Rock the Boat Read online

  Harley met him halfway, put an arm around his shoulder and walked him the rest of the way to the guys.

  “All right,” Harley said to them, his left arm still across Webb’s shoulders, “I’m thinking maybe we should put out some feelers and find out what’s really happening with Gerald Dean these days.”

  Seventeen

  Shortly after eleven the next morning, Webb stepped into a restaurant called the Pancake Pantry. Harley said it was one of the great breakfast places in Nashville. For the occasion, Webb was wearing the Saskatchewan Roughriders logo on his chest.

  On the walls were the standard head shots of celebrities and musicians who had stopped by the Pancake Pantry over the years. Webb grinned when he saw one of Harley. Who knew the guy had been a major country star a generation ago?

  Webb scanned the restaurant and saw Gerald Dean sitting with Elle and a man he guessed was Elle’s father.

  Time to rock the boat, Webb thought. He stepped forward amid the din of conversation in the crowded restaurant.

  There was an open chair at the table, and Webb stopped and said, “Hello. I’m Jim Webb. I hope you don’t mind if I join you for a few moments.”

  “Yes,” Gerald said. “We do. We’re waiting for someone.”

  Elle scowled at Webb. “Daddy, this is the guy from the audition.”

  Elle’s father was large in the shoulders. He wore a plaid shirt and blue jeans. He looked exactly like his picture in the online advertisements for his chain of lumber stores in Minnesota. Webb had done his research before going to the Pancake Pantry. This was Steven Adams.

  “The guy who stole the guitars from the studio?” Steven said.

  “Since that’s just a rumor,” Webb said, “I’d appreciate a chance to explain myself.”

  “No,” Gerald said. “We’ve got a guy coming from a&r. This is an important meeting. Now that Elle has a band to back her up, we’ve got a deal memo to discuss.”

  a&r. Artists and Repertoire. The division of a label responsible for signing new talent.

  Webb looked at Steven. “As best as I can tell from what I read about you online, you built your business on being fair. I’m just asking for a chance to be heard. Five minutes max. If I’m right, it will ensure that your investment in Elle’s career makes sense.”

  “I hope you’re not implying that I’m trying to buy her a career,” Steven said. His tone suggested he was sensitive to the accusation.

  “I’ve heard Elle play and I’ve heard her sing,” Webb said. “I don’t think anyone would ever make that accusation. She’s too good. Word around town is that she’s going to be the next Taylor Swift. Someone with a lot of talent who did things right with a lot of savvy investment and help from a father who knows business.”

  Steven grunted, satisfied by Webb’s answer. He pointed at the empty chair. “You have five minutes.”

  Gerald tried to speak. “But—”

  “Five minutes,” Steven said. “There’s no downside to giving this kid a chance to tell his side of the story.”

  Gerald glared at Webb.

  There was a coffee cup on a saucer in front of Webb. He turned the cup upside down so the server wouldn’t offer to pour coffee. This too seemed to relax Steven. Elle, on the other hand, kept giving Webb dark looks.

  “I also understand from a musician friend,” Webb began, speaking to Steven Adams, “that you and Elle went around town to some of the best producers in the business. You promised a great bonus and a percentage of future earnings for the producer who could help her break in.”

  “That’s no secret,” Steven said. “I approached this like an investment.”

  “We don’t need this,” Gerald said to Steven. “We need to be preparing for the a&r guy.”

  Webb went steely cold and spoke to Gerald with a restrained fury that made the man shrink. “You, sir, have made a public accusation that I stole guitars from your studio. If you aren’t man enough to give me a chance to defend myself, tell all three of us right now and I’ll leave.”

  Gerald blinked and looked away.

  Webb turned back to Steven. He exhaled, finding calmness again. “And one other thing I’ve heard. Ahead of time, you asked each producer to come up with an idea for an original song to write with Elle.”

  “Yes,” Steven said. “That’s just good business. The artist needs to be a co-writer—otherwise he or she loses out on a big percentage. It doesn’t make sense to cut songs if most of the money goes to the label and to a writer.”

  Webb said to Elle, “I know you think I’m scum. But I hope you’ll still answer a question. The day before the audition, when you wrote it with him, how much did you come up with and how much did he suggest?”

  “I’m a 40 percent writer on it,” she said.

  “But did you write 40 percent of it?” Webb asked.

  Her silence was enough of an answer.

  To break the silence, she looked at her father. “Gerald was on a roll. Inspired. I didn’t want to get in the way. And he said it didn’t matter because I’d still be listed as co-writer.”

  “It happens a lot,” Gerald told Steven.

  “Mr. Adams,” Webb said to Steven, “I’ve heard from a few sources lately that Mr. Dean has a habit of recording everything that goes on in his studio. What would it do to your daughter’s career if people learned that he ripped that song off after I played it for him earlier? Because as co-writer, Elle is also listed as the primary witness in a legal action filed against me. She will be required to testify that the song was written on a specific date at a specific location with her. And that I was not the writer. So when I prove it was written before that date—”

  “Court action?” Steven’s voice was a threatening rumble as he glanced at Gerald. “Court action? That never plays well in the media. And music is a media-driven game.”

  “It won’t make it to court,” Gerald said. “That’s why I had my attorney initiate the legal action. And because it won’t go to court, I didn’t think it was anything you needed to worry about.”

  “Why wouldn’t it go to court?” Steven asked, clearly unhappy. “This is not a relationship where you hide things from me.”

  “It won’t go to court because he knows I can’t afford it,” Webb said. He pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “It’s all right here. A legal request from Gerald’s attorney for me to sign over the rights to the song. My attorney said I’d have to spend thousands to fight it and spend thousands more if I lost. I don’t have that kind of money.”

  Dean said, “This kid can’t go around town making claims that Elle and I stole the song from him.”

  Steven looked at Webb. “You are down to one minute.”

  “The same musician friend of mine said this seems like a heavy-duty kind of thing to threaten somebody like me with, being new to town and with no connections,” Webb continued, “as if Dean wants to make sure I run away as soon as possible. My friend said it made him wonder why Dean is so anxious to get rid of me.”

  “Gerald?” Steven asked the producer.

  “I will repeat. This kid can’t go around town making claims that Elle and I stole the song from him. I’m trying to protect her reputation as much as mine.”

  “Or,” Webb said to Gerald, “maybe once you heard her sing, you knew exactly how much it would be worth to you to be the producer to take Elle to a&r. And maybe you didn’t have a good song idea until you heard me play ‘Rock the Boat.’ I remember exactly what you asked after I played it for you. You asked if I had recorded it or shared it. When I said no, you told me it would be a good idea not to let anyone else hear it. To save myself the embarrassment. I think you knew that if you pretended to write the song with Elle—”

  “Slander,” Gerald said.

  “Not if it’s true,” Webb said. “That’s why I invited my musician friend to join us.”

  “We really are waiting for someone from a&r,” Steven said. “I’m not interested in a he-said/he-said argument right now. And frankly
, even if Elle didn’t do the lion’s share of writing, she was there as they came up with it. You should probably take your attorney’s advice.”

  “Mr. Adams,” Webb said, “my musician friend is a good buddy of your a&r person, which is why I knew where to find you. My musician friend also asked your a&r person to show up a little late. Really, it is for your benefit as much as mine if you listen to him.”

  Webb lifted his hand as Harley walked into the restaurant.

  Harley walked over to the table. “Hey, I’m Harley Hays. Nice to meet you.”

  Steven stood so quickly that he almost knocked his chair over.

  “Harley Hays?” Steven said. “The Harley Hays?”

  Eighteen

  “Nice of you to show that kind of enthusiasm.” Harley grinned and pointed at Webb. “Some kids these days don’t remember the go-go years of country music in the nineties. Mind if I join you?”

  Steven responded by pulling a chair from an empty table and setting it in place for Harley.

  “You okay if Elle takes a photo of me with you?” Steven asked.

  “We’ll do better than that if you like,” Harley answered. “Next Thursday night, why don’t you and Elle join me and my friends at my loft for a jam session? Webb says Elle is a spectacular guitarist and singer, and I’d love to have her sit in.”

  Steven couldn’t even speak as a grin split his face.

  “Thing is,” Harley said, “I love music. Not one for the business side myself, but I know it’s a necessity. That’s why me and the boys get together when we can. And every once in a while, just to keep my sanity, I dress scruffy, put on a ballcap to hide most of my face, and I sit on a street corner and play, with an open guitar case in front of me. I’ll tell you, that’s when you sink or swim. Everywhere else, for someone with a bunch of gold records, it’s like that story about the emperor with no clothes. Fans are going to tell you that you sound great even if you stink. When it’s me and my guitar and nobody knows me, I don’t have to deal with people who think they need to kiss my keister.”

  “You couldn’t play badly if your hands were taped,” Steven said.

  “And I believe you just proved my point.” Harley grinned to take the offense out of it. “Not that you were trying to kiss my keister. It’s pretty clear people in the music business these days want to keep you and your daughter happy. My buddy in a&r raves about Elle.”

  Steven looked at Webb. “This is the musician friend you were just talking about?”

  Webb shrugged. “Thought he needed breakfast one morning.”

  “Yup,” Harley said. “I’m busking and this kid comes up and gives me a bagel and some coffee, like I’m a homeless person. I was cool with that and glad he didn’t know me. He had his own guitar, so we jammed some, and it turned out the kid could play.”

  “In the nineties,” Webb said to Steven, “the iPod didn’t even exist. Neither did iTunes. How was I to know who this guy was?”

  Webb grinned at Harley. “But I did know Lou Reed.”

  Harley grinned back at the jab.

  “I loved it,” Harley said to Steven. “And I loved how Webb sounded. Reminded me of me when I first moved to Nashville. So I figured I’d mess with him a bit—ask him to come up to my loft and jam with the guys in my band, then enjoy the expression on his face when he figured out who we were.”

  “They managed to keep up,” Webb said to Elle. “You won’t have to teach them much when you get there.”

  Steven groaned.

  Harley grinned again.

  Elle looked like she was still trying to figure out what was happening.

  And Gerald Dean sat upright and stiff, exuding anger.

  “The reason I’m here,” Harley said, “is that when Webb was jamming with us, I asked him to play the song he’d played on the street with me. That’s when it got real quiet. I had no idea what was happening to the song, and that’s when one of the guys said he’d already heard it. Said the word was out there that some kid from Canada was trying to rip it off from Gerald Dean. Said Dean was telling everyone the kid stole a couple of guitars.”

  Harley turned his gaze to Gerald. “Not cool. You should have proof before you tell people someone stole guitars from your studio. It’s a small town when it comes to the music business. You know how important reputation is.”

  Gerald sputtered, “You have no right to—”

  “Shut up,” Steven told Gerald. “If Harley Hays is here, there must be a good reason for it.”

  “I didn’t know anything then about the legal action,” Harley said. “But I gave Webb a chance to prove he really was a songwriter. He knocked it out of the park with something called ‘Tuesday Afternoon.’ For me, that was almost all I needed if I had to choose between whether Webb wrote it or Dean wrote it. But, of course, that wouldn’t do any good in court.”

  Harley paused, as if he wanted to make sure Steven was listening closely. “I’ve been around long enough to know a thing or two about the business end myself. Reputation means a lot, not only in music but also in life. The advice I gave Webb was not to push this legal business any farther or harder. Mud-throwing spatters everybody. Webb does want all the legal stuff to stop. It’s good for your daughter, it’s good for you, and it’s good for Webb.”

  Harley nodded at Webb. “Where’s the other paper? From the attorney?”

  Webb pulled a second paper from his back pocket and unfolded it. “This will officially assign rights to the song. I’ve signed it where I need to.”

  “Would you mind giving it to Dean then?” Harley asked.

  Webb passed it across. Gerald had begun to smile.

  As he read it, however, Gerald’s smile turned to a frown. “This assigns rights to you!”

  “It’s my song,” Webb said. “There’s a place at the bottom to sign, and if you do, there won’t be any more legal action. My attorney will confirm that with your attorney. My attorney will also expect a check from you to cover the legal expenses to this point. It might not be a lot to you, but it is to me.”

  Webb let that hang a couple of beats. “And oh yeah. You’re also going to write a certified check to refund me all of the production money I spent on the songs you never delivered.”

  “But—”

  Webb cut Gerald off. “You really don’t want to go to court, do you? The amount you were going to sue me for is about what we’ll ask from you. It’s going to be a lot simpler if you just sign the paper. And you’ve got a deadline of five minutes to think it over.”

  Steven said, “Elle, you told me you wrote the song with Dean that afternoon we met with him.”

  “I’d never lie about something like that,” Elle said. “I hate liars as much as you do.”

  They both looked at Gerald, but Harley spoke and drew the attention back to himself.

  “Mr. Adams, I’d hate to go to court too,” Harley said. “Because as it turns out, I’d be a primary witness along with Elle. And what the judge would hear from me is that at about the same time Gerald was pretending to begin to write the song with Elle, Webb here was playing it on a street corner with me.”

  Gerald blurted, “You are making this up. You have no proof.”

  “Actually,” Harley said, “we do.”

  Harley snorted as he spoke to Webb. “Moose Jaw, right? Of all places.”

  “Moose Jaw?” Steven said.

  “A town in Saskatchewan,” Harley said. “I remember touring through it once. Turns out a guy named Ward from Moose Jaw took a video of us as Webb played the song. I’ve already tracked him down, and he’s emailed it to Webb’s attorney. Time stamp and all. Plus the guy is ready to fly down from Canada any time and testify. I’m sure a judge will give that kind of evidence a lot of weight.”

  Steven leaned across the table and stared directly at Gerald Dean. “I strongly suggest you sign that piece of paper. And give him all his money back. Because if it comes to a legal fight, I’ll back this Jim Webb kid as long as it takes. And I suspect my pockets a
re a lot deeper than yours.”

  Nineteen

  John McMullen was wide and blocky, just like his face. He had thinning red hair and lots of charm in his Irish grin.

  He was also the a&r director who had signed Elle to her deal. And now he was sitting on the houseboat patio with Webb, who was wearing the big white W of the Winnipeg Blue Bombers.

  Ten in the morning. Lots of sun. A cup of coffee each, the third for both of them. It had been a great hour for Webb, sitting with McMullen and talking music and music dreams.

  A short silence had fallen between them, and McMullen broke it, grinning as he spoke. “Ugly shirt. Harley told me about this CFL thing you have going on. I’ve been waiting all morning to ask. You going to stick with it?”

  Webb grinned back. “I’d be happy to buy a new wardrobe. Long as it’s with someone else’s money.”

  McMullen laughed. “Like the label’s marketing money?”

  “As long as I don’t have to blow-dry my hair to match something frilly, you get me shirts less ugly and I’ll wear them.”

  “I’ll make note of that,” McMullen said.

  The boat rocked slightly as swells came in from the river.

  “And you’re good with the rest of what we just discussed, right?” McMullen said. “If so, I’ll leave you with the deal points. It’s essentially a legal commitment from the label that we will proceed with you according to those deal points. We’ll record three or four songs, work it up with a band, showcase it for the label and from there get a full record deal. We’re bound to you, and you won’t accept offers from another label.”

  “I’m clear,” Webb said. He didn’t want to do anything goofy like pinch himself to see if this was a dream. Harley had told Webb to play everything cool, as if whatever McMullen offered was a little less than Webb deserved. That was part of the game.

  “Great,” McMullen said. “You and I get to step away from the legal details now. Leave the painful part to the lawyers. Your attorney will work with our attorney, and they’ll do the usual posturing and fighting to make it look like they’re working hard for each of us and then go out for dinner after and talk about their kids and school and stuff and count all the money they make off pretending to fight each other. Along the way, it makes sure everyone has a fair deal.”