Performance-wise, Webb thought he’d killed the new song, but as the last chord echoed into silence in the studio, he did his best to keep a straight face. Webb didn’t like telling other people what to think about his music, even through body language.
He looked across the studio, waiting for a reaction from Gerald Dean, the producer. Gerald sat in a chair behind the mixing board, leaning back, hands locked behind his head. It was a small room, but it didn’t need to be big. Gerald had a couple of Mac Pros, some large computer monitors, and some high-quality speakers mounted on the soundproofed walls.
Webb tried to read what Gerald was thinking. Nashville was known for country music, but it had a strong pop and indie scene too, and Gerald was supposed to be among the better producers.
Gerald wore a dark blue silk shirt, hanging loose over faded jeans. Italian dress shoes, big watch. He was mid-thirties and clean-shaven, with dark hair. He talked in soft tones, never seeming pushy. Webb felt ratty in comparison. His well-worn T-shirt was emblazoned with the black-and-gold logo of the Hamilton Tiger-Cats, a CFL team. It made Webb feel less homesick.
Finally Gerald gave a so-so shrug, not even lifting his hands away from his head. “Needs lots of work. Lots. You’re not thinking of putting it into production, right?”
This was the reason, Webb thought, that he chose not to make a big deal about something himself. It hurt a lot less and was a lot less embarrassing when someone shot him down. He’d been too excited about “Rock the Boat,” too in love with his own song.
“Got it recorded anywhere?” Gerald asked.
“No,” Webb said. “Like I said, it’s something I wrote last night.”
It was eleven in the morning. Webb had spent a few hours after he woke up practicing the song. Then he’d taken a bus to East Nashville, where Gerald had a studio in a small house in a run-down neighborhood. Lots of music people, especially indie producers, lived in the area. Music Row, close to downtown, was where the big labels took up real estate.
Gerald gave another shrug. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I wouldn’t even record it on your iPhone and send it to a friend. Things like that get passed around, they can haunt you. Kind of like posting a bad photo on Facebook that goes viral.”
“That bad?” Webb said. Man, maybe he knew absolutely nothing about music.
“Look,” Gerald said. “People in this town, sometimes they write fifty songs and only one is good. Don’t beat yourself up.”
Difficult not to, Webb thought.
“Thanks,” he said, thinking it was crazy to thank someone for shooting him down. But Gerald was the producer.
Gerald scratched the back of his head and shifted in his chair. “Invoices came in from the studio musicians I needed for your songs. Higher than I expected.”
“Any chance I can have a copy of the invoices for my files?” Webb asked.
“Sure,” Gerald said. “I can look around and get them to you sooner or later.”
Sooner or later?
Webb lifted his guitar off his shoulders and set it in its case. He needed to do something to avoid showing his anger. He snapped the locks shut on the case and straightened.
Gerald was still leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. This made Webb even angrier, but Gerald had something Webb wanted—the ten songs Webb had already paid to have produced, three that he’d written and seven covers, including a remake of a seventies song called “One Tin Soldier” that he’d done for a friend. Unfortunately, that gave Gerald all the power.
“Um,” Webb said, trying to sound as casual as possible, “I thought last week you said everything would be finished today. I didn’t know anything about you bringing in studio musicians. I mean, didn’t we talk about budget?”
For a while now, Webb had been trying to figure out if the producer was telling the truth or ripping him off. It had all started when Webb’s grandfather—as part of his will—arranged for a producer in Nashville to work with Webb and prepaid for production. But the producer kept finding ways to drag out delivery and charge more money. Like now.
“Look,” Gerald said. “I do high-quality stuff, okay? If you’re going to pitch something to a label that comes from my studio, I have to stand behind it. I needed something to lift your songs to a decent level.”
Webb understood the implication. The songs would have been crap otherwise.
He sucked in oxygen. “I need to understand this stuff clearly, okay?”
“Of course,” Gerald said in his soft, reasonable way.
But then, Webb thought, it was that soft, reasonable way that had been stringing him along.
“All through December,” Webb said, “I called to find out when I could get my songs, and then in early January you tell me that I’m still three thousand short.”
“Demo quality versus finished-and-ready-for-production quality. We’ve been through this, but I don’t mind discussing it as many times as you need to feel good about the process.”
In the first week of January, Webb had been able to pay Gerald, thanks to an unexpected insurance windfall. Now, two weeks later…
Webb sucked in more oxygen, feeling ripped off all over again. “And today, the day you promised to let me walk out with the songs, you’re telling me I owe even more?”
“Look,” Gerald said. “You don’t think I feel like crap? I wasn’t expecting another three thousand in—”
“Three thousand!” Webb couldn’t help himself.
Gerald sat forward. “Raising your voice doesn’t change things.”
“We had a deal,” Webb said. “I mean—”
“I said I feel like crap,” Gerald told him. “So I’ll eat half of that. I take a $1,500 hit and you come up with another $1,500, and it’s all yours. After that, you can do a CD run if you want to stay independent, or try to chase down a label. Me, I’d go independent. A CD costs maybe ninety cents to produce. If you do five hundred at a time, you can sell them for ten bucks. Start a website for your band—what was it called, mile oneTwelve—and go from there.”
Webb realized the side of his jaw hurt from clenching it. “Fifteen hundred.”
Gerald said, “That’s the price of quality. And you understand, from a business point of view, I can’t release anything until the check clears.”
Sixteen hundred and seven dollars was all that Webb had left in his bank account.
There was a knock on the door.
Gerald stood. “Hey, that’s my noon appointment. Just let me know when you’re coming back, right? And think about wearing a different shirt. That tiger is an eyesore.”
Gerald walked past Webb and opened the door to a girl about Webb’s age. Dark hair, red sleeveless T-shirt, snake tattoo running up the inside of her left wrist.
She flicked him a quick look and said, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Webb said, still trying to comprehend what had happened.
Then Gerald pointed at the door, and Webb walked out.
Bad day, this Tuesday.