the father.
“Does she?” asked Maurice Mantle of Danny and me.
We nodded.
“Well, I guess Mantlepieces Inc. will publish the music.”
The father brought one of his fingers up into the air. Even the single finger seemed coarse, you wouldn’t care to know the places that finger had been. “We split, Moe. We go fifty-fifty on the publishing here and don’t jerk me around because you know and I know what we got here is a hit song. And let’s not be kidding ourselves or letting friendship—especially with my
wife—
get in the way of clear-headed business transactions. We go split, that’s it.”
“You want to keep some publishing for the young fellows?”
“I want to keep some publishing, Moe.”
“I’ll tell you the truth, Hank, I don’t see why I should.”
“Here’s why you should, Moe. Because I’m the guy’s gonna take this thing to the record companies. I’m the guy who’s gonna make them take it, and when we got a record, I’m the guy’s gonna take that record and shove it down the throat of every disc jockey in the country. You’re the guy’s gonna be sitting on your duff collecting money. So the deal is, we split, fifty-fifty.”
Maurice Mantle thought for a moment, then shrugged. He had to immediately shrug again, because the first shrug disarranged his lapel. “What the hell.”
They signed some contracts that morning, and what I didn’t know at the time, although I sure found out, was that the father was doing some pretty strange things. For one, he made sure that the fifty-fifty split agreement was virtually etched in stone. The father insisted on safeguards, panoplied no-escape clauses. Thus, when he fucked Maurice Mantle over sideways, it would not be viewed as any kind of chicanery, it would be seen for what it was, a vicious and bloodthirsty attack. Also, the father did some fanciful crediting. That is to say, he claimed (while Danny and I assaulted a Coke machine in the hallway—Danny could boot the contraption right in its belly, make it issue frosty bottles without swallowing a dime) that he, the father, the great unruly man, was the sole author of the words and composer of the music.
I know why the father did what he did.
Danny told me. Danny had insight into the father.
It was an act of love.
I don’t care.
I last saw the father at Danny’s funeral, the tolling of the knell. The gods attended the inhumation and were angry. Thunder rumbled, the skies boiled.
The father brought a date.
He seems much smaller now, surviving mostly on smokes and mealy rum. The father’s talent agency is not going well. Hehandles a few strippers and a magician who cannot afford a live rabbit and makes do with one long-deceased.
The father wept, though. Tears burned across his face. When the rains came, the father looked up angrily, spat on the ground. The one good thing about the father is this ill-conceived defiance.
The first two or three record companies tossed us out on our butts. The father was bewildered by the lack of respect given to Henry “Hank” Howell. “Haven’t these people ever heard ‘Vivian in Velvet’?”
“You know,” said Danny, “here’s what I think it is. We come in with these songs about cars. Big, fast cars. Quality machines. But they see us drive up in this piece of junk Buick here, they figure we don’t know our asses from holes in the ground.” (Danny cottoned on to the music biz lingo pretty good.) “So we gotta get like a T-Bird, dig, a mean and nasty set of wheels. That way we command respect.”
The father gave me a little whack on the side of the head. “Why can’t you be smart like your brother?”
A Thunderbird was acquired—the father was fearless when it came to hurling himself into debt—and we cruised up to the Galaxy Records building in grand style. Not a single record executive saw us do it, mind, not even the receptionist, because the parking lot was around back.
You’ve likely seen—or at least seen a photograph
“Does she?” asked Maurice Mantle of Danny and me.
We nodded.
“Well, I guess Mantlepieces Inc. will publish the music.”
The father brought one of his fingers up into the air. Even the single finger seemed coarse, you wouldn’t care to know the places that finger had been. “We split, Moe. We go fifty-fifty on the publishing here and don’t jerk me around because you know and I know what we got here is a hit song. And let’s not be kidding ourselves or letting friendship—especially with my
wife—
get in the way of clear-headed business transactions. We go split, that’s it.”
“You want to keep some publishing for the young fellows?”
“I want to keep some publishing, Moe.”
“I’ll tell you the truth, Hank, I don’t see why I should.”
“Here’s why you should, Moe. Because I’m the guy’s gonna take this thing to the record companies. I’m the guy who’s gonna make them take it, and when we got a record, I’m the guy’s gonna take that record and shove it down the throat of every disc jockey in the country. You’re the guy’s gonna be sitting on your duff collecting money. So the deal is, we split, fifty-fifty.”
Maurice Mantle thought for a moment, then shrugged. He had to immediately shrug again, because the first shrug disarranged his lapel. “What the hell.”
They signed some contracts that morning, and what I didn’t know at the time, although I sure found out, was that the father was doing some pretty strange things. For one, he made sure that the fifty-fifty split agreement was virtually etched in stone. The father insisted on safeguards, panoplied no-escape clauses. Thus, when he fucked Maurice Mantle over sideways, it would not be viewed as any kind of chicanery, it would be seen for what it was, a vicious and bloodthirsty attack. Also, the father did some fanciful crediting. That is to say, he claimed (while Danny and I assaulted a Coke machine in the hallway—Danny could boot the contraption right in its belly, make it issue frosty bottles without swallowing a dime) that he, the father, the great unruly man, was the sole author of the words and composer of the music.
I know why the father did what he did.
Danny told me. Danny had insight into the father.
It was an act of love.
I don’t care.
I last saw the father at Danny’s funeral, the tolling of the knell. The gods attended the inhumation and were angry. Thunder rumbled, the skies boiled.
The father brought a date.
He seems much smaller now, surviving mostly on smokes and mealy rum. The father’s talent agency is not going well. Hehandles a few strippers and a magician who cannot afford a live rabbit and makes do with one long-deceased.
The father wept, though. Tears burned across his face. When the rains came, the father looked up angrily, spat on the ground. The one good thing about the father is this ill-conceived defiance.
The first two or three record companies tossed us out on our butts. The father was bewildered by the lack of respect given to Henry “Hank” Howell. “Haven’t these people ever heard ‘Vivian in Velvet’?”
“You know,” said Danny, “here’s what I think it is. We come in with these songs about cars. Big, fast cars. Quality machines. But they see us drive up in this piece of junk Buick here, they figure we don’t know our asses from holes in the ground.” (Danny cottoned on to the music biz lingo pretty good.) “So we gotta get like a T-Bird, dig, a mean and nasty set of wheels. That way we command respect.”
The father gave me a little whack on the side of the head. “Why can’t you be smart like your brother?”
A Thunderbird was acquired—the father was fearless when it came to hurling himself into debt—and we cruised up to the Galaxy Records building in grand style. Not a single record executive saw us do it, mind, not even the receptionist, because the parking lot was around back.
You’ve likely seen—or at least seen a photograph
Similar Books
