Heavy Bass

Charlottes Intro

They were late.

Thirteen minutes and seventeen seconds late. To be exact. But I didn't expect any less.

Assembled in the regal conference room above the Sandler Stadium, I seated myself beside Erin Abramovich, the bands publicist. Across the table from us, sat possibly the richest most influential man in music today. Richard Gellar. His father Heston had started the record label in 1962 and quickly came to dominate the charts with his hand picked acts. Heston Gellar still had an integral part in operating the label, but these days Richard was the big cheese. Beside him, sat his personal assistant and beside the harried looking assistant, was Peter Lister, accountant for the band.

All eyes shot to the oak double doors as distant voices sounded from somewhere out in the hallway. I placed my hands on the table, calm, dry palms displaying the fact that I was not nervous. I knew exactly what to expect. Erin told me that their egos as a band far outstripped the size of the stadium, and I'd read tales of their greedy demands and their propensity to keep people waiting. They arrived without the fanfare I half expected given their inflated self conceit, and I got my first glimpse of The Initiative. Jeff Keller rolled in first, and I noted the arrogance in his gait. All sinewy muscle, leather pants and a ripped vest, his look hailed back to the glory days of the late eighties. Not their glory days, but the grand era of rock. His shaggy brown hair flopped over one eye, and he combed it back with one hand, then crossed his arms over his body.

It was one of those moments where George Thorogood's 'Bad to the Bone' echoed in my mind and I shook my head and got myself back in the game, as the other guys filed into the conference room. They were followed by a man I'd met twice before today. Patrick O'Donahue. And here they were Neil Cross, Johnny Fuller, Xavier Greenstead - Turner and the main man and self professed Rock deity, Jeff Keller. More commonly known as Grit. If the tabloids were correct, the only person permitted to call him by his given name were Patrick and his mother. Although it was very hard to imagine him having a mother.

'Whats the crack Richie?'

Grit was addressing Gellar. Possibly the highest ranking professional in his field.

Erin's eyes widened and she looked away, exhaling the biggest sigh I'd ever heard in my life. Her cheeks were so flushed with embarrassment that I felt like fanning her. Patrick stepped in front of Grit, holding out his hands by means of an apology.

'Sorry Mr Gellar. You know our Grit, always a joker.' A nervous chuckle escaped him.

'Yes. I'm well aware of his....exploits.' Gellar responded, with what looked a lot like a sneer. 'I don't usually do these personal visits Mr Keller. But occasionally I'm alerted to situations that no longer benefit the record label.'

That got their attention. The band took seats at the far end of the table, Patrick choosing to stand, hands clasped, a morose expression on his face.

'You guys have been quite the talking point over the years.' Mused Gellar, pressing his long fingers together in a pyramid shape. 'But we've been listening to the fans and more importantly, those who have....shall we say fallen out of love with the initiative.'

'Who cares if people don't like us? We just played a show and the fans loved us. They were all ready to get down on their knees and....'

'Grit!' Mouse like Erin intervened, her forehead etched with lines. I had a feeling that the fifty something year old woman was about to pop a vein if he didn't settle down soon.

'Sorry love, I'm just telling it how it is. That's all I ever do.' He held out his hands and gave her a vaguely apologetic look.

'You sold less than a quarter of those seats.' Gellar informed them, nodding towards the accountant who cleared his voice but seemed intimidated by the band.

'The other seats were filled by fans of 'The breach.' Your set was first and those guys, well that's who the fans came to see.' Peter croaked, uneasily.

'So what? We still sell records!' Grit's voice stayed calm, but his eyes darkened, like a man cornered.

'Old records. Records that have been available for years. It's not exactly new income. Or reliable income.'

'If we're doing so badly why am I still getting paid shit loads every month.' Grit said, so smugly that I very nearly leant across the table, and slapped it right off his face.

'You're getting paid out of royalties. And your endorsements. But it's not sustainable.'

'Tell us what we need to do.' Johnny piped up. Xavier elbowed him in the ribs and I rolled my eyes. They were in their mid thirties. I knew guys their age with kids, mortgages, wives and jobs that involved brain power. Not singing the same old songs, day in, day out.

'We don't need to do anything John.' Grit assured his friend. 'We'll just put out a new album.'

'That easy, huh.' Gellar raised an eyebrow and looked across the table at me.

'We've had ten albums. All of them went platinum on both sides of the Atlantic, not to mention everywhere else.' This time it was Neil the drummer, defending his band.

'Then what happened with the last album? The one you guys said would be finished two years ago?'

Patrick stepped backwards, and I saw his shoulders rise and fall. He was worried. From our conversations prior to today, he was more than concerned. His words were, 'The band has imploded but they'll never accept it or take measures to change their fate.'

'I'm giving you a deadline. I've been as gentle with you guys as I can be, given that you've been with the label since you were kids. But you're all grown up now and doing nothing to suggest that you're moving forwards with your music or your maturity.' He eyed Grit and moved on. 'Today is June second. By August first, I want thirteen new tracks.'

'We've only ever done ten. It's our thing.'

'We want thirteen. Three bonus tracks, just for the fans. Why not make them feel special.' Gellar said, drily. 'I listened to the four songs you managed to record for what should have been the latest album.' Gellar stood up his assistant holding out his jacket for him. 'The songs were the worst excuses for music I've ever heard. Dire at best.'

I could see Grit biting his tongue.

'You'll be working with Charlotte for the next few months. She'll fill you in on her plans.' He gestured towards me, and for the first time the men acknowledged my existence.

'Who the hell is she?' Grit asked, as Gellar moved past his chair, towards the double doors.

'She's a songwriter. And she's the only chance you have to rescue yourselves.'

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