Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders (33 page)

“I had to learn it.
 
You gotta hear it.
 
Okay, in a
nutshell, the brain, among other organs, is rich in glutamate receptors.”
 
She made a hand gesture representative of a
glutamate receptor.
 
“Glutamate’s in
constant flux with the amino acid gluta
mine
through several very boring biochemical reactions.
 
The interesting thing is these two chemicals
play an important role in clearing the waste product of protein metabolism,
which is ammonia.
 
And ammonia is a bad
dog for anyone’s neurons, and thus causes headaches.

Jimmy pointed to the results of Tammy’s blood screens.
 
“So you’re talking about this ammonia
count?
 
Is that high?”

“Seriously high.”

“And that makes my deceased a textbook case of Chinese
restaurant syndrome?”

“Not necessarily.
 
Ammonia levels tend to go high post mortem.”

“Damn.”

“But—”

“I like but,” Jimmy said.
 
“Go on with
the but
.”

“Okay, but don’t quote me.
 
I’m a little out of my field.
 
I’ve never seen an ammonia count this high post mortem, so I think
you’re MSG theory is sound.
 
Your
deceased probably had a headache the size of Hinds
County when she died.”

Jimmy slapped the table and smiled.
 
“Thank you.
 
I really appreciate your help.”
 
He looked at Cris and tilted his head slightly.
 
He waggled a finger at her outfit and lowered
his voice.
 
“Seriously though, what are
you wearing under those scrubs?”

49.

The front pages of
Billboard
and
Radio & Records
are usually
given over to general news from the radio and record industries.
 
A story about a company’s stock split might
compete for space against a story about a Senate subcommittee hearing on music
piracy issues.
 
But this week both
industry trade papers featured headlines about Eddie Long’s unprecedented deal
with Big World Records.
 
“Big World Takes
Long Shot” scrolled across the top of
R&R
.
 
Billboard’s
headline was, “Going Deep — Big World Throws Long.”

Everything, the saying goes, is negotiable.
 
And the articles in the trades bore that
out.
 
It was all there.
 
The
two-points-higher-than-usual rookie royalty rate, the high six figure
non-recoupable signing bonus in lieu of the standard advance against royalties,
the guaranteed marketing budgets, and the small, but not insignificant, gross
profit participation.
 
But the
most incredible aspect of the deal was the one that approached Garth
status.
 
Eddie actually shared in control
of the masters.
 
He didn’t own them
outright and license them back to Big World Records the way Garth did with
Capitol, but he shared ownership, which was unheard of until Eddie Long showed
up.
 
There were other unusual clauses in
his contract, but what really mattered was that Eddie Long and his management
team ended up with a deal that earned them roughly $2.00 for every record sold,
more than twice what anyone in their right mind would’ve expected.

The lengthy front page articles were continued in the
‘Country’ sections of each of the trades where they featured photos of the
parties in question.
 
One picture showed
Eddie and Megan smiling deliriously, flanked by Herron and Peavy and the Big
World Record executives.
 
Another showed
Eddie shaking hands with the president of Big World while the others looked on.

Asked about the street date of Eddie’s record, Big World’s
president said, “We’re sending parts to both our east and west coast duplication
facilities.
 
We’re
having
to ‘cut in line’ so to speak, and that’s going to delay a couple
of our other projects, but Eddie’s got the heat, so we hope to have him in
stores in two to three weeks.”

It was a fantastic projection.
 
Typically, the process of going from a master
tape to having a CD on the shelf of the nation’s music retailers took a couple
of months, but only because they scheduled it that way.
 
And that made sense on an ongoing basis where
there was a steady stream of product coming down the pipeline.
 
But when something big had to happen fast,
that time could easily be cut in half since any major label CD duplication
facility could turn out 500,000 copies of a new CD, in jewel box, with artwork,
shrink-wrapped and ready to ship — in a day.
 
It was shipping all those units to retailers all over the country that
took most of the time.

The articles also contained an analysis of the incredible
industry buzz resulting from the spread of the MP3 file.
 
It was this, the writers pointed out, that
had led to the frenzied auction at the Vanderbilt
Plaza and the unheard-of
contract.
 
There were insinuations that
the Internet business might have been, at least partially, contrived.
 
And, they went on to say, if that was the
case, it signaled the triumphant rebirth of Big Bill Herron as one of Nashville’s
principal players.

50.

Whitney had just finished working the lunch shift at the
Smoke House.
 
He was sitting at one of
the tables counting his tips, nursing a beer, and trying to fend off a sense of
discouragement.
 
Since moving to town
he’d spent all of his time either working or writing songs.
 
As a result he’d made no friends, so he spent
most of his free time alone.
 
To make
matters worse, nothing was happening with his career.
 
It seemed like it had been forever since Big
Bill recorded his demo but he hadn’t heard a word about it since.
 
On top of that, between rent, food, and a new
set of strings for his guitar, Whitney hadn’t been able to save a dime to get
his truck back from the mechanic.
 
And
Herron and Peavy still hadn’t paid the thousand dollar ‘signing bonus’ they’d
promised.
 
He was starting to wonder if
he’d made a mistake coming to Nashville.
 
As he picked up his beer someone suddenly
walloped him on the back, sloshing Whitney’s draft onto the table.

“Hey now!”
Big Bill said, “Gotcha
some good news there, son.”
 
He grabbed a
chair and pulled it up across the table from Whitney, a smarmy smile smeared
across his fat face.
 
“You’re gonna wanna
kiss me.”

Whitney doubted it.
 
Still he couldn’t help but get his hopes up.
 
“You got me a deal?”

“What,
a record deal
?”
 
Big Bill waved a hand to erase the
thought.
 
“No, but believe me, I’m
workin’ on it.
 
Gotta walk before we run,
am I right?”
 
He stopped a passing
waitress and asked for a sweet ice tea.
 
“Tell you the truth, I’m running into a little resistance on your
songs.
 
They don’t exactly fit what
country radio’s looking for, if you know what I mean.
 
But I think this might help.”
 
Big Bill pulled some papers from his coat
pocket and handed them to Whitney.

“What’s this?”

“Row Fax,” Big Bill said.
 
“Comes out every week.”
 
Row Fax
was a weekly newsletter ‘Serving Nashville’s Creative Community.’
 
It noted which record executives had left
which labels and which ones had been promoted.
 
It announced artists’ television appearances, trumpeted hallmarks in
record sales, proclaimed award winners, and otherwise acted as a vehicle for
press releases.
 
Big Bill pointed at one
of the feature headings: The Cutting Edge.
 
“Check that out,” he said.
 
Whitney studied it for a moment but wasn’t sure what to make of it.

The Cutting Edge was the weekly listing of the types of
songs artists were looking for at the moment.
 
It might say Collin Raye was looking for ‘uptempos only’ or that Trisha
Yearwood was looking for ‘great songs’ or that Amber Marie was trying to find a
‘Power ballad a la Martina McBride.’

Big Bill knowingly wagged a finger at Whitney.
 
“I think it’ll help you get more in step with
what the labels and the artists are looking for.”

Whitney’s face coiled in skepticism.
 
“Lynyrd Skynyrd meets Alan Jackson?”

“Yeah,” Big Bill said, “I think that’s a good one for
you.
 
Put a little more Muscle Shoals
into one of your Texas troubadour
things, see what happens.
 
Maybe we can
get somebody interested.
 
Irregardless, I
think we need some new songs to shop you around.
 
But you really gotta write stuff that’s
more.
. .accessible.
 
You know?”

Whitney read a little further down the list.
 
A lot of them just said they were looking for
‘great songs.’
 
“What do they mean by
that?” he asked.
 
“That doesn’t seem real
helpful.
 
I mean how can I know what they
want if that’s all they put in here?”

Big Bill poured some sugar into his sweet tea.
 
“Well, like my daddy used to say, don’t worry
about the horse being blind, just load the cart.”

Whitney kept reading and suddenly he sparked to one of the
descriptions.
 
“What about this
one?”
 
He pointed at the list.
 
“This ‘alternative
country’?”

Big Bill shook his head and gestured toward the street with
his glass of tea.
 
“You might as well
just go play on the sidewalk with your guitar case opened up for all the money
you’ll make with that stuff.”
 
He pointed
at the list.
 
“Trust me,” he said, “try
that Lynyrd Skynyrd, Alan Jackson thing and just see if something good don’t
happen.”

Whitney folded the
Row
Fax
, stuffed it in his back pocket.
 
“So what’s this good news you were talking about?”

“You’re gonna love this,” Big Bill assured him.
 
“Remember how we recorded your song at that
session with Eddie Long?
 
Well, I don’t
know if you heard, but we got Eddie a deal with Big World Records.
 
And after they listened to the tapes from
that session, you’re not going to believe this,” Big Bill chuckled lightly,
“the folks at the label demanded we include your song on the record.”
 
This wasn’t strictly true.
 
Big Bill planned on including it from the get
go
, but he didn’t want to admit to that.

Whitney was dumbfounded.
 
“But I thought you said—”

Big Bill threw his hands up.
 
“Nothing I could do about it,” he said, “they absolutely loved your
song.
 
Kept asking about you too after I
told ‘em you were the original writer on it.
 
Said they weren’t going to sign the deal unless your
song was on the record.”
 
Big Bill
slapped his hand on the table top.
 
“So,
guess what, my friend?
 
You’re fixin’ to
be a published songwriter.”

Whitney figured this was at least some progress.
 
“So when they asked about me, did you give
‘em my
demo tape
?”
 
There was a glimmer of hope in his voice.

Big Bill frowned and shook his head.
 
“No, and I’ll tell you why.
 
Based on the feedback so far, I figured that
would hurt more than help.
 
That’s why I
wanted to bring you the Row Fax, get you started on some songs that suits what
they’re lookin’ for.
 
Then I can go back
in.”

The phrase ‘published song writer’ began to sink into
Whitney’s consciousness.
 
He decided it
was more than just a little progress.
 
It
might be just the break he needed.
 
“Well, so I get paid for my song being on the record, right?
 
I mean, how’s that work?”

“Way it works is simple,” Big Bill said.
 
“You’re gonna make what’s called a mechanical
royalty for every one of Eddie’s records that gets sold.
 
Of course by law, mechanicals get split with
the publishing company.”

“That’s what you got set up through your business, right?”

“That’s right,” Big Bill said, pointing back and forth
between the two of them.
 
“We’ve got
what’s called a co-publishing agreement between you and our company, just like
we talked about.
 
But that ain’t
all.
 
See, on top of the mechanical
royalties, you’ll also get paid a little sumpin’ every time your song gets
played on the radio.”
 
Big Bill leaned
toward Whitney.
 
“And I wouldn’t be
surprised if your song is the third or fourth single we release.”
 
He sat back and shot Whitney a
can-you-believe-it look.

Whitney smiled for the first time since Big Bill sat
down.
 
“Are you kiddin’ me?
 
Well, damn, that’s great.”
 
Whatever disappointment he felt about not
being the artist was overpowered by the feeling he got from hearing his song
might get released as a single and that he was going to get paid for it to
boot.
 
Whitney felt a surge of confidence
and looked at Big Bill.
 
“Well, let me
ask you about something else, Mr. Herron, I was wondering when I might get that
signing bonus we talked about?”

An exaggerated look of disappointment suddenly clouded Big
Bill’s face.
 
“Oh, shoot!
 
Talk about bad timing, I forgot to tell
you.
 
The day you signed your contract,
my damn accounts payable department switched to a ninety day pay cycle.
 
I’m real sorry, I should’ve told you sooner,
but I just forgot, I been so busy out trying to sell your songs and all.”
 
Big Bill pulled out his money clip and peeled
off fifty dollars.
 
“Here, lemme give you
this,” he said.
 
“We’ll consider it an
advance on what we owe you.”

51.