Ghost Tour (ch.4)
September 8, 1998
Jordan’s house looked like an old shut-in lived here, which until recently had been the case. A great aunt on his mother’s side, he barely knew her. She lived alone for years until she went into a home, then died shortly after.
The rest of the family on Long Island had no time to deal with a run-down house upstate in Clinton. They were on the verge of letting it go for back taxes when it occurred to Jordan: the place was two hours from Manhattan and essentially free.
With Reid back in Burlington messing with delay pedals, Jordan camped out in the house, shuttled back-and-forth to NYC, showed up at gigs, worked connections. When he scored the deal with BMT, the rest of the band saw the light and followed him to Clinton.
The house itself had been an afterthought, until this morning’s phone call.
“You sound surprised to hear from me,” Lila said.
“What time is it there?”
“It’s seven, I’m on my way to step aerobics.”
“Geez.”
He’d met Lila Parker on a recent press junket to Los Angeles. He was out there promoting the album, she was promoting her new indie film. He recognized her from a previous film. She was definitely a rung or two higher on the fame ladder, he almost couldn’t believe they’d swapped digits.
“I’m going to be in New York,” she said. “Thought I’d duck up for a quick visit, would that be okay?”
Jordan looked around the house.
“Visit here?”
“Uh, yeah…”
Shortly afterwards, he stood with Reid in the kitchen assessing the wreckage. Unpacked boxes, peeling wallpaper, linoleum worn down to sub-flooring by the sink where his old auntie had stood washing dishes for fifty years. Then there was the mothball smell.
“Okay, you’re Lila Parker, you’re thinking…”
“Run don’t walk,” Reid said.
“You think I could just move the…”
“I think you should get a hotel.”
Reid was the only person Jordan knew who’d kept a girlfriend longer than five minutes. This was as close to an expert opinion he was going to get.
“Maybe we should’ve stayed in Burlington.”
They exited out the back. He checked the lock three times. The house next door had sneakers dangling from the phone wires. A break-in by his neighbors the drug dealers seemed overdue.
Jordan drove a Crown Victoria, another asset which, like the house, had fallen into his possession through some nebulous family connection. The advance from BMT covered expenses but had not emboldened any major expenditures.
They stopped at the Stewarts on the corner for gas and coffee, then rolled along Bridge Street. A jaywalking tweaker stopped in the middle of the road, faced them menacingly as if he could win a fight with a car. The guy looked undead, maybe he could. Jordan drove a wide circle and kept going. He lit a cigarette. Reid cracked a window.
Once they got on the Thruway, traffic was moving. Jordan could drive the route to New York with his eyes closed, knew where all the State Troopers hid out. It was mid-morning, so the rush hour they would’ve caught an hour south had already past.
Once they were within range of the New York stations, Reid switched on the radio.
Buzztone was playing, a minor hit by Benzedrine, the band they’d be opening for.
It seemed like a good omen.
# # #
When they hit the Bronx, they cut across the Willis Avenue Bridge to avoid the toll on the Triboro. In midtown, they parked at the same lot as always on 45th and walked down the block to BMT.
The office was on the 14th floor, the receptionist’s name was Alexandra. She had a posh British accent and greeted them with a subtle professional purr reserved for the talent.
“Boys, here for your 12:30?”
“Indeed,” Jordan said, unwittingly adopting an imitation accent of his own.
He leaned over the desk slightly, a forwardness somehow in equal measure with Alexandra’s hint of cleavage.
“I’ll buzz Brandon, he’ll be right out.”
Jordan in black leather, Reid in black denim, stood like shadows in contrast to the cheery reception area, tripped out in primary colors like a downtown art museum.
Seemed like Brandon would be more than a minute. They eased onto designer chairs that were not quite comfortable, but looked like money, which was reassuring.
They looked around at framed posters of BMT’s larger acts, silently wondering if X-13 would ever make it up there.
“I’m kind of tired of Cafe Americana,” Jordan said to break the silence. It was the place Brandon usually took them to lunch.
“I like the fries,” Reid shrugged.
Brandon burst through the door like an EMT wheeling a gunshot victim into the ER.
“Boys!” he called. Seemed like everyone around here called them boys. “C’mon back, a little hectic today but we’ll manage.”
Past the grid of cubicles, Brandon had a small private office with just enough room for the three of them.
“So, interviews went well?” Brandon asked.
“Mine did,” Reid said, almost chipper. The fact that people seemed glad to speak with him made him optimistic. He looked to his bandmate, who replied more neutrally.
“Fine.”
With the cut they were taking, Jordan figured it was the record company’s job to promote the band. Excess enthusiasm in these matters would lead to higher expectations that he was willing to do their job for them.
“You’ve been in touch with Ron Wozniak?”
“We spoke on the phone last week, seems like he’s going to work out,” Jordan said.
“Hasn’t lost anyone yet,” Brandon said. “He’s setting up shop at the Holiday Inn in Clinton a few days before you head out, make use of him.”
Wozniak was the new tour manager. Like Corey, he had been inserted more-or-less at record company insistence. X-13 had previously used friends within their circle to manage tours, but BMT was backing this venture and wanted one of their own in there.
“Okay, here’s the thing,” Brandon said, turning to his desktop. “Have a listen.”
It was Dream of Night, the first song on their new album. It wasn’t immediately obvious why Brandon was playing it at the moment.
“Sounds good,” Reid said, thinking maybe Brandon was just showing off his new speakers.
“Too good,” Brandon said. He swiveled his computer screen so Reid and Jordan could see it.
“What are we looking at?” Jordan asked.
“It’s called ContraBand,” Brandon said. “It’s a file-sharing website.”
Reid and Jordan squinted at the interface, trying to decode what they were seeing. There was no album art, just a promo picture from their first album three years earlier. The song list had been typed in.
“Who can access this?” Jordan asked.
“Anyone,” Brandon replied.
“Like, now?”
“Right now. And it’s free.”
The oh shit moment was so profound that no one said anything. The record wasn’t even officially out yet.
“Who posted this?” Reid asked.
“We’re trying to figure that out.”
Jordan rattled off every name he could think of affiliated with the label. Marketers, publicists, accountants, lawyers. Brandon shook his head.
“I’ve had discreet conversations with everyone, including Dan Graves over at Final Mix,” Brandon said. “Are you sure you didn’t share it with anyone on your end? Ex-girlfriends? Ex-drummers?”
Reid and Jordan shared a look.
Dream of Night rolled into the next song, Scattered. The three of them sat there, slack-jawed, continuing to stare at the screen, album drifting out freely, projected incomes flying out the window. No matter who had posted it, there it was.
“Obviously this is a bigger issue,” Brandon said. “Legal’s weighing how to go against ContraBand directly without giving them any free advertising.”
“It’s not going to affect the release?” Jordan said.
“We’ve got end caps purchased in every major market, we’re going forward,” Brandon said. “Fingers crossed, you hit your numbers, legal gets it pulled from the site and we ride this thing out. Just giving you a heads up, we’re gonna need all the help promoting we can get.”
Brandon looked from his wall of gold records to the pictures of his kids on his desk. He rose from his Aeron chair.
“Sorry, no time for lunch today, boys. Get you next time.”
Reid and Jordan found their own way back through the maze of cubicles, any one of which might contain the file-sharer who’d undercut their record’s prospects.
“Good luck on your tour, boys,” Alexandra called.
Jordan waved without stopping to flirt. He and Reid rode the elevator in silence down to the street.
“You wanna walk downtown, get a slice?” Reid said. The pizza in Clinton was okay, but this was New York.
Jordan looked at the price-per-hour sign hanging over their heads in the parking lot, tabulated the actual cost of a couple of slices.
“Let’s just head back,” he said.
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Crown Victoria is some asset. I wonder which edition, although all of them were monsters, some slicker than others. Great for driving through crowds of jaywalking zombies, with their V8, 200 Hp engines and gas tanks reinforced with Kevlar. I don't think I could handle a zombie apocalypse in my 0.8 L, 51 Hp Chevy Spark. Jordan would not be caught dead in one of those, that's a given. Especially if clad in black leather.