Sweeter Life (41 page)

What Ronnie heard at the Troubadour, the translation of wave to vibration to electric impulse, sounded remarkably like love. So much so that at the end of the first song, he was struck with utter clarity that he loved this boy like a son. This bridge they had built together, this cascade of notes, this arrangement of light and shade, colour and shape, was nothing more than a bridge between the two of them.

With Jim it had been different. Ronnie had wanted to hear that glorious solo again, a longing on par with the search for philosophical truth or mathematical purity. It was the music that led him to the man. But with Cyrus, it was the other way around. Ronnie found the boy, a child alone in the darkness, before he found the music; and together they had fumbled toward this riot of notes that now filled the room. No question, Ronnie wanted Jangle to be successful, but for the boy’s sake, not his own. That realization had caught him off guard. His own desires had taken a back seat. He only wanted Cyrus to be happy, the very thing a father might say.

When the last note sounded and the band left the stage, Ronnie got to his feet and began to mingle. He shared words with Clive Davis, Mo Ostin, David Geffen and a dozen other hitmakers, and it was clear that they had listened but not heard. Their eyes gave no sign of understanding. They said the right words—“Ron, fantastic, call me, we’ll talk.”—but their eyes were full of distance and pity. At one time or another they had all been in his shoes, hearing the magic no one else could hear, seeing the future no one would believe. They backed quickly away lest he taint them with the evil eye.

Ronnie was a good sport. He held no grudges. He made no judgments. It wasn’t about money or the big deal. As far as he was concerned, it wasn’t even about music. It was about the boy. And when he had had a good stiff drink and prepared his face and tone and words, he headed backstage to tell the band how it really was, not how it was perceived. They believed him, too, because they could see the emotion shining in his eyes.

The party began soon after. The big names had stolen away, leaving behind the lesser lights and media freeloaders, people too naive to notice or too cynical to care that there was nothing to celebrate. Cyrus and the rest of the band fell into the first category. They dug into the drinks and nibbles
with the ferocity of conquering heroes. They laughed and waved their arms madly. They were big and loud and full of themselves. The change, to Ronnie’s eye, was bittersweet; and although he was happy enough to allow the illusion to remain, he wondered how long it would last.

His own evening had been spoiled. Aside from the band’s performance, nothing had gone as it should. But he would keep that grief to himself and let Cyrus enjoy his moment. To see him there among those people, savouring his own power, made Ronnie smile. It was like the boy had been transformed into pure energy.

IF HOLLYWOOD TAUGHT CYRUS
anything it was that bliss has many faces but only one name. He could make the case, with a good deal of certainty, that their gig at the Troubadour was the very pinnacle of his life to date, and that all other high points and low points were merely stations of the cross on the way to that pivotal moment. He stood in the spotlight and the music poured out of him, as though all he had ever felt, all he had ever known or remembered, came flooding out in those few brief songs. To his right, to his left, behind him even, were his fellow band members. To call them friends would minimize their importance. Call them brothers, soul-mates who had joined the common cause, who had suffered together, laughed together, broken bread and debauched together, in the trenches, on the bus, who had opened themselves to each other and created a joyful noise.

And what on the scale of excitement could compare to playing for a roomful of Hollywood big shots, to feel with every note he played, every gliss, every bend, every hammer-on, that he had moved out of the realm of make-believe and into that higher reality where dreams come true, where the pretty high school girl becomes a model or movie star, where the poor young ghetto kid makes the NBA, where the geek with his electric guitar stands in front of Clive Davis and David Geffen and they listen and applaud and take him seriously.

When the show was over, when he and the rest had stepped backstage, the feeling remained, the sizzle and spark lit up the room and passed from one to the other as they recounted who played what and how brilliant it was. Then Ronnie came in and testified, and his eyes were wild, his voice high
with excitement, and yes, he said, the sound had been glorious out front, and yes, he had heard the fire and the passion and it was stunning, all of it, all of it perfectly stunning.

And in this way bliss begets bliss. As the adrenalin seeped away, as the flash of artistic triumph began to fade, Cyrus wandered into the club, where food and drink had been arranged, mountains of shrimp, platters of smoked salmon and cold cuts and exotic fruits and dips. He’d never had a better-tasting beer than the one just then, a necessary reward. And in the presence of all that food, he discovered his raw emptiness. He gorged on delicacies until Ronnie introduced him to so-and-so of the
L.A. Times
and what’s-her-face from
Billboard
, to this person here and that one there, each and every one of them gushing with praise. And wasn’t that a beautiful woman, and wasn’t she smiling in his direction, with the second beer tasting better than the first, and the food tasting better, too, and the woman looking better each time she turned his way, with her white silk blouse and cleavage, her tight jeans, and the way she smiled in a way that made him smile. And all the while people were pumping his hand and plying him with drinks and food until there, on an admittedly lower level, in a darker and more primitive part of his brain, he runs smack into a particularly sticky patch of bliss, thick and rich and sweet as honey.

And as these things happen, they all head back to the hotel suite where drinks are plentiful, and people offer drugs, and the woman (he’ll never remember her name) attaches herself to his side and pumps him up whenever the post-adrenalin fatigue threatens to wear him down, pumps him up with the simplest things, a whispered word, a touch of hand, a certain leaning look that offers the promise of anything he might dream, hanging on his every word, his every move, until the night reaches a certain kind of equilibrium, or perhaps more accurately a certain imbalance, and he takes her hand and leads her to his room where they coil like snakes on the bed—the hissing kisses and hard slithering bodies of fundamental bliss.

What eats at him as she dresses to leave, and especially the next morning on the flight home to Toronto and Eura, is that he’s noticed a definite pattern going back as far as his thoughtless behaviour in Fenton and the Pink Pussycat: the arc of his bliss moves in one direction, only
ever backward, from the sacred to the profane, from the glittering present to the murky primordial past.

FOR RONNIE, THE PARTY ENDED AT SIX
in the morning when the band began tossing wineglasses from the balcony into the big fountain in front of the hotel. With a sharp, almost military tone of voice, Ronnie snapped the lads back into focus and sent them off to bed. Alone at last, he called Brent in New York and got him to set up an appointment with RonCon’s accountant and bank manager. He then dialed Nigel Cranston at his flat in Chelsea.

Nigel, a guitarist in the early days of British rock and roll, was now one of the premier producers in the world, Britain’s king of alternative rock. But few people in the business knew that he owed his later success to Ronnie, who had taken him one evening to a club in London to hear a group of angry young men called The Brothers Heisenberg. The Brothers had approached Ronnie to be their manager, but with Jimmy at the top of the charts and on his second tour of Europe, Ronnie didn’t have the time or enthusiasm for the project. So he foisted The Brothers on to his friend Nigel, who not only signed them to his production company but produced their first record,
Everything Is Everything
, a pretentious bit of art rock that sat on the
Billboard
Hot 100 for three solid years.

When the transatlantic connection was established, Ronnie said, “Nigel, it’s Conger.”

“You old ponce. How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better. Out here in Hollywood just now showcasing a new act. All very exciting, I can tell you. But, how shall I say this, I’m afraid I need a favour.”

“I was beginning to think you would never ask.”

“I need your exemplary talent, Nigel, and your imprimatur and whatever positive spin I can muster.”

“The showcase didn’t go down all that well, I take it.”

“Well enough that I could secure a contract, I suppose. These people down here are all money men. They only know the deal, not the music. That’s why I want you. This project means the world to me. And as I sit here
in the cold light of dawn, after listening to an outpouring of music like you can scarcely imagine, I can’t bring myself to let these bloodless bastards have it. They don’t deserve it, they won’t appreciate it, and in the end, won’t know what to do with it.”

“Sounds like you’ve got yourself another Jim.”

“In a way, Nigel, in a way. A remarkable young guitarist named Cyrus Owen. And what I was wondering, old fellow, is if you still have the same set-up north of London.”

“Hidey-Hole.”

“Yes, exactly. You see, the more I think on it, the more I’m convinced that the route I took with Jim is the one I should follow again. Which means I will make an end around Hollywood and, if you are amenable, bring my boy over to make a record with you at the helm as soon as we can. Is that anywhere within the realm of the possible?”

“Not only possible,” Nigel replied, “it’s guaranteed. When do we start?”

They made plans to begin in May, and Ronnie hung up the receiver feeling light-headed. He had only meant to sound Nigel out, not make a firm commitment. He still hadn’t figured out how he would finance a project like this. Even with the discounts Nigel was sure to offer, a first-class recording would easily cost him the equivalent of a quarter of a million dollars.

He decided to mention none of this to Cyrus and the others. He would speak to his accountant and banker first. He’d been burning through his savings at an astonishing rate, but he had an idea up his sleeve. It was time, perhaps, for another release from the Jimmy Waters vault of live recordings. If Ronnie played his cards right, he might rob Peter to pay Paul.

A LAWYER, AN ACCOUNTANT AND A BANKER
all sit in an office in New York one wintry afternoon, waiting for their client to arrive. When he walks in from his transcontinental flight looking pale and rumpled, he says, “I’ll get right to the point and tell you what I need.”

And the lawyer, roughly the same age as his client (though appearing much younger, thanks to a loving wife, regular sleep and healthy diet), looks up and says, “I think I’d better tell
you
what you need.” He then proceeds to
describe the court injunction that has just arrived and the pending lawsuit brought against RonCon Productions and Future Records by the Worldwide Church of Jim (hereinafter referred to as “The Church”), claiming damages and all past, present and future royalties deriving from the sale and airplay of LP, tape cassettes and any future sound reproduction devices hitherto unknown, on the unlawful and unlicensed musical compilation known as “The JimJams” (hereinafter referred to as “The Album”).

And the client, this bleached-blond Scot (hereinafter referred to as “Ronnie”), looks left then right and laughs, a single bark of disbelief. “This must be some kind of a joke,” he says.

No joke, the lawyer continues. The Church claims that the rights to The Album lie outside the existing agreement, and further, that The Album has been injurious to the reputation and effectiveness of The Church and its chief spokesman, one James Waters (hereinafter referred to as “Jim”), resulting in both emotional and financial hardship. As of noon tomorrow, Future Records must remove all copies of The Album from stores, retrieve all copies from radio stations and, failing that, inform such stations that they will be in contempt of court if they play The Album, in whole or in part, until the suit has been brought before the court and judgment rendered. Further to that, The Church is seeking damages of $10 million, above and beyond the royalties already collected and disbursed.

Ronnie slumps into the nearest chair. “Can they do that?”

“They have a case, but not a strong one. I would suggest they’re unlikely to win. But it could take years to sort out.”

The accountant’s turn. “I have those figures you asked for, but in light of what I’ve just heard, I have to tell you they’re no longer worth much. A considerable part of this figure has the current earnings stream factored in, a large part of which, as you know, is driven by The ‘JimJams.’ ”

“Meaning …”

“That prior to this court injunction, RonCon had approximately one hundred thousand dollars in investable assets through a combination of short-term deposits and regular cash flow. Until this legal matter is settled, I would suggest a ballpark figure of sixty thousand might be achievable without seriously curtailing current operations.”

“Sixty.”

“Give or take.”

Ronnie turns to the banker then. “Looks like it’s your lucky day.”

The banker, another fine-looking young man, smiles thinly and says, “According to the proposal Brent brought me this morning, you are looking at a project of a quarter million dollars that you had planned to fund 60 percent, while the bank would extend a line of credit up to 40 percent of the amount. If I read you correctly, you now propose to fund a little more than 20 percent and are asking my bank to carry the remainder.”

“That is pretty much the size of it, my estimable friend. I am offering you twice the business I had originally anticipated.”

Again the banker smiles, and his smile is even thinner. “I believe, Mr. Conger, that that is more risk than my bank is willing to assume.”

Ronnie looks down at his small freckled hands. “How many times have I borrowed money from your bank? A hundred? A thousand?”