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May 26, 2008

Mildew Recording Artists

“We’ve had a change of heart,” I blurted. “We really would like to become officially sanctioned Mildew Recording Artists.”

Dean Charleston’s watery eyes gazed at me, lips forming a hostile smile. “You missed your shot, McDürchstein. We own the Kelleystein label, and although Redstain albums still sell well, especially since Sarah’s unfortunate passing, but will draw attention to the label until the next Abysmal Crucifix release.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Look, I’m not unreasonable,” Charleston sneered. “I know you’re hurting for money.”

“Are you trying to hypnotize me?”

“Of course not,” Dean Charleston said, placing the vibrant crystal he had been swinging back and forth into a drawer in his classy-looking oak desk. “I merely want to tell you that Mildew isn’t in the business of charity.”

“That is a relief,” I said, “because I recently ran one, and it caused a shitload of trouble.”

“However,” Dean continued as if I’d said nothing, “we have allocated $600 to the Milstein promotional budget.”

“Wow!”

“Now, we could spend that money paying kids minimum wage to put Redstain Attack! bumper stickers on the walls of hip music stores—the kind of place that would appeal to the Aries generation—”

I felt a lump in the pit of my stomach. “The what?”

“—or we could give you that money to record a new album.”

“Gee,” I said. “Normally our operating budget is a little higher—”

“Normally your albums sell like McDonald’s hotcakes,” Dean spat. “An overpriced, empty experience leaving everyone wanting something a little bit more substantial.”

“Dude—”

“Don’t ‘dude’ me, McDürchstein. Your operating budget is $600, and you will deliver us an album by November, or that’s it. Milstein will flounder and die, and we’ll fold the albums that still sell into the untarnished Mildew catalog.”

“You are a fucking prick,” I said.

Dean scowled and opened his mouth.

It looked like a doozy, so I did some damage control: “But I think we can work this out. I have a ton of song ideas. In fact, while we were on the road, we wrote an awesome one.”

“You realize Mildew will have final approval on whatever you record,” Dean said. “Make it count. We want something that people in 2008 will buy. The last time you offered something that sold was 1998.”

“I assume that’s not counting when I put your mom to work on Melrose—”

“You son of a—”

“I meant…my mom.”

“That’s better,” Dean Charleston growled. “Where will you be next Wednesday, June 4th?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“The correct answer is ‘here,’” said Dean. “Go back to your ‘pad’ and talk with your ‘band’ about song possibilities for an album. I’ll bring in the top Mildew players, and we’ll discuss concepts. You might want to prepare more than one—you don’t want us to reject anything.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Get out of my office. June 4th, 11 o’clock. Be here.”

I slunk out of the office, then breathed a sigh of relief. Dean Charleston seemed like a nice guy initially, but what a fucking prick.

On the way back to the Paint Shaker, I called Margo and told her to bring in any song ideas or demo tapes I’d recorded. I called the rest of the band and had us meet up at the conference room on the first floor.

As usual, Margo showed up last. “What do we got?” I asked.

She sighed and handed me a cassette tape labeled METH AMP CITY and a sheet of paper with a few chords scrawled on it.

“Jesus,” I said. I turned to the rest of the band. “What about you guys?”

Carl shrugged.

Riffs dug a finger into one nostril.

Mikey said, “Actually, I’ve been working on a lot of songs that go back to my solo album—”

“God, we have nothing!” I cried.

“This is going to call for something drastic,” Margo whispered.

I looked at her, tears in my eyes. “I know… But what?”

Written by Girth McDürchstein on May 26, 2008 1:27 PM
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