Loki's Child Page 4

  Of course, Gran’daddy Blenderman couldn’t tell a story about a fishing trip without turning it into a tale worthy of Baron Munchausen.

  There’s no session today; the ladies have an appointment with their hair and makeup specialist, who evidently got her degree at Clown College. I’ll take the time to tell you about another colorful character in the NYC music biz: John C. Prester, the go-to-guy around town. I call him Prester John, after the mythical Christian monarch.

  He’s a deceptively square-looking guy. He has a face that could get him elected President, and a spiel to match. But don’t be fooled by appearances. Prester John is the biggest dealer in the NYC music biz, and I don’t mean studio equipment. His van full of semi-pro recording gear is just a front for transporting drugs. They’re billed to the label as “recording tape,” “pencils,” “piano tuning,” or the all-inclusive “misc. expenses.”

  But it’s Prester’s youth ministry that clothes him in virtue and makes him untouchable. In addition to his other activities, he owns and operates the Reverend Prester Home for Disobedient Boys, located on a farm upstate. A boy who ends up there has two choices: get right with Jesus, or get shot up with Thorazine. Can you gimme Hallelujah!

  They’re rebellious at first. But by the time they come out, they love Prester John the way Winston Smith loved Big Brother. Prester has a large following in upstate New York (rube country), and the authorities don’t dare to prosecute him for his many imputed crimes.

  When I need something done, procured, or disposed of, I call Prester John. I get a kick out of the guy, because he’s genuinely psychotic. You could comb all the mental wards in the state and not come up with a more interesting or elaborate set of delusions.

  Today, I needed something special for Wesley Stills, MOS’s sales rep/enforcer for NYC. He’s the guy who makes sure that Kasugi gets the latest and greatest SonoViz products before anyone else does.

  I called Prester. “Prester! Buddy! I have a lonely friend who needs some company. Perhaps you could help.”

  “Blenderman, it’s wonderful to hear from you. But I don’t do that sort of thing anymore, since I found the Lord.” The Lord is Prester’s private brand of cannabis, grown hydroponically by his boys up on the farm. It’s like Thorazine without the brain damage.

  “Even better! Could you spare a bit of the Lord for your number-one customer?”

  Prester grinned audibly. “I’m glad you’ve decided to accept the Lord into your lungs. You won’t be sorry.”

  I snorted. “What do I look like, a hippie? I’ll stick with the nasal anesthetic, thank you.”

  “I see the Adversary has you deep in his clutches. I’ll pray for you.” The Adversary is a rival procurer who deals in the hard stuff.

  “I appreciate it. By the way, the last batch you sent me was superb. But I can’t say the same for the power amp you stashed it inside. It caught on fire the first time we used it. ‘Happy Toil Facility #308’ is really letting things slide.”

  “I’ll tell them to step up the daily whippings,” he said dryly.

  “Speaking of whips, that reminds me of a story.”

  “Lay it on me, brother.”

  “I tell this one to the assistants when they slack off on the job. There’s two Soviet bureaucrats named Ivan and Boris. They get lost in Siberia with no food or shelter. Ivan says, ‘What do we do? We’re going to die!’ Boris says, ‘Don’t worry.’ He reaches into his coat and pulls out a kitten. ‘I will make a sled, and this kitten will pull us to Moscow.’ Ivan says, ‘You’re crazy! How do you expect a tiny little kitten to pull us all the way to Moscow?’ Boris gets very angry and roars, ‘Because I have a whip!’”

  Prester John howled with laughter. “You missed your calling as a philosopher. I think I’ll use that story in my next sermon. I’ll call it ‘The Whip of Faith.’”

  Sometimes I don’t know who’s yanking who’s chain.

  7. Greed Is Bad

  by BLENDERMAN

  Today, we started Song #2. The ladies came in with their usual streetwalker getup, which was starting to get a little surreal. Imagine if Mötley Crüe circa 1983 wore their stage makeup 24/7: in the studio, at the grocery, at the dentist, et cetera. That’s what it’s like.

  “You ladies are looking exceptionally fine today,” I lied. “It should be against the law to look that good.”

  “Well, duh,” Jasmine said snottily. “You can’t be a star if you look like a librarian, right?”

  “So what do you have for me today?”

  “I want to do ‘Greed is Bad.’ This song won’t get played on radio ’cause it’s too extreme.”

  “Splendid. Let’s hear what you got.” I retreated to the Padded Cell with Scotty, and they ran through the song. Jasmine wanted to do the vocals live, so Scotty put her in an isolation booth with the Hitler Mic.

  The riff was a bad funk-metal imitation, drop-tuned to around 11 Hz. They were grooving on it with ultra-serious expressions on their faces.

  Jasmine yelled directly into the mic like it had a hearing problem. Unfortunately, her voice wasn’t made for yelling.

  Greed is murder, greed is bad

  Greed is rilly rilly bad

  You cut down trees you rape the earth

  The native people lived here first!

  Making faking taking breaking!

  MAKING FAKING TAKING RAPING!

  As the song progressed, Jasmine got more and more worked up until she was screaming like a five-year-old throwing a conniption fit.

  I won’t take orders from capitalist rulers!

  I won’t take orders from capitalist rulers!

  The last line was repeated for an entire minute, until the song finally disintegrated.

  “Wow,” Scotty said dryly. “It’s Yodel Against the Machine.”

  I punched the talkback. “That was great, ladies. Really intense. Gimme another take, and make it more, uh, whatever it is already.”

  We spent the rest of the day recording approximately 75 takes. I retired to the couch and perused the latest copy of HITZ. The reviewers can always be counted on to inform you about the latest products, and how they sound just like vintage analog gear, except better.

  At the end of the day, we concluded that Take 1 was the best. It would have to be patched up with bits and pieces from the other takes. The drop-tuned guitar was out of tune half of the time, thanks to Jasmine’s total lack of finesse and her tendency to smash the strings. Sandy’s bass track was mostly pick noise and fret buzz. Mitzi bashed the cymbals like she had something against the Turks, but she hit the snare like a mouse holding a toothpick.

  You could give their instruments to monkeys and get a better result. These girls had bad playing down to a science.

  Scotty had his head on the desk. He wasn’t moving. “Somebody kill me,” he muttered.

  I said, “Scotty, I’m going to take Velma out to dinner and negotiate a percentage for you. I’ll crawl under the table if I have to.”

  “You’re a prince among men.”

  I slapped him on the back. “You’ll live. I’ll see you in three days.”

  8. Overdub Hell

  by BLENDERMAN

  Scotty did his usual bang-up editing job. On my end, I managed to get that tenth of a percent for him. It wasn’t easy. My tongue is still sore from sweet-talking that battleaxe. Scotty’s percentage will come out of the net instead of the gross, which means Kasugi will screw him out of it with creative bookkeeping. But he appreciated the gesture.

  All “points” come out of the band’s royalties, never out of the label’s profits. I have no ethical problem taking a few points in addition to my fee, since none of the bands I produce have any talent or deserve to be on a label in the first place.

  Now it was time for overdubs. Jasmine would have to double her rhythm parts.

  She came into the Padded Cell and plugged into her Marshall S.E. (Scotty Edition). The speaker cabinet was in the isolation booth. We put the music through the big speakers so she c
ould feel it.

  As soon as she started playing, I knew we had a problem. “Uh, you’re drifting off tempo there. Better start again.”

  “I can’t play to this,” Jasmine complained.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Can’t you make the track follow me?”

  Scotty blinked, then looked at Jasmine, then back at me. “What?”

  “Make it follow me. Just like Mitzi and Sandy do when we’re playing live. I’m the leader.”

  Scotty rubbed his eyes. But when he opened them, Jasmine was still there. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Fine!” Jasmine yelled. “I’ll try it again!”

  This time, Scotty let the song play all the way through. She finished the song a full minute before the rest of the instruments.

  She threw down her guitar. “You guys suck!” She stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  I sent Alpha to find her. He reported that she was playing video games in the lounge.

  “This could be a problem,” I muttered.

  I turned to Sandy. “So. How would you like to do a bass overdub?”

  “Okay,” said Sandy diffidently.

  “Scotty, run the SonoViz at half speed. Use that fancy word clock gizmo that Wesley dropped off.” MOS forces users to spend thousands of dollars for options that are standard in other DAW’s, but that’s because SonoViz is Pro.

  Sandy plodded through the song. The guitar was transformed into a low-pitched grinding noise, the drums sounded like someone banging on a water tank, and the vocal sounded like someone with an unfortunate pituitary disorder.

  Scotty returned the speed to normal, transforming the half-speed bass into an ersatz guitar. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t terrible either.

  “It needs a guitar solo,” I said. “Alpha, tell Jasmine we solved the problem and to get her charming little self back in here.”

  Alpha disappeared. In a few minutes he was back. No Jasmine. “She says you’re mean and she’s not leaving the lounge until you apologize.”

  I snorted. “She can stay in there forever, for all I care. Alpha, grab whatever she needs and plug her into the patchbay.”

  A few minutes later, Jasmine’s voice came through the speakers. “Fuck you. I’m not playing.”

  “Come on,” I cajoled. “It’ll be fun. Scotty, roll the song.”

  When it got to the bridge, where the solo was supposed to come in, we heard a terrific crashing noise. She was smashing the guitar into the television set.

  “There’s your solo,” said Jasmine into the mic. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Actually, I liked that solo a lot. It’s totally punk.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  “No, I’m serious. I think we should put it on the record.”

  There was a pause. “Really?”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t erase it. I’m coming in there.”

  A minute later, she appeared, carrying a shattered Stratocaster held together by the strings and nursing a bloody scratch on her palm. “Let me hear it back.”

  Scotty played it back. I have to say, it was the most violent guitar solo I ever heard, even if it wasn’t very musical. It fit the song to a T.

  Jasmine was grinning. “From now on, I’m gonna smash the guitar at the end of every solo, so it’s the last thing that guitar ever played.”

  “You know you’ll have to pay for them out of your royalties.”

  “Nah. I have an endorsement deal,” she said nonchalantly.

  “Well, that’s just dandy. But we don’t want you to hurt yourself or sprain a wrist or something. How about if Alpha smashes them for you? He’ll be your designated guitar-smasher.”

  “Okay, but he has to sign a non-disclosure agreement. I don’t want anyone saying I don’t play my own solos.”

  Alpha was staring at Jasmine with a look of utter consternation. I socked him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the record business, kiddo.”

  9. Guts Ripped Out

  by BLENDERMAN

  Digital recording is inappropriate for music.

  —Steve d’Aubigny

  We set up the girls with headphones, and Jasmine in a vocal booth, to record Song #3. “This song is called ‘Guts Ripped Out,’” Jasmine announced. “I want it to sound raw and painful, like a stab wound.”

  It had a folky acoustic guitar and a hip-hoppy drumbeat. Jasmine’s vocal was interesting. She had that bitter, dripping-scorn Irish yodeling quality, but a lot more spazzy and hiccupy. She sounded like an epileptic with Tourette’s Syndrome at a poetry reading.

  I’m a worthless piece of dirt

  But you said I could be someone

  You fucking liar, no one can save me

  So I’ll just watch TV like a bum

  It felt like you were ripping my guts out

  When you said good-bye forever

  Why don’t you just fuck off and die

  If that’s the only way we can be together

  Guts ripped out, guts ripped out

  I’m empty inside like a plastic doll

  Heart ripped out, brain ripped out

  I’ll just get stoned and stare at the wall

  There’s nothing inside me at all

  I’m gonna overdose on Fuckitol

  The delivery made me seasick. It wasn’t just off-key; it had no rhythmic or melodic relation to the riff.

  “This is unreleasable,” I said in dismay.

  I’m not Steve d’Aubigny, the “un-producer” who makes records in three days on analog tape. I don’t do “real.” I do “fake.” If I gave the record company “real,” I’d get sued for misrepresentation. Or lack thereof.

  I clapped my hands together. “I got it. Techno remix. We’ll get DJ Skreechy in here to deconstruct this thing. Turn it into a dance tune.”

  Scotty shrugged. “Sounds fun. How are you gonna sell her on it?”

  “Watch and learn.”

  She came into the Padded Cell. “That’s the song,” she said flatly. “Do you hate it? ’Cause it’s going on the album anyway.”

  “No, I think it’s a great song,” I lied. “But it would be even more great as a techno remix. We’ll get it into the clubs and people can thizz out to it, or whatever it is they do now.”

  “We’re not techno artists,” said Jasmine scornfully. “They’re not even real musicians.”

  I burst out laughing, which didn’t help my case a bit. I shouldn’t have, but come on, a man has his limits.

  “You’re gonna leave it the way it is!” Jasmine screamed.

  All right. It was time to get mean. I said, “Do you want this album to get released? Do you want to make money?”

  “Yeah,” said Jasmine, like it was a really stupid question. But I could hear the concern under the bravado.

  “Kasugi will not release a song that sounds like that. Never. They might fire me, and you might get off on that idea, but they’ll just hire some other big jerk. With any luck, it’ll be Dingo Stephens. I can tell you, he’s a lot less understanding than I am. He makes macho metal singers break down and cry. He makes razor-toting riot grrrls trade in their combat boots for pink party dresses. He makes punk performance artists clean up and get a job. One of his clients OD’d at the height of his career just to get out of recording the follow-up album. Dingo Stephens is like Satan: he can’t get you unless you open the door, but once you do, he’ll put a saddle on you and ride you like a horse.” I paused for effect. “Do you want Dingo Stevens to come in here?”

  “No,” said Jasmine sullenly, like she’d been caught chewing gum in class. Sandy and Mitzi giggled.

  “Good. Because your music is terrible.” I threw my hands up. “There! I said it! You can’t play. You have no talent. The only way you will ever get a national audience is to let me produce you, like I was hired to do.”

  Unexpectedly, a small smile twitched at the corners of Jasmine’s mouth, like she knew something I didn’t. “Yah. I gotcha, boss.”

/>   “This is not a game. This is real life. It doesn’t matter what kind of fancy contract you have, because it’s unenforceable. Kasugi will break it any time they feel like it, and if you try to sue them, their lawyers will tie it up in the courts for decades and prevent you from signing with another label or even playing gigs under your own name. Equality before the law? It’s a myth. We live under a system designed by lawyers for the benefit of lawyers. It’s a scam and the deck is stacked against you.” I was grinning, but I felt a fleeting twinge in the part of my brain where my conscience used to be. “The only thing holding Kasugi back is the fact that they paid a million bucks to get you. But if they come to the conclusion that you cannot make money for them, they will roll over you like a freight train.”

  “Are you done with the lecture, Professor Brainiac?” The utter scorn in her voice took the wind right out of my sails.

  I slumped in my seat and sighed in exasperation. “I’m just trying to make a record.”

  Jasmine looked concerned and patted my hand. “Poor old Blendie. He has it so hard.”

  “What are you after, anyway?”

  She leaned close to me and whispered, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  “Remix. Got it?”

  “Yeah, whatever. I don’t give a shit.” She flounced out of the room, followed by Sandy and Mitzi.

  DJ Skreechy wasn’t busy, so he came by that same evening. He’s a little British guy with a Cockney accent. “Wot we got ’ere, then?”

  “Hot new group. Needs a remix.” I fled the studio, and let him and Scotty work it out. I needed a drink bad.

  Jasmine doesn’t realize how lucky she is. Most people would do just about anything to work with me.