Spider finished his glass quickly. “What labels do you work with?”
“All of them. Name the one you like—and I’ll make it happen.” His eyes shifted back to Clay and Savy. “Now I know what you’re thinking: In an era of streaming services and three-second downloads, you can just throw your music online and be indie darlings. But the internet isn’t going to book a world tour and it isn’t going to put the best talent in your employ. And it won’t get you studio time with a producer who makes your good songs great, and your great songs classics.”
“Trust us, Mr. Priest,” Fiasco told him, “we couldn’t agree more.” And Clay returned the glare he’d gotten moments before.So much for ‘long live indie music.’ Fiasco never sounded more excited in his life. He had emerged from lifelong obscurity to find himself standing at the top of the world. It’s not the world you’re standing on, Fee, Clay thought. It’s a grave.
Maybe an entire graveyard.
“Those are resources we’d like to have,” Savy admitted. “But we just played on a stage as big as a coffee table. I’m not sure how a band goes from zero to Mach 3 in a night.”
“There is no overnight success,” Priest agreed. “Creating a killer brand is like building an army. You need infrastructure, manpower. Though you’d be surprised how fast I raise an army, Ms. Marquez. It could start here. Now.” Priest shifted his hand from his belly into the interior of his jacket. He had the appearance of a mafia don as he withdrew a—knife!—folded piece of paper. And the sight of the legal document was somehow worse than a weapon.
“Sign with me and I’ll have a seven-figure advance in your hands before Thanksgiving.”
Clay’s heart jumped, but not in the way Savy’s must have at that moment. He saw her jaw hanging. “Seven figures?” she echoed. For someone worried about her family, struggling financially, sleeping on a futon in a ghetto apartment, the number was staggering.
“We know you have a grandmother and two brothers you feel responsible for,” Priest told her. “And Joe, you have college loans you’ll still be paying in twenty years. And Gregory, your family is buried in bills from your father’s illness. How good would it feel to tell your old man that your drums—the very drums he’s always despised—were going to settle his debt?”
“Gregory?” Savy asked.
Fiasco pressed a thumb to Spider’s chest. “It’s him. But I barely know that myself and we’ve been friends since junior high. It’s his dad’s name, so even his parents don’t call him that.”
“How did you know that?” Spider asked Priest.
He grinned a secret grin, sipped his wine. “My team is very thorough. I’m not going to propose to anyone unless I know them inside and out. Although I wasn’t informed that you prefer a nickname to your given one—Spider it is and forever shall be.” He paused to let the idea sink in, Spider the badass drummer killing off Gregory the unfit son. “What I do know is you have ambitions to produce records. We can see to that as well.”
Spider looked uncertain. If all of this—Priest, the plush velvet seats, the limo, the stores and restaurants flying by on Sunset Boulevard, or no, they were on Santa Monica now, or no, where were they?—didn’t feel so utterly real and true, Spider might have expected to snap awake in bed. Instead, he spoke in an exaggerated whisper: “What do I have to do for it?”
And Priest lit up. Here was the question he’d been lying in wait for. “It’s not going to be free, I can tell you that,” he said with a laugh. “Ludicrous as it may sound, I sometimes get bands who are shocked to hear they actually have to work for a living. Being a rock star is full-time blood and sweat, boys and girl. Know that before you sign with anyone.”
“Only at most jobs, hundreds of fans don’t cheer you on,” Fiasco said. “And dozens of girls don’t show up to say muchas gracias!” He loosed a guffaw fit for a lunaticlaugh track and chugged the rest of his wine.
“Hundreds of fans?” Priest beamed. “Dozens of girls? My friend, you need to expand your horizon. Try millions of fans, thousands of girls.”
“Horizon expanding,” Fiasco giggled.
“But we’re never going to see seven figures,” Clay told his bandmates. “After he takes his cut and the lawyers take theirs and the label hits us with all kinds of bullshit fees, we’ll be lucky to see laundry money.”
“It’s true,” Savy said. “Rocket Throne’s debut sold millions of copies and they didn’t see a dime for years.”
“Because they didn’t have a thousand-pound gorilla like me in their corner,” Priest retorted. “Split four ways, and considering the costs you wisely pointed out—plus the bloodsucking taxes you didn’t—you’ll still end up with six figures each. Low six, realistically. But your band possesses something rare and special and I will dangle an A&R rep from fucking Watts Towers to get you a fair shake on royalty rates and marketing. Simply put, I’ll get you paid some now, and a lot later.”
“We have another offer,” Clay persisted. “From Sweet Epiphany.”
“And what are they offering? A club gig with a PA that makes your ears bleed? I’ll get you on the marquee at the Palladium. And I’m talking tomorrow night. Headlining.”
“The Palladium?” Savy said, as if she’d never heard of the place.
“Imagine a sold-out debut. Four thousand salivating fans who—”
“I imagine a riot,” Clay cut in, “when they find out we only have thirty minutes of material to play.”
“Good. Play for twenty minutes. We want them rioting. Then we’ll ‘leak’ a few songs on the internet, and this winter you’ll go out on tour, opening for any band you want. After that, we get you in the studio, where Spider here will learn from the best
