John McMullen was wide and blocky, just like his face. He had thinning red hair and lots of charm in his Irish grin.
He was also the a&r director who had signed Elle to her deal. And now he was sitting on the houseboat patio with Webb, who was wearing the big white W of the Winnipeg Blue Bombers.
Ten in the morning. Lots of sun. A cup of coffee each, the third for both of them. It had been a great hour for Webb, sitting with McMullen and talking music and music dreams.
A short silence had fallen between them, and McMullen broke it, grinning as he spoke. “Ugly shirt. Harley told me about this CFL thing you have going on. I’ve been waiting all morning to ask. You going to stick with it?”
Webb grinned back. “I’d be happy to buy a new wardrobe. Long as it’s with someone else’s money.”
McMullen laughed. “Like the label’s marketing money?”
“As long as I don’t have to blow-dry my hair to match something frilly, you get me shirts less ugly and I’ll wear them.”
“I’ll make note of that,” McMullen said.
The boat rocked slightly as swells came in from the river.
“And you’re good with the rest of what we just discussed, right?” McMullen said. “If so, I’ll leave you with the deal points. It’s essentially a legal commitment from the label that we will proceed with you according to those deal points. We’ll record three or four songs, work it up with a band, showcase it for the label and from there get a full record deal. We’re bound to you, and you won’t accept offers from another label.”
“I’m clear,” Webb said. He didn’t want to do anything goofy like pinch himself to see if this was a dream. Harley had told Webb to play everything cool, as if whatever McMullen offered was a little less than Webb deserved. That was part of the game.
“Great,” McMullen said. “You and I get to step away from the legal details now. Leave the painful part to the lawyers. Your attorney will work with our attorney, and they’ll do the usual posturing and fighting to make it look like they’re working hard for each of us and then go out for dinner after and talk about their kids and school and stuff and count all the money they make off pretending to fight each other. Along the way, it makes sure everyone has a fair deal.”
Webb smiled.
“I know you had a producer who tried to mess with you,” McMullen said, “but in this town, it hardly ever works to play it that way. Reputation means a lot around here. You’re not going to see much of that guy in town anymore.”
“Thanks,” Webb said, thinking of Harley and how Harley had been able to open so many doors just by being someone trustworthy. And, of course, by being someone who could do amazing things with guitar and vocals. It wasn’t just one or the other. You had to combine both. Business. Music.
“Speaking of fun,” McMullen said, “you mentioned you might have an idea for a music video for ‘Rock the Boat.’ I’m in no hurry to leave this little oasis you have, so run it past me, if you don’t mind.”
“You remember I said that sometimes people tell you not to rock the boat because they like things the way they are?” Webb said. “And that if you want to make changes in your life or around you, sometimes you have to take chances and ignore those people?”
McMullen nodded.
“I know lots of videos have been done about trying to achieve your dreams,” Webb continued, “so I was thinking maybe the video starts like that. You have a musician in the video who—”
“You mean you’re the musician in the video.”
Weird, Webb thought. Planning out a mini movie where he was the star.
“Okay. The video opens with me busking, and you see people throwing money in the guitar case. That’s true to my life. And then you see me at such a low place that I’m lining up to eat with other hungry people at a kitchen some organization has set up under an overpass. Except people need more than just food. They need music. So I’m standing in line, and people around me are dejected. A guy is behind me, shoulders drooping. A little girl looks sad. Maybe there’s a shot of me sitting down after I eat, quietly playing guitar.”
“So far, so good. I can picture all that.”
“Then I get on a bus, and the highway signs show that I’m headed to Nashville. I’m in the studio, recording ‘Rock the Boat.’”
“Let me jump in here,” McMullen said. “When I offer a criticism, it’s not meant to be negative. It’s meant for evaluation, something to consider. And this is as good a time as any for you to understand that. You’re going to be working with experienced people, and their input will be valuable. So don’t take it as insult but as a legitimate desire to help make your music or your record or your video even better.”
“Great advice,” Webb said. “So what are you thinking?”
“Feeding the hungry is great. But the bus to Nashville and a kid pursuing his dreams is, well, overdone.”
“I totally agree,” Webb said. “But if you take a cliché and twist it, does that make it worth using the cliché?”
McMullen cocked his head, thinking. “Tell me more.”
“Then the kid gets back on the bus, like he’s failed. Leaves Nashville. You see him busking again, and the camera zooms in on the guitar case with a sign that says Feed the hungry, and you assume that the musician is broke and needs food. But then the camera zooms in a little more, and you see the mile oneTwelve cd cover in the guitar case—”
“Good advertising, by the way.”
Webb grinned and continued. “It’s your first hint that maybe the musician didn’t fail. Then you see him back where he started, under the overpass, except he’s giving all his busking money to the organizer to help feed the hungry, and you see that the little girl now has a toy, and when the mile oneTwelve band is playing, you understand he went back to give a concert to the people who helped him when he was down.”
“Not bad,” McMullen said. “Anything else you want in the video?”
“Would it be too much of a cliché to end with a homeless person flashing a peace sign?”
“World could use more peace,” McMullen said. “We could use more people helping other people. As long as it doesn’t look too cheesy.”
“Thanks,” Webb said. “I’ll make sure of that.”
McMullen stood, a clear signal that the meeting was over.
Webb stood with him.
McMullen glanced at the channel that led to the river, then back at Webb.
“You know this is a great place to be,” McMullen said. “Right?”
“Worse places to spend a night,” Webb said. McMullen might have been talking about the houseboat, but Webb was thinking about all of it. What it had taken to get here, where it might lead.
All you needed to do was rock the boat.