The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(3)
“Keep your shirt on, Sam,” Dred said. “We know what needs doing. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”
“Right. So, Lennon, I have a deal lined up for you to be sponsored by Soidal. You’ll need to use their drum kit on the next tour.”
“Soidal is a total rip-off. All they’ve done is taken all the good ideas from Tama and Yamaha and wrapped them up in a sweatshop package. It isn’t ethical and it’s crap. Sounds like it too. I’ll stick with Tama,” Lennon replied.
Dred shook his head. Soidal sponsoring them was a stupid idea. Everyone knew Lennon wouldn’t budge, because Lars Ulrich was his f*cking idol. Shortly after their first single released, they’d played on a daylong festival bill, headlined by Metallica. They’d walked off the stage after their set to find Lars Ulrich backstage, standing out of sight of the crowd. Lars had congratulated them on their performance, but told Lennon he needed a better drum kit. He’d introduced Lennon to his contact at Tama and it was the only kit he’d used since.
“The endorsement is huge. Gives us free gear shipped and set up anywhere we play in North America. You could even sign the f*cking things, give them to local charities to auction. Think of all the free publicity you’d get,” said Sam. “It’s my job to find these deals for you.”
“It’ll be my job to kick your ass out of that emergency exit without a parachute if you sign that f*cking contract,” Lennon fired back explosively. Dred casually flicked open his seatbelt, ready to hold Lennon back if he needed to, but was relieved to see Lennon grab his headphones.
Sam looked shocked by the outburst. “Jordan,” he said, changing track, “I’ve put your name forward for a reality TV show. Inked is getting such great publicity for Dred, and it would be great to raise your individual profile.”
Well that made no sense whatsoever. In their makeshift family, Jordan assumed the role of socially awkward older sibling. Dred and the rest of the band witnessed the way Jordan’s separation anxiety seemed to be getting worse. While Dred refused to give up hope, it would likely be a cold day in hell before Jordan would be able to travel around North America alone.
“Elliot wants his own TV show. Get him to do it.” Jordan tilted his chin in Elliot’s direction.
Dred smiled. Elliot hated television almost as much as Jordan hated fame.
“Why the f*ck would I want to do it, bro?” Elliott asked.
“Can we focus, please? Elliot, it’s not for you. Jordan, it’s a great concept. They’re going to build a rock band.” Sam shuffled papers around. “They’ll have regional rounds to find the talent and then bring the ten best drummers, singers, and guitarists to LA. From there, they’ll play as part of a different band each week, and the worst band will get eliminated. They want you to coach the bass house.”
Despite a hatred of manufactured pop bands, it wasn’t a bad concept. For a more confident, gregarious artist, it would be perfect. Dred looked at Jordan pulling his swan act, the one where he looked like he was calmly gliding over water, but under the surface, his legs were paddling furiously.
“Come on, Sam. You’ve known us, what, nearly ten years. These are terrible ideas,” Dred said, wading into the discussion.
“They are lucrative, Dred. You know how much you make on Inked. Jordan could do with the exposure. And the drum deal makes sense too.” Sam looked over toward Lennon.
“You concerned about getting your cut? Because we made you a shit load of money last year.” Dred remembered their first meeting with Sam after a small gig on the Danforth. The low turnout nearly defeated the band. Sam had approached Dred, said he wanted to help them secure better events. He even volunteered to do it for free with a view to getting a percentage when they hit it big.
“It’s not about the money,” Sam insisted.
“It’s always about the money, Sam,” Nikan said. “Dred’s right. Go find us deals that make sense. If Lennon says the drums are shit, then they’re shit. And we can’t afford for our arena tour to sound anything less than perfect. You’ve been around us long enough to know Jordan prefers hanging with us. So don’t force it, man.”
“Look.” Sam closed the file and rubbed his eyes. “The label wants me to maximize your exposure. They’re nervous, uncertain how well received your next album will be. I’m trying to make you guys as much money as I can, so you are set if it all ends tomorrow.”
“Do you really think that’s a possibility?” Nikan asked.
“There are bands who don’t have the same . . . limitations.” Sam looked toward Lennon, eyes closed while tapping on the table to the beats pounding through his headphones, and Jordan, who’d completely checked out of the conversation. “Those bands are willing to work harder. Go farther. Take more risks.”
“Our last two albums went multi-f*cking-platinum. The North American leg of the tour sold out in two hours. What more can we do?” Dred slammed his hand down on the table.
“I’m just the messenger, Dred.”
Damn, Sam was right. “Sorry.”
Nikan left his spot and went to talk to Elliot. It was one of the perks of travelling on a private jet, the freedom to move around and still work. As lead and rhythm guitarists, they often collaborated, and had brought their guitars on board.