Los Angeles, California, July 6, 1982
Jake sat in a small soundproof booth, on a wooden chair with rubber-padded legs so it wouldn't squeak if moved. He wore a pair of high-fidelity headphones, cans in studio slang, through which the backing tracks and direction from the sound techs came through. Suspended in front of his face was a padded condenser mic, hanging from an adjustable bracket in the ceiling. Just a few feet beyond the glass window sat a giant soundboard and two techs watching his every breath.
"Okay, Jake," came a voice in the cans. Stan Lowry, the voice tech. "We're cued up. Let's do it again. Two inches from the foam, even timbre, watch the lip popping."
Jake gave a silent thumbs-up. By now, he knew not to talk back.
"The Point of Futility," Stan announced. "First verse, take twelve."
The music started in Jake's ears, a soft fingerpicked acoustic guitar, Matt's work, layered with Bill's understated piano. It was their recorded backing track, mixed but not yet mastered. Jake took a breath, checked the mic distance, licked his lips to fight dryness, and waited for the cue.
The mournful bend of the A string signaled his entry.
"There comes a time when it's overWhen souls have gone their own waysWhen the things that brought you togetherNow drive you apart, day after dayAnd you know that it's overYou've felt it go, there's been no mistakeIt's the end of togetherNo more give, no more take"
"Hold up, Jake," Stan cut in, the backing track cutting out mid-note.
Jake sighed. Three and a half months in and he'd grown used to this. In this studio, perfection wasn't a goal, it was a minimum requirement. Every chord, every beat, every breath had to hit exact parameters. The phrase let's try that again had become as common as air.
"A little too much on 'it's the end of together'," Stan said. "You red-lined the high end on 'together.' Back off a notch or it'll distort."
Jake nodded.
"All right. First verse, take thirteen."
He reset. Sang again. This time he didn't even make it through twelve syllables.
Finally, on take twenty-three, he got through it. No redline. No timing slip. No popped syllables. Just clean, smooth vocals. As expected, seven songs into the ten-track album, and that was about average for a lead vocal take.
"Let's break for lunch," Stan said. "We'll start verse two after you get back."
Jake checked his watch, 11:25. He raised an eyebrow through the window, pointed at his wrist. Why not finish verse two first?
Stan shrugged. "I want to tweak the cueing track a little. Also, Max is here. Wants to see you."
Jake took off the cans, set them down on the chair, and stepped into the control room. Standing near the hall door was Max Acardio, their A&R rep from National Records.
Max was in his early thirties, tall, polished, and surgically fake from hairpiece to smile. His suit was flashier than usual, his tie thin and obnoxious. His grin widened to a teeth-blinding level when he saw Jake.
"Jake!" he beamed, grabbing his hand. "Sounded great in there. Just great. I can't wait to get this project out."
"Hey, Max," Jake said, submitting to the one-armed hug Max insisted on if he hadn't seen you in 48 hours.
"How you holdin' up, buddy?" Max asked. "They tell me you're doing good, production's on time and under budget."
Jake nodded. "It's tedious, but I'm hanging in."
"That's great, great," Max said, clearly not listening. "I've got some good news. Just came from the Art Department. They finished the album cover. You wanna see it?"
"Sure," Jake said. "What about the rest of the guys?"
"Matt's in Studio B fixing some guitar on Who Needs Love?, Bill's checking mixes, and Darren and Coop are setting up in the red room. You're all mine for now."
Jake shrugged. "All right. Let's see it."
The studio was in the basement of the thirty-story National Records building, a chrome monstrosity on the fringe of Hollywood. They took a rattling elevator up to the eighteenth floor. Max's office sat on the north side, overlooking the grime and tenement sprawl of Hollywood Boulevard. His desk faced the window, though Jake doubted he ever actually looked out.
Max sat and pulled something from beneath his desk. "Here it is," he said, handing it over. "Tell me what you think."
Jake studied the album cover in silence.
It was a photo of a hotel room in full post-party wreckage. Empty liquor bottles everywhere. Knocked-over lamps. A busted TV on the floor. Panties tossed in every direction. A tiny mirror with a powdery residue, almost hidden, but not quite. On the bed, face down, was a man who looked suspiciously like Jake. He was naked, though the sheets conveniently covered his ass. In his left hand was a nearly empty bottle of whiskey. His right hand lay over the bare back of a passed-out female model beside him, her private parts similarly obscured by careful sheet placement.
Scrawled across the top in bright pink lipstick lettering, sloppy, drunken, oversized, was the band name: The Saints. Below that, in slightly neater lipstick letters: Descent Into Nothing.
Jake stared at the album cover for a long time, his feelings mixed and unsettled.
It was chaotic, sleazy, provocative, exactly what they had been warned about. He knew Darren, Coop, and Matt had loved the concept when it was pitched. Bill and Jake? Not so much. But their opinion didn't matter.
Acardio and Bailey had discussed the artwork with them, sure, but it had been purely a formality. The band had learned quickly, the album didn't belong to them. It belonged to National Records. Period. They would produce it, package it, promote and sell it however they damn well pleased.
"It goes along with the image we're going to be pushing for you guys," Bailey had said when they'd first introduced the concept.
"The image?" Jake had asked warily.
"Exactly. Every band needs one. It's part of what sells you to the fans. And with a name like The Saints, the direction pretty much picks itself."
Jake raised an eyebrow. "We're not exactly saintly."
"Exactly," Bailey said, grinning. "That's the whole point. It's ironic branding. The name The Saints says clean, holy, upright. But what we're gonna give the world is chaos, rebellion, and vice. You guys are the opposite of saints, and that contrast is what makes it stick. It's memorable."
Matt had let out a laugh. "Fuck yeah. That's why I came up with it. It's got a bite to it."
"And I want you all to live up to it," Bailey continued. "When you go on the road to promote this album, I want you partying hard. I want stories about drug binges, sex orgies, trashed hotel rooms. I want rumors about groupies, fistfights, cocaine, hell, I want people afraid to be backstage with you. I'll make sure every one of those stories hits the press. The more infamous you are, the more albums we sell."
Jake frowned. "Shouldn't the music sell itself? I mean, we're a good band. People will want to hear us because we sound good."
"Sure, being good is a bonus," Bailey said with a shrug. "And our promotion team will get your singles on the radio. But trust me, your image will outsell your talent three to one. Always has, always will. Just look at Ozzy. The best thing that ever happened to him was biting the head off that bat."
"But Ozzy is good," Jake had insisted. "He's got talent. His voice, the songwriting, and Randy Rhoads, one of the best guitarists who ever lived."
"Until that little aircraft incident," Matt said solemnly, making the sign of the cross. He'd taken Rhoads' death hard. Idolizing the man was one thing, but it was the way he died that haunted Matt most. Stolen plane, joyriding tour bus driver, a reckless stunt gone catastrophically wrong. Smashed into a house. Burned to ashes.
Jake was sure drugs or coke had played a role. No way that idea seemed sane to anyone sober. The scary part? He could absolutely see Matt going along with something like that. Probably leading the charge.
"Yes, yes," Bailey had said, waving it all away. "Ozzy and Rhoads were talented, sure. But that's not what kept them in the public eye. Ozzy's rep, bat, Alamo, crazy stunts, that's what made him a legend. People didn't just buy his albums. They bought into him."
Jake hadn't agreed then and still didn't now. As a fan, he bought albums because he liked the music, not because of some tabloid story about the singer pissing on a monument. But National Records didn't think like fans. Not anymore. Especially not since MTV had launched. Image had become everything.
Shaver had warned Jake about that once, during a late-night hotel hang and a few expertly cut lines of his favorite Bolivian flake. He was worried about where the business was headed. "It used to be about the music, kid," he had said. "Now it's about cheekbones and lighting. A&R's not just scouting sound anymore. They're scouting faces."
Jake looked back down at the cover art. Carnage. Booze. Drugs. Sex. Chaos.
"Well?" Max Acardio asked, watching him.
Jake blinked, then forced a neutral expression. "It's, uh... very good photography."
Max beamed. "I thought so too. We really do have the best graphics team in the business."