Changing Direction
By: Shauna Brock



Los Angeles, CA
1981

It wasn’t that Jared West wasn’t a morning person, it was that he was against being coherent in the two hours after he rolled out of bed and went for his coffee. In those first heinous hours after greeting the day, he always counted himself lucky for choosing an industry that didn’t believe in getting to work before noon and that the only person he had to answer to at the office was his business partner – and Craig was as likely as not to make it in after he did.

But today he was moving slowly for a different reason.

Jared hissed as he pulled a tank top over his sensitive skin. He had yet another rash on his shoulder, one the doctor couldn’t even explain, and his entire body sizzled. Two months of antibiotic hell had taken care of his approximately seven millionth bout of pneumonia but if he didn’t get up and get out of the apartment he was going to go completely crazy. If he didn’t kill himself, he’d kill his brother and then start in on the neighbors who fought day and night. Against his body’s will, he padded to the door of his bedroom, pulling his fingers through his hair, still tangled from a night of tossing and turning and sweating out whatever infection still had hold of his body.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Jared blinked and rubbed his eyes and stared at the man in the kitchen. “Hey, Phil.” He winced and gestured to his brother to hand him a cup of coffee. The warmth eased his lungs. “You’re up early.”

“It’s almost ten.”

“Okay, I’m up early.”

They laughed and Jared nursed the warm caffeine. Despite the gunk in his lungs, he needed a cigarette, but right now the coffee was more important. “You have class?”

“Yeah. You going to work today?”

“I’m going to try. I’m really behind.”

“Two months out of commission will do that to you. Mom called, by the way. She said if you’re coherent enough to call her, then you’d better or she’s buying a plane ticket and coming back out here again.”

“I’ll call her.”

“Good. Get her off my back, would you?”

Jared chuckled and then coughed and it took five minutes to regain his equilibrium. Doing his best to ignore his brother’s panicked eyes, he got a glass of orange juice and collapsed back on to the bar stool. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah. Uh-huh.” Phil dropped a package in front of Jared. “Craig stopped by last night.”

“He did?”

“You were passed out and I was contemplating calling the doctor again. He left some tapes for you to review so you don’t have to actually leave today if you can’t.”

“I gotta get out of the apartment.”

“Says the guy who could barely make it down the hall.”

“Whatever.”

“I have class. And I’m working at the studio tonight with Sinful. By the way, they’re almost done with the new album. That’s what Craig dropped off. Wants you to listen to what we’ve already mastered.”

“Cool.” Jared took another sip of the now lukewarm coffee and cringed. His entire body objected to the room temperature drink and he gagged and coughed and moved to refresh the cup.

“You’re okay here?”

“Get going.”

With half a smile, Jared watched his little brother head out of the apartment. Poor Phil, traumatized by his parent’s objection to Jared’s dropping out of college. Determined to get his degree and “have something to fall back on” and do what was expected of him when all he really wanted was to join the throngs of the musical underground. He had to admire his brother’s masochism. It was that sense of martyred sacrifice that would someday make him a perfect frontman.

Nursing his coffee until it was again too cool to be palatable, Jared stared blankly at the package of tapes on the counter in front of him. He poked at the envelope, wondering what glorious and new adventures the guys in Sinful would take him on. Always different on every album, would they speed up the guitars or slow down the drums, or just take everything in a whole new direction? He liked the unpredictability and hated that he couldn’t be a part of it.

From the corner of the dining room (a room that really served as a makeshift studio and office) the case for his 1954 Gold Top winked at him. Waiting. It had been so long since he’d had the strength to even pick up the instrument and the music pulsed impatiently through his veins.

Slowly, he moved to the case and cracked it open. Nestled in a bed of gray velvet, the classic guitar caught the dim overhead light and sparkled. “Hello, beautiful,” Jared whispered, running his hand along the shiny body. “Sorry I’ve been away so long.” He plucked one of the strings and the dull thunk that came back at him felt like a manifestation of his soul. He hated being sick.

Knowing he needed to shower and get dressed and finally run a comb through his hair, Jared opted to pull out the Les Paul and plug it in. He plucked the same string as before and sighed with release as the instrument vibrated slightly and a low note echoed around him. Already he felt better.

He loved his job. He loved his life. He needed more.

Settling the instrument better in his arms, Jared stroked it gently, running his fingers up and down the neck before he let the dreams that lingered in his mind transform themselves into song. As he played, sweat poured from his exhausted, defeated body. The music cleansed him, the sweat purged the rest of the toxins.

An hour after he started playing, he was ready for work. Jared grabbed the package of demo tapes and headed out the door.

***

Jared didn’t notice his best friend staring at him from the doorway to his small office. His head was down, his long, blonde hair hanging in his face and tangling more with each bang of his head. The notes he scrawled across the page about the music coming through his headphones was mostly positive – he still wasn’t sure about Sinful’s change in direction this time around, but far be it from him to tell a band to not evolve. To do that meant spitting on the very mission statement of Skid Records. So he scratched out a few comments –

You might want to think about adding some coherent lyrics to the third track.

Frank, do Mohawks come in purple? Purple’s a good color on you.

Remember, punk guys don’t take success very seriously… and apparently metal guys don’t take punk guys very seriously.

I think I like what I’m hearing. The question is, is it where you guys want to go?

When the headphones snapped away from his ears and then back again, he jumped what felt to be ten feet in the air and landed on the floor when his chair rolled away from him. Laughing, he untangled his long legs and slowly pulled himself back to his feet, glaring at Craig as he did so. “Fuck you. It’s not nice to sneak up on a guy who’s getting over pneumonia, you know. I can’t handle any more shortness of breath.”

“Well, stop getting pneumonia.” Craig grinned, “Welcome back. It’s good to see you at your desk though you need to put some weight on and brush your hair.”

“Look who’s talking.” Jared gestured to the rail thin hippie throwback in front of him.

“You got a minute?”

“I do now.” Jared shut off the tape machine and plopped back down in his chair, putting his steel-toe covered feet up on his battered desk. Lighting a cigarette, he rolled his eyes at Craig’s admonishing look. “Give it a rest.”

“You gotta stop smoking, Jare.”

“I do a lot of things that are really bad for me. This is the least of them. What’s up?” The look in Craig’s eyes was making him nervous. He took a long drag on his cigarette, coughed when his lungs protested, and waited for his friend and business partner to speak.

“Jared …” Craig looked uncomfortable, but launched into the conversation anyway. “Are you happy scouting?” He glanced over to the corner of the office. One of Jared’s electric guitars was plugged in and waiting to be tuned, as always. “Are you happy, really happy, with what you’re doing here at Skid? Be honest.”

Jared sighed and looked down for a minute, contemplating his cigarette. “Yeah …” he dragged the word out, trying to figure out what Craig was up to. The truth was he was happy. He loved scouting and he loved working with Craig. He loved writing up sarcastic notes to talented bands. He loved talking to kids who had spent their entire teenage years sneaking into clubs so they could touch their favorite bands and now had the dream and desire to make music themselves. But the kid who had spent his teenage years sneaking into clubs and dreaming of being like his heroes had never given up his dream of playing music himself. Each day that he signed a new band or that he wrote up a new press release, he found his world getting smaller and smaller. Maybe that one dream was just supposed to remain a dream. “Well, you know that I’d love to be in one of these bands I work with,” he smiled, “but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to walk out on you and on what we have here. Skid is my baby too. Anyway, I like the steady income we’ve finally managed to provide for ourselves. Mom only needs to send one care package a month now and Phil eats most of it.”

“What if I offered to buy your half?”

The air in the office stilled and Jared reached over and stubbed out his cigarette. His feet came down off the desk and for a long minute, he stared blankly at his best friend. Had some deal just been made without his knowledge? Had Craig finally given in to the incessant calls from the bigger companies? Were they going to follow the trend of so much of the metal in LA and sell out for more money? He swallowed his fear. “Are you firing me, Craig?”

Craig jumped. “No! No, Jare. Nothing like that.” After a deep breath, he started over. “I want you to turn on that guitar and make music for yourself. I want you to find a band. So, I want to buy you out once you start a band of your own. The catch is that you need to use a good chunk of the money from your sale of the company to finance your time at Skid. You’d be signed to Skid for your first record and we’d set a contract deal that would allow you to use the studio free of charge while you recorded and you’d have the same obligations that we require of all bands that come to us. Of course, you’d have more money for distribution and touring since your half of the company is sizeable now.” He sighed and lit a cigarette of his own. “This deal is only good if you sell with a band in place though. If you sell before, you have to come knocking like everyone else. But, I want you happy, Jared, and as good as you are at what you do, your life is music and it should be playing your own. I’ve got enough invested to buy out your half of the company cleanly and I’d be willing to keep you on in any capacity that you want, including producer so you’ll have even more control of the record. Anyway, I need your producing skills with these other bands too.” He gave Jared a small smile, “You belong with that guitar, Jare, not watching someone else play.”

A green file folder landed on Jared’s desk and he took it, looking over the contract that had been drafted. He nodded, slowly. “Let me think about it, okay? What you’re proposing is a lot to process and I do like what I’m doing.” He stood, suddenly needing to get out of his office. He’d go down to where Sinful was recording and bring these notes in person. Then he’d go somewhere, do something. Anything.

“Jared?”

He swallowed his nerves and looked at Craig.

“Yeah?”

“Think about it.”

“I will.” Jared grabbed his notes and hurried down the hall to one of the three studios the company housed. The door to one was shut, the red light on. A note was taped to the door.

We’ll need to take confession if one of you dumbasses disturbs us. Knock when the red light is on and we’ll fucking kill you.

Jared cracked up and leaned against the door, waiting for his chance. As soon as the light blinked off, he unlocked the door with his master key and when the four guys all spun around, ready to pounce on the guy who dared to disturb them, he held up his hands in surrender. “Does your threat extend to the guy who took a chance on you three years ago?”

“Oh it’s you.” Frank, the massive lead singer, rolled his eyes. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“I feel welcomed.” Jared collapsed onto the barely-there sofa and nodded to Phil who was working the sound boards. “Well, let me hear what you got.”

The playback was breathtaking. On the last album, Sinful had been layered track upon layered track but now they’d stripped away everything and evolved to harsh, raw emotion. The lyrics no longer hid behind near symphonic bass. Jared took a deep breath in and felt his lungs rattle. His hands itched. He needed to play. A slow smile crossed his face and he nodded to Frank and the guys. “I had a bunch of notes I’d already scratched out but I’m not giving them to you. You guys know what you’re doing.”

And he knew what he had to do. He just needed to find the right group of guys.


*Please note that Phil West is the creation of Eirian Philips and I use his character with her permission.