Uncle sailed through the label’s lobby with fresh authority and a lusty grin for the saucy new receptionist. There was no “Do you have an appointment?”, no long wait, sunk in a couch, rehearsing the pitch, no “Hang on, let me get rid of this call, man.” It was Uncle’s show now, and oozing false humility, he revelled in it. Posters of Delray bronco-busting a move on a surfboard stared at Cocktailmania black and whites of the sullen pageboy trio. Advance copies of Roots and Pebbles, the now four-disc retrospective (expanded from two, including the Beacon Theatre concert DVD and an interactive stroll through downtown Duluth in the eighties), sat like vinyl bibles on every desk. The two discs Uncle carried in his satin Tibetan shoulder bag would take him to the next level of dominance, he was convinced.
Justin greeted him with a conspiratorial grin and their new secret handshake, which concluded with soft growling and a whispered “strange savage” in unison. No one laughed.
The boardroom circus, plus or minus a few clowns from the last show, was in full swing. Uncle drank in their raucous welcome, palms up, with a “what can I say” expression.
Justin brought things to order and quickly ran down the “Swan Dive” radio stats and overall Higher than Heaven album sales, which, although everyone knew them, were impressive enough to bear repeating. The buzz on Delray was building, and two young publicity tarts argued about who was more suited to accompany the newest stud on his debut promo tour. Enthusiasm was lavished on the latest Cocktails single, “Say It Don’t Spray It,” as details of the video launch at an Orange County waterpark were tossed around. The CD single package in the form of a stained cocktail napkin was lauded as genius.
Circling the table and putting his hands on the old man’s shoulders, Savage announced, “As you all know, this is Stan Smiley’s last hurrah with the label, and what a hurrah it’s been.”
The cheeriness was in contrast to a sober Stan, who looked around the table and began in his rusty voice, “First of all, because I haven’t had a chance to say this publicly, Uncle, I am truly saddened by the death of one of the nicest, most genuine, and genuinely talented people I’ve ever worked with. So, let’s be glad of our success and be proud to help deserving music be heard, but not forget the loss of an artist and a friend, Roc Molotov.”
A rumble of sincere sounding “yeahs” and “rights” and a raising of Evians followed. Uncle cast his face downward to compose himself and adjust the pillow on his chair.
Stan picked up the tone quickly. “Yeah, I’m gone at the end of the year officially, after thirty-six years in this nuthouse, but for all intents and purposes, this is it for me, and I’d like to re- introduce you to someone.” A young hipster in a gunmetal Dries suit and tangerine t-shirt, who looked vaguely familiar to Uncle, smiled coolly in the seat next to Stan. “This is Trey, who wants to be known as Trey Suave now, and he will be assuming the title of head of national promo immediately, while I rummage through my desk for my Van Halen backstage passes to sell on eBay.” In the ensuing laughter, Uncle recognized the kid who had come up with the chopper idea. Uncle supposed that kissing him might be thought gauche, considering the presumed outcome of the event.
“Trey’s contacts at Beach Blast and his ability to spot the next wave make him ideally suited for the most important and meaningless job in the music industry. The floor’s yours, Mr. Suave.”
More laughter and applause greeted Trey, who nodded coolly. He’d been purged, Uncle noticed, of virtually all vestiges of his recent geek past. “All right, Stan. Hey, music lovers. I just want to say how stoked I am to have this gig and amazed I didn’t have to blow anyone to get it.” This was delivered in a nasal surf twang, and Trey waited for the approving laughter to pass. “Kudos to the smartest suit in the biz, Justin Savage, for taking a chance on me, and I’m pumped that we’re all on the same side. It’s all about the music, folks, but I wanna shift units till they can’t count that high.” Uncle zoned out, daydreaming about Maria’s video wardrobe, until he heard Justin introducing him. “… manager, mentor, and man of the hour, Uncle Strange.”
With his best sense of ceremony, Uncle had the lights dimmed as he played three songs from Roc’s first release from the Echoes from the Archives series, set to roll out every six months or so. These, of course, were the three newest songs that Roc had recorded, and he’d in fact been putting the finishing touches on them till the early hours of that morning. Uncle assured him that they were expected to be rough, but a perfectionist’s work is never done. A hushed reverence greeted the three songs, much nodding and silently mouthed “wows.” Accompanying these and other unheard gems were to be some supposed early demos of older songs. In fact, they were new recordings, giving Roc a chance to improve on the originals in a stripped-down style.
Uncle smiled and tapped out a brief text message while he passed an unmarked disc to the front of the room. “And now, mes amis, the coup de grâce, from the land of Bardot and Deneuve, the hottest little croissant on the rack, Marie Ladurée.”
Justin slyly opened the door to the boardroom as the music began, and in rolled Marie on cue, riding a bicycle, wearing a beret, and fondling a baguette. Smiling demurely, she dismounted, stretching her vintage striped Dubonnet ad sweater tourniquet tight. Perhaps torn between hilarity and outrage, the boardroom erupted in “bravos” and whistles. Marie pout-synched her way through the song, at one point dramatically yanking off her beret. Making her way around the room, she mouthed the lines into the ears of each listener, pausing to perform the first chorus on Uncle’s lap. By the end, the room was singing “ooo lala” and thumping the table, yelling “encore” as Marie exited with a twirl of her skirt, revealing a pair of fleur de lis panties.
When the room emptied, Uncle and Justin exchanged bows. “I’d say that went passably well, wouldn’t you, Monsieur Savage?”
“Bien sur, mon oncle,” smirked Justin.
“Listen, I have to confer with my client in confidence, but I did want to mention that Marie’s father has agreed to direct the video. He’s going to break from the Bovary shoot next week just for us and has a brilliant concept.”
“Whatever you want, mon frère,” replied a giddy Justin as the two growled “strange savage” in unison before parting, laughing.
Uncle was massaging his knees in the parking lot when his cell rang. “Hey, Stan, sorry I didn’t say goodbye; I think you were in the little boy’s room.”
“Listen, oh strange one, you must have passed around the Kool Aid before I got to the meeting. I’ve been through the archives with Eddie Dyck, and I don’t remember any of those songs.”
Uncle covered quickly. “Oh, well, they’re mostly leftovers from the ‘Higher’ sessions.”
“And did you say Roc wrote your little bonbon’s slice of fromage years ago? Bunkle! Maybe I start my day with Bobby Darin, but my ears still function. That vintage brie of hers sounded pretty au courant to me. Lots of auto-tune and some pretty cool pitch variation tricks in the chorus, eh, mon ami?”
Uncle silently celebrated the ancient promo chief’s imminent departure. “Oh, I suppose Eddie did a bit of tweaking before it went out the door. If you’ve got it, use it, I guess.”
“My guess is you got some wannabe at a songwriter’s night at Highland Grounds or some underling at McCann to do your evil bidding.”
Uncle spotted Marie changing out of her outfit in the back seat. “Listen, Stan, I gotta major meeting waiting for me. Great to see you as always.”
“Don’t hurt yourself, genie.” Stan hung up as Uncle climbed into the limo and closed the privacy curtain.