a guitar and beginning to tune as the rest of the band poured into the control room.
“Well,” Richie said, “Roth won’t be able to use anything from these tapes—even if he wanted to. But neither will we.”
“Our tech came in this morning and demagnetized the tape deck with the reel still on the machine,” John Haddon added. “That wiped out everything we did yesterday.”
“And on top of that,” he continued, “one of the flanges was bent. When we rewound at twenty times playback speed, the tape caught and wrapped itself around the transport. It’s completely ruined. We’ll need another reel of two-inch master tape.”
“The studio supplies it,” Richie said, “so Roth will have to eat two hundred bucks’ worth of tape. He’s going to be furious. And suspicious.”
“Don’t things like this happen sometimes?” Stix asked, honestly hoping it was true.
“They do,” Haddon said, “but it means Roth will be a lot more hands-on now. He may even come down here.”
“Just what we need,” Skullen muttered.
“How do we get another reel without alerting Roth?” Fingers asked from behind the piano.
“Requisition forms,” Tammy said. “You can requisition a new reel to the studio. It comes out of your royalties, it’s completely above board, and Roth would probably never notice. He never looked at requisitions. That was part of my job.”
“We can salvage part of this reel, right?” Tammy asked Haddon, suddenly sounding like a studio exec making routine inquiries. She barely knew what she was talking about—but she was hopeful.
“Yeah,” Haddon said. “We might save ten minutes out of thirty.”
“Well, if I put in the requisition today, we can have the new tape first thing tomorrow. You’ve got enough to work on two songs today?”
Richie had been listening while working. He’d managed to save almost twelve minutes of usable tape and was already threading the machine.
Tammy went to the studio office and requisitioned the reel from Venom Records. The clerk filled out the form, sent the duplicate copies upstairs, and put the reel on the delivery cart for early the next morning.
She was heading back to the studio to listen for a while when the studio manager stopped her.
“Phone call for you. Venom Records.”
“Thank you,” Tammy said, turning back toward the office.
“This is Tammy Powell.”
“Hi. You ordered extra tape for Black Wolf tomorrow, correct?”
“Yes,” Tammy said, already bracing herself.
“We’ll need you to pick that up. Our pickup window opens at six a.m. Thanks.”
The line went dead.
Roth was searching for his lighter when the intercom buzzed.
“Mr. Roth,” Rona said, her voice strong and determined, “there’s something you should see.”
Roth rolled his eyes. “I’ll be right there.”
He stepped out to her desk, where several requisition forms were neatly laid out.
“You said to let you know if anything seemed out of the ordinary,” Rona said. “Black Wolf Studio has ordered almost double their usual tape this month. They just requisitioned another reel for the Stix Stonz project—and they’ve only been there two days. They shouldn’t need more yet. Should they?”
She lit his cigarette and handed him his lighter, which had been sitting on the corner of her desk for over an hour.
Roth barely noticed. He was focused on the numbers—especially where Stix and the boys were concerned.
The phone rang.
“Venom Records, how may I direct your call?” Rona said.
“Mr. Roth. It’s Jenkins from downstairs.”
“I’ll take it in my office,” Roth replied.
Rona transferred the call.
Roth shut the door. “What is it, Jenkins?”
“I flagged a requisition for more tape at Black Wolf,” Jenkins said coolly. “Your latest headache.”
“I just saw the report,” Roth said, already calculating.
“I sent a runner on a stock pickup tomorrow and told receiving to send Miss Powell to collect it. Once she’s here, I’ll chat her up. She’s bound to give up something. These newbies always do.”
Roth smiled. If Jenkins wanted to do the dirty work, fine. That meant distance. Plausible deniability.
“See what you can find out,” Roth said. “But watch your back. That Powell woman can be tough.”
He hung up.
The Venom Records building was constructed around 1912.
No one knows for certain, but that is the quasi-agreed-upon year it went up. Originally, it housed offices upstairs and a manufacturing plant that occupied the entire basement, filled with printing presses and heavy machinery.
That layout made it the perfect place to install the vinyl manufacturing and distribution center when Venom Records purchased the building in 1957.
No walls had been built, and the open floor plan allowed equipment to be moved in and rearranged as needed. Eventually, they added a small office for the head of Production. That would be Jenkins at present. There was also an inventory room, a tape room, and a tape library that resembled a bank vault—except it was climate-controlled specifically for tape.
It may have seemed like excessive security for a record label, but it wasn’t about protecting the contents from intruders as much as it was about preserving the masters. There was well over ten million dollars’ worth of master tapes locked away in that vault.
Manufacturing meant blue-collar labor, so you didn’t have college graduates working in the basement. You’d be lucky if most of them had a high school diploma. They weren’t bad people—they just weren’t extraordinarily observant.
That was how a weasel like Jenkins could get away with some of the things he was known for doing without anyone fully understanding how it affected them.
He was a schemer. In fact, his first demotion had actually been deserved. Jenkins had fudged the books on tape distribution and had been caught with five thousand dollars’ worth of master tape in his car. Roth knew nothing about it. The president of the label had demoted Jenkins before putting Roth in charge and stepping down.
Which was exactly why Jenkins was so willing to spy for Roth on Tammy and her requisition for another roll of tape. He was always trying to stay on Roth’s good side for as long as he needed him. Loyalty would get him so far—but he wanted to go further.
It was early, before the plant opened, so Jenkins was the only one there when he heard the outside door open and the sharp click of Tammy’s heels on the same dirty linoleum they had upstairs. It was still better than the plant floor itself, which was unfinished concrete—hard on every part of your body and soul if you worked down there all day.
“I hate this place,” Tammy muttered to herself as she strutted down the hallway, unaware she wasn’t alone. “Roth would never let me down here, and now I know why. It’s probably filled with spiders.”
That thought terrified her in a way Jenkins never could.
She rang the buzzer outside the pickup door, and Jenkins opened it.
“Hi, Miss Powell. What can I do for you?” he said, attempting friendliness—something that only made him sound more snake-like than if he hadn’t tried at all.
“I’m here to pick up a new roll of tape, please,” she replied, her voice making it clear she wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.
“We can get you that. Do you have your requisition form?” Jenkins asked.
“I called it in from the studio yesterday, Jenkins. Let’s stop playing games. Normally you just run the tape out to the studio. I know—I used to schedule the tape deliveries. What’s going on? Did Roth put you up to this?”
Jenkins was slightly taken aback by Tammy’s forthrightness. She had always said Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Roth.
“What, no ‘Mr.’?” Jenkins asked, the way you’d ask a child if they wanted candy.
No one else was working. It was just her and Jenkins, and her fear of spiders was beginning to morph into something else—a fear of a trap, of a setup. Jenkins was stalling. He had never said more than one or two words to her at a time before today.
No more being businesslike. This was getting on Tammy’s nerves.
“May I please just have my tape and let me get out of here?” she said, more agitated than angry.
Jenkins’ tone shifted—from forced pleasantry to something sharper. His bluff had been called, and he knew it.
“Fine. Enough of this. You want the truth?” he said. “I set it up so you’d have to come get the tape. I wanted you away from the band, on uneven ground, so I could talk some sense into you. Roth is onto all of you. You’re not going to outsmart him.”
He was vague, but he chose his words carefully—just enough to make her wonder how much Roth really knew.
“He knows what you want the tape for,” Jenkins continued as he handed her the box. “And he knows now that you have it. Don’t be surprised if he pays you a visit at the studio.”
Tammy looked Jenkins straight in the eye. Without thinking it through, she said, “I don’t know yet how much Roth knows. But I know you don’t know anything.”
Her heart pounded in her chest.
“And you know what else?” she added. “I know about you and the car full of tapes. If you don’t want Roth to ever find out about that, next time you’ll deliver the tape… yourself.”
Tammy didn’t even realize it, but she had just won a huge fight.
Maybe she knew it a little. The way she walked away—her strut no longer forced, now something closer to a confident swagger—suggested as much.
Tammy arrived at the studio just as the band was tuning up. Normally she would have wanted to hang around and listen but there was work to do.
“Richie, here’s the new reel of Master Tape. You guy have your game plan I need to do some recon. I was just informed by Jenkins, that Roth is gonna pay us a visit and it might even be today. So keep that in mind when recording the good tunes.”
Richie eagerly scooped up the Ampex box and carefully loaded the new reel onto the Studer A800 24 track tape machine Black Wolf ’s claim to fame.
Tammy continued now that everyone was in the room together. “John, according to that basement dwelling rat, Jenkins, Ira Roth supposedly knows what ‘we’re up to’. I think it’s a bluff but Jenkins showed his cards when he warned me about a surprise studio visit. So Roth will be snooping around. We may have to come up with a plan to record at night off book somewhere to protect our material. Richie is there anyway you can use the open tracks on the live recordings and make it look like the band is sort of ‘dressing up’ those tracks she we can use them as b-side releases?
Tammy savvy with regard to keeping Roth occupied with a little slight of hand and some devious but much needed deception had Richie and John giving each other known glances.
“We’ve done that with other bands, right John?” Richie asked. “ we can always waste a lot studio time, ‘getting tracks just right’, if you know what I mean.”
Both John Haddon and Richie Statler having had years of experience navigating the world of rock and roll and especially studio recording, knew how to milk the clock when a band was going to fast in the studio.
“Well guys, Haddon began, “ as your producer I say all the tunes you’ve shown me so far, well there is no nice way to say this… they’re crap! Garbage! Third rate amateur hour, wanna be trash! I am telling you right now we are going to go out there and you are going to come up with a new song and we are not going to leave here until it is up to the standard for a Stix Stonz’ song.”
Stix and the boys feigned a look of grief and pain as they stumbled from the control room to the live room and began to tune their instruments.
“I’ll see you guys later. I’m off to find out how much Roth actually knows and see if maybe I can’t keep him away at least for today anyway.” Tammy said as she left and headed back to Venom Records.
Now seven guys in a room were about to write a song that met the producer’s criteria for a Stix Stonz song, but no one knew just what that standard was. They had nothing to compare it to…yet.
“Venom Records” Rona said cheerfully into the phone. ‘How may I direct your call?”
“One minute please.” She said.
“Mr Roth, line 2 it’s Mr Jenkins and he’s rather huffy today.”
“OK patch him through.” Roth growled. He was in no mood for Jenkins this early in the day.
“What do ya want, Jenkins?” He snapped.
“Ms. Powell, was here this morning and it didn’t go that well.” Jenkins paused.
Roth said nothing so he continued.
“She was snippy and argumentative so I told her you knew what those slackers were up to and you’d be payin’ them a visit soon.”
Jenkins winced as he pulled the receiver away from his ear. The entire pressing room could hear Roth screaming over it.
“Why did you do that? You weren’t supposed to let her know we suspected anything. Now they are gonna be on guard - expecting me at anytime. Why do I keep you at your job? You were supposed to have her reeling and back pedaling and now she knows we’re comin’!”
Roth slammed the phone down and Jenkins hung up. He looked around sheepishly and went back to work.
Roth had told Jenkins to play nice but hadn’t given him any info or weapons to use when things got hairy.
Things got crazy from the outset because Tammy Powell was no dummy and she had sensed a trap almost from the moment she walked in the building entrance.
Now Roth was blaming him for everything.
Yes it was a setback. But it was a small one. It could be overcome with a little patience and resourcefulness but Roth had lost his ability to be patient a long time ago. He was reactionary now not methodical.
Jenkins still kept his cool. He may have wanted Roth out of the picture and even Powell and the band out of the picture but he recognized the value of still having his pieces on the board. If it was necessary for him to sacrifice a pawn later, he would gladly sacrifice Roth.
He had no real animosity toward Tammy Powell, the band, Black Wolf Studios or even Rock and Roll. He’d trade all of them in a heartbeat to get what he wanted but if they were successful he would be too and he could use that to his advantage. Roth on the other hand stood directly in his way.
Jenkins began questioning his loyalties and decided if it came down to it being a double agent was the best choice. If he pit the two sides against each other eventually he would win. He’d just side with whoever came out on top.
He had done his part for Roth and Venom Records. Now he needed to even the score. He picked up his phone again. “Rona” he said. “Get me Black Wolf Studios, please.”
“Black Wolf Studios” replied the receptionist, Amanda Thomas.
“This is Jenkins at Venom Records, is Tammy Powell, still there?” Jenkins asked.
“She is just leaving, I’ll try and catch her.”
“No need.” Jenkins replied. “Just tell her Roth is on his way, she’ll know what that means.”
“Can I have your name?” She asked but Jenkins had already hung up.
Tammy Powell was walking by her desk just as she hung up. “Ms Powell, this call came in for you just a minute ago. He hung up before I could get his name, but he said to tell you Roth was on his way and you’d know what that meant.”
Tammy grabbed the note and crushed it in her hand.
“Thank you” she said as she returned to the studio.
“Hey Tammy!” Stix said as she busted into the studio. “I thought you were already gone?”
“I was on my way out the door when Amanda handed me this message. It seems Roth is on his way down here now so I wanted to give you a heads up before I headed out. Hide the good stuff and look busy we can’t have him snooping around too long.” She was on her way out the door as she finished speaking.
“Who knew it would be so hard on a label just to make a record!’ Skullen remarked wistfully. “We had it easier doing everything ourselves.”
Haddon was concerned with protecting the band’s music so he approached Fingers at his keyboard.
“You still have that song ready you were talking about that would work for not working for us?” Haddon said somewhat difficultly.
How does one ask that easy anyway?
Fingers smiled and said “Yeah I even wrote charts and everything. Do you want them?” He asked helpfully.
Haddon took a look at the charts and said “Yeah you’re right. It isn’t your style of song but the music is great. We’ll do this one as if you’re actually recording it for the record and then if Roth for some reason passes - I highly doubt that - knowing him but if he does we can still pitch it like you originally planned. In the meantime it should satisfy him that we’re working when he shows up.”
Haddon handed out the charts to everyone and sat back down next to Richie who had already dialed in the band.
The boys had warmed up on one of their classics from back in the day and with headphone mixes set now they were ready to attempt to play Fingers’ composition… until Stix read the lyrics to the chorus.
“Oh man, did we go Debbie Gibson here Fingers? Do you still have a crush on her? This is so bubblegum it makes my teeth rattle.”
Fingers hit a big organ swell and gave Stix his trademark grin. “Yeah, I told you it wasn’t us buddy. I even did that little playful teeny bopper thing of using numbers and letters instead of words in the title. Roth’ll probably hate it and we can pitch it to the next teeny bopper hitmaker and be able to buy our own airplane.”
Stix laughed. “Ok but I am not kicking myself in the balls to sing like her. I am gonna sing it my way.”
“That’d be a funny joke if you had any, Stix.” Johnny called out from behind his amp where he was hiding.
“That’s enough fellas,” Richie’s voice came over the talkback mic. “Let’s try one shall we?”
And just like that the band settled into a groove.
After about an hour they had a tempo they liked and groove they could live with. Skullen still thought it was too slow- Drummers what can you do? Soon though they had the basic track in the pocket.
The Rhythm tracks were being recorded dry with no scratch track vocal so the effects could be added later but Stix wanted to get a feel for the song with the vocals on it. So they set up a mic live in the room and he was just gonna sing with the band.
Roth walked into the studio just as Richie was giving cues on talkback.
“Do the count off and then the four bar intro. That’ll give us-“
“So how much work we getting done down here?” Roth bellowed as he interrupted.
“We have a really solid arrangement for the first tune Mr. Roth.” Richie said as he
closed the talkback mic and sat back in his chair. “What can we do for ya?” Not wanting to offer Roth a chance to sit and listen unless he had to.
“Where’s Haddon?” Roth snarled ignoring Richie’s question.
“He’s on the phone in the other room trying to secure a Hammond B-3 organ for this song we’re working on. The studio doesn’t have one.”
Roth didn’t have a reply so he changed the subject.
“Show me why you needed a third roll of tape after we already gave you with two.” He snarled.
Three Ampeg tape boxes sat on the counter top in the back of the studio. They were labeled: Live Track Overdubs, EP Tracks and Damaged.
“What’s with the damaged reel?” He asked. Not having any idea what was going on.
“We had a tape wrap around the capstan on the tape deck and chew up all but three minutes of the reel. Not much good to us since our shortest song is three minutes forty five seconds. We’re saving it for splicing or editing but we needed that extra roll to give us enough for the album.” Richie said as helpfully as humanly possible.
“Do you want to stick around and listen? We’re about to record the first take.”
“No!”Grumbled Roth. “I wanna speak to Haddon and ‘ll get out of here. Let me know when you have something to listen to. I have no desire to hear these guys practice.” Roth left in a huff and found Haddon in the next room.
“Well” Stix said with feigned indignation “I never!” In a voice that sounded more like Mae West than Stix
Stonz and the band broke into laughter. Richie shook his head and smiled. Then pointed to Stix through the studio glass and Stix counted…
“1,2,3,4” and the band kicked into the intro.
John Haddon came walking back through the door just as the band stopped. The intro went well but Fingers dropped a chord in the verse and the wheels came off. But it wasn’t a total loss as Haddon had heard something he wanted to try.
“Hey Fingers play that keyboard riff again that you were playing in the verse!” He said
He said walking out into the studio room itself.
Fingers began playing a rhythmic riff.
“Tyred if you accented that and triple tracked it that would be a perfect riff for behind the chorus! What do you think?” Haddon asked
Tyred grinned. “I can do that! It’s been a long time since anyone asked me to triple track something! This’ll be fun!”
He set up a second guitar and started trying out various phrases. “But hey let’s not drop it in until the second chorus alright? It sounds cool but it could be too repetitive if we do it in the first chorus. That way the second chorus has a new build without getting in the way of the vocal!” Tyred said. Finally jazzed about something. He had spent most of the day in the corner sulking because his idea of a screaming pick scrape to open the song was shot down.
“This song would be great if it wasn’t for these lyrics,” Stix said. “What were you thinking Fingers?”
“Oh Come on Stix!” Fingers shot back. “the whole thing is tongue In cheek and completely bubblegum.
Just lay it down straight. It’ll work out! “
“I don’t know man,” Stix sighed. “I already feel depressed and we’re still in the first verse. Are you sure you’re over whoever it is you wrote this one about? You know I know about all those songs you write when you think no one is listening.”
Fingers shot him a “you better shut up” look and said. “I wrote this one about you because you’re so smarmy all the time. The last time we wrote one together you had me crying like a baby and it wasn’t even my girl.”
“Hey guys I’ve already figured out my parts over here let’s record this before I forget ‘em.” Tyred said trying to steer everyone back to the job at hand.
“Ok Ok.” Stix said. Laughing at Fingers who was laughing at Stix.
The rest of the band was wondering where that entire exchange had come from. Generally in the studio Stix and Fingers were all business. Today it was like they were competing for class clown.
They kicked the song off in a totally different vibe and groove and the band just kept on going. Richie was rolling tape and Haddon just sat there listening.
You would have thought by having his eyes closed and not flinching at all that he was somehow not paying attention. To the contrary he was listening intently and from outward appearances he liked the new vibe.
The band finished the track and they all held their breath waiting for the last notes to fadeaway before moving or breathing and ruining the end of the song. Finally Richie hollered clear and everyone breathed a sigh of relief…. For a second
Richie had pushed play…not record. The tracks never took.
Richie Statler wasn’t the only one having a bad day.
Tammy had left the studio to run errands for the band.
The first stop was the photographers to get the band pics.
“Sorry, Ms. Powell the lab reported a a fire yesterday and all the film from your shoot was destroyed. The best we can offer is a full refund and a free photo shoot next month.”
Tammy took the refund slip and an available appointment schedule to discuss with the band and left for her second stop. The Orpheum. The band was supposed to play a gig there a week from Friday but the manager called and said there was a scheduling conflict and he needed to meet with her.
“I’m here to see the manager please.” She said as she looked a little disdainfully at the receptionist who painting her nails at her desk.
“He’s not in right now, have a seat over there and I’ll let you know as soon as gets back.” She replied.
Tammy fumed. She’d have gotten a lecture and gotten fired for a half dozen things this woman did and the woman probably made twice what she had working for Roth. It was bad enough they couldn’t get their schedule together but to have a foot line person that inept it just made her blood boil.
She checked her watch - “ten thirty. I wonder how long I’ll be tied up here?” She thought as she sat there counting the receptionist’s mistakes.
Normally Tammy would not have been angered by the frivolous behavior but the phone call at the studio, Roth, Jenkins, the band and the sneaking around they all seemed to have to do was getting on her nerves.
It’s probably a fair bet to say Tammy Powell preferred open warfare to stealth tactics.
Ms. Powell the manager called a half hour ago and said he wouldn’t be back before 2pm and for you to come back then.
Tammy checked watch it was now eleven forty five. She could have gotten two more errands domed in the time it too for the receptionist to pass on the manager’s message
“You know I could have your job in a heartbeat, right?” She snapped at the woman. “You better hope when I come back this afternoon I’m in a better mood or you’ll be on the bread line when I’m done with you.
Tammy threw her purse over her shoulder and strutted out the door like it was high noon. Which it almost was but she was not looking for a showdown now. She had gotten nothing accomplished and it was already lunch time.
She hadn’t had anything this morning and was hoping to catch an early lunch. Now it was lunch time at
Venom Records. She was hoping with Roth at teh studio and Jenkinsat lunch to do a little snooping. Her lunch would have to wait.
Halfway to her car she broke a heel. Limping back to her car she threw the busted shoe in the back seat and grabbed her emergency flats she always carried with her.
All she could hope for today was that the misfortune from this morning would break loose and she would get something done at Venom Records.
She got there just as Jenkins was pulling away. Roth had come back for a pack of cigarettes and he too vanished while she waited in her car.
She entered through the same door when she came to pick up the tape. It bypassed the office lobby and Rona who by this time had endeared herself - at least temporarily to Ira Roth and she was beginning to spy on Jenkins for him.
Tammy hoped that bypassing her would at least giver her a few unnoticed minutes in the building. After all she had a legitimate reason for being there. She was picking up the give away singles for the band’s upcoming record store appearance.
There was only one person in the whole manufacturing department that she could trust - Jimmy James. Jimmy was the live sound engineer who recorded the initial tape of the band that Tammy quietly acquired in a deal with Jimmy a few weeks back.
Jimmy did the mastering for Venom Records releases and the only person he was loyal to was himself… Jenkins had screwed him over, Roth had screwed him over and except for the pay and benefits Venom meant nothing to him. Which was why he was recording and hiding live tapes from Roth in the first place.
Tammy was different though. She had been nice to him and well - everyone at Venom and when she needed his help she trusted him instead of blackmailing him. Jimmy James’ first thought when he saw her come through the door was to trust her. He also knew she had no love lost for Ira Roth.
“Tammy!” He shouted. “Come back to the office!”
She immediately headed to the mastering lab and closed the door.
“How’s the new gig going?” He said easing into the conversation
“You picked the wrong day to ask.” she said as she sat down on the couch in the outer office. She smiled weakly, let out a sigh and said, “It’s Only Rock and Roll ya know?”
Jimmy laughed and then reached back and flung the door behind shut that led into the actual mastering room.
“The fewer ears the better.” He smiled and Tammy nodded.
“Are my giveaway singles ready?” she asked.
“Actually, no.” he replied. “I was surprised when I saw you Jenkins was supposed to call and tell you that they won’t be ready until Tuesday. Jimmy looked around “I heard Jenkins say they were holding them as long as they could. They are missing covers and I’m not sure what the deal is with that. The covers were done last week. I know I picked them up.”
“You sure know how to kick someone when they’re down there Jimmy!” Tammy said with a chuckle.
Jimmy raised his finger to his lips and looked down at his phone. He pushed a the intercom button and said, “Rona I’m making a late lunch. I should be back at two thirty.”
“Ok Mr. James I’ll be sure to let Mr Jenkins know.” Rona replied and Jimmy turned off the intercom.
“She’s been keeping an eye on me for Roth.” Jimmy said. “Let me walk you out.”
Outside the building Jimmy offered to walk Tammy to her car.
“I didn’t wanna say anything I n the room Rona’s gotten good at turning the intercom on when I’m in a meeting.
It’s a safe bet Roth and Jenkins are up to something on your project.”
Tammy stopped at the door to her car. She turned to Jimmy, “You wanna be our inside man? That was supposed to be my job until Roth fired me and the band hired me outright. We still need someone with eyes and ears on the inside. We’ll pay you of course and you can have the live sound gigs too, if you want them.”
Jimmy smiled. He looked around to see that no one was watching and offered his handshake using Tammy’s car as cover.
Roth and Jenkins don’t know it yet but there’s a fox in the hen house now.
The boys were having no luck recapturing the performance Richie had missed and now with frustration mounting producer John Haddon was losing his cool.
Something he almost never did.
It’s not like no one had ever goofed before. It wasn’t the first or last take this band would ever lose and John got paid by the hour, so why would he care?
John’s heightened sense of aggravation was proof that he was trying to captain a ship he could sail the entire world with.
Not just any ship but a Luxury Liner.
The band had a sound and a style that only needed a little polishing to be hugely successful.
Their first single had gained them a small amount of notoriety.
Their lack of a visual presence - a move Venom Records had used to try and control them backfired and made the band more noticeable.
Richie Statler and John Haddon had brought to the table the remaining skills necessary to tie it all together.
That’s why everyone was so frustrated.
They knew what they had they just couldn’t capture it on the tape. It sounded lifeless. No energy, no punch or drive.
After what seemed like take sixty three of “Hate Myself 4 Luvin’ U” Haddon threw a chair across the room grabbed a cigarette and stormed out of the control room.
Richie leaned back in his chair behind the board and rubbed his eyes. He was going blind trying to figure out why he couldn’t capture what was happening live in the room.
It didn’t matter anyway. After the take they lost Haddon hadn’t been happy with any of the takes and if he was being honest with himself, he had only kind of liked one take a dozen or so back.
The band sat dejected in the studio.
They felt like the wind had been taken out of their sails and nothing was going right for them either.
“Why don’t we call it a day?” Stix said looking at the exhausted group.
“John’s definitely not happy, Richie’s fried and we’re playing like a high school dance band doing mediocre covers of bad pop tunes.”
Skullen agreed. “I haven’t played with any conviction in two hours. I feel like I might be dragging the band down tempo wise.”
Johnny “Rottun” Bonz chipped in behind him. “I’ve been laying back on the beat and it’s probably forced you to drag the tempo to keep me in time.”
Fingers stared at everyone of them as they waited for him to chime in.
“What? I haven’t missed a note all day.” His sarcasm so thick it was dripping down the walls.
Tyred Tendonz sitting in the corner did a pick scrape on his Gibson SG guitar ending it with really powerful open E Chord.
“See?” He said as he stared at the band with a very serious look on his face. “I nail that intro every single time but you won’t let me play it. That’s the why the song is failing.”
A pregnant pause and then the whole room exploded with laughter.
They were just about to start up again when Tammy Powell came into through the control room.
With the look in her eyes the band knew she hadn’t brought them dinner and good news so they called it quits and had a band meeting.
Tomorrow would be a brand new day.