Glockman Studios was buried deep in the Del Paso Heights area of Sacramento - arguably the worst neighbourhood in the region. Razor wire crowned the chain-link fence encircling the parking lot. Out back, the studio overlooked a drainage canal clogged with shopping carts, busted tires, and urban detritus no one could identify. The street out front looked like it had lost a war with potholes.
But inside, everything was clean, sterile, and professional.
Over the next three and a half weeks, The Saints burned through fifty-eight of their allotted sixty hours, recording six of their best tracks - three of Jake's, three of Matt's, just like Shaver had asked. Twice a week, every Monday and Tuesday, they made the ninety-mile haul from Heritage to Sacramento, working under the guidance of studio engineer Brad Grotten.
Brad was thirty-six, skinny, chain-smoking, and clean-cut, always in long-sleeved button-ups with pocket protectors. The guy usually mixed music for commercials and radio jingles, so getting to record an actual rock band had him giddy. He gave them everything he had, pushing for precision on every track. Drums went down first, then bass, then Jake's rhythm guitar, followed by Matt's lead, and finally Bill's piano. Backup vocals came next. Jake's lead vocals were saved for last - and required the most retakes, as Brad chased the perfect blend of tempo, pitch, and timbre.
When each song was finally locked in, Brad would mix the individual tracks, tweaking volume and tone until the pieces fused. Then he'd transfer the finished result to a stereo dual-track reel-to-reel tape. That was the master recording. Only after a song made it to the master would they move on to the next.
Jake would never forget the moment they played back the first finished track - Descent Into Nothing. They'd played it a thousand times since Jake wrote it sixteen months earlier. But hearing it on professional speakers, clean and mixed... it stunned him.
"You guys are pretty good," Brad said, nodding along.
"We really are," Jake breathed, listening to the tight blend of instruments, the sharp clarity of his own voice, the relentless drive of the backbeat. For the first time, he was hearing their music like an outsider. And it sounded incredible. Not just good. Professional.
"We're gonna make it," Matt said from beside him, eyes wide. "I always thought we would, but now I fuckin' know. We rock."
"Goddamn right," Bill said, slack-jawed. "Goddamn fuckin' right."
When the sessions wrapped and all six tracks were safely on the master, Brad set to work duplicating demo tapes. Thanks to the studio's high-speed dubbing gear, it took less than thirty seconds per tape. He ran off twenty copies to ship to Shaver - and though Brad never outright admitted Shaver had paid for the session, he implied it more than once. Each band member got a half-dozen copies to do with as they pleased.
Glockman Studios would store the master tape for two years at no charge. After that, it'd cost them sixty bucks a year to keep it in the vault.
"No problem," Matt said. "Thanks for everything, Brad."
"You're more than welcome," Brad told them. "You're good musicians. I think you're gonna go far."
And just like that, they walked out of the studio for the last time.
They left behind a master recording that - because it included two songs The Saints would never officially release again - would one day be auctioned for nearly half a million dollars.
Life returned to normal in Heritage. Winter settled in, and The Saints kept grinding - at least three gigs a week, nonstop. They went back to writing and rehearsing. One of Jake's newest pieces, The Point of Futility, was a slow-burning ballad about heartbreak, helplessness, and letting go. The crowds went nuts for it. The emotional punch landed hard every time.
Ironically, Jake had already moved past the breakup that inspired the song.
He never called Michelle. As far as he knew, she never called him. No rumors. No sightings. Nothing. It was like she'd vanished. And the more distance he put between himself and that chapter, the more he realized it was probably for the best. They'd been oil and water from the start. She was on track to become a Bible-thumping teacher at some uptight private school. He was chasing guitars, bars, and whatever fate had in store. Guilt over post-show hookups faded fast. Soon, he was enjoying them almost as much as Matt and Darren.
Still, the demo tape stayed on their minds.
They'd talk about it when they were stoned before rehearsals or tipsy after gigs, wondering what Shaver was up to. Matt would call him now and then, hoping for an update. But Shaver always said the same thing: the tapes had been sent out. Responses took time. Be patient.
"Things will start moving soon," Shaver promised.
Turned out, he wasn't just blowing smoke.
In mid-February 1982, just as Jake was starting to wonder if the whole "agent" thing had been a pipe dream, the phone rang.
"Wassup, Matt?" Jake said, grabbing the remote to mute the TV. "You sound excited."
"I am, man. I'm about to bust in my fuckin' jeans."
That got Jake's attention.
"Shaver?"
"Bet your ass. Just got off the phone with him. He's sending plane tickets."
"Plane tickets?" Jake asked, blinking.
"Yup. We're flying to L.A. next Thursday."
"Wait - we?"
"The whole fuckin' band, man. All of us."
Jake sat forward. "What for?"
"We're meeting with a guy from National Records."
Jake blinked. "National Records?"
"Fuckin' A, homey!" Matt practically shouted. "They want to talk about a recording contract!"
Jake exhaled, stunned. "Holy shit."
"Holy shit is right. Shaver fuckin' did it, man. The motherfucker actually did it!"