This is just the start of something I'm working on. The whole fic will be written in a sort of tabloid
style, with headlines for chapter titles and a basic continuity to the chapter that runs along the lines of how one would format a story in the
"investigative journalism" style. The story as a whole will constantly be a work-in-progress, so the first chapter you eventually see here will not
necessarily be the one that was initially posted. A writer is only as good as his or her rewrite, after all! 
CHAPTER ONE
"CHRIS GAINES TO PRODUCE NEW BAND?"
LOS ANGELES, CA, Oct. 30, 2008--"Stacks on deck, Patron on ice, and we can pop bottles all night…baby, you could have whatever you like…late night sex, so wet, you're so tight…" As the "song" reached that line, he leaned over and clicked the radio off. Music just wasn't what it had been. "This is popular now?" he thought to himself. "I worry sometimes about music if this is what they want people to go out and buy. Where are all the real musicians at?" He snorted as he took a look at himself in the rear view mirror. A wan smile and the driver who'd been hugging his bumper all the way down Laconia Boulevard stared back at him. More often than not, a few people had been asking that question about him. Where are all the real musicians? Where's Chris Gaines at? Is he still struggling with sex addiction? The Top 40 hits aren't coming as easily as before, are they? Just a month ago, he'd taken out an ad that he thought said enough: "To be perfectly honest, if I never have another hit record, I can live with that, really. I have everything I need, I don't feel that drive to come in to the studio and pour my soul out on a record like I used to." And still people asked the same questions again and again.
Not that he didn't get a little charge out of the fact that the press still couldn't keep moving without a few stories on him, especially when he left them hanging like that. He hadn't the heart to tell them that he was suffering from a major double attack of perfectionism and writer's block. But now Capitol was constantly breathing down his neck about his long-promised magnum opus: "Hey, Chris, when's The Lamb coming out?" It almost seemed as if the two teaser songs on the Greatest Hits collection weren't enough for some people. In fact, the question now seemed to be all over everyone's lips again, as it tended to be periodically. The fact that Guns and Roses were actually releasing the long-awaited much-ballyhooed Chinese Democracy, which had been stalled for well over ten years, was only putting on more pressure to finish it. "If a washed-up old hack like Axl Rose can finish an album before Chris Gaines, something has gone horribly wrong," lamented Chris' favorite columnist from Rolling Stone a week ago. He wished he could explain, but that would only disappoint the fans, and his former manager Dan's mantra kept replaying in his head every time he thought of telling the world: "One mustn't disappoint them."
He sighed when he thought of the circumstances in which Dan Lanier, the manager with the golden touch, the Chairman Mao of rock and roll, the major wheeler-dealer of the music industry, had decided to drop his most lucrative client. He'd been sitting through another business meeting at his apartment in Bel-Air, repeating the same tired excuse about perfecting the material and that the album would be delivered in a month, when Dan had cut him off, his head in his hands, near tears. This was the first time Chris had ever seen him like this. "Chris, I can't listen to this. I just don't care anymore. I've put up with this business from you for long enough, and I've had my fill. I helped clean up your messes when times were rough because of that instrument of yours--your talent. I did it because I believed in you. Now...well...now I don't think I can lie to myself anymore. You're done. And so am I." And with that, Dan got up and left. If only Chris had explained instead of trying to stall, maybe the situation could have been saved. Dan always did seem to have a solution when they were in the thick of it and there was no other way out. Now that was over.
Just then, his cell phone rang. He glanced at its caller ID to see who was calling, and gasped when he saw the number. It was Dan! "I wonder what he wants," Chris thought to himself. "Maybe he's changed his mind. Maybe he needed a little time. He'll see, if he just comes back I'll finish it!" But such thoughts are born from desperation, and little credence should be placed on whether or not he actually planned to finish the album if Dan came back. He answered the phone. "Dan! How are you?" he exclaimed, not bothering to conceal the excited tone of his voice. "Ease up, Chris. I'm not calling you to sign back on. What's done is done. But..." (a hesitation crept into his voice) "...I need your help." Now Chris was puzzled. What could it be? His curiosity outweighed his manners. "Enough chitchat, what's the issue?" "I've signed this new band called The Run-Off. They're sort of grunge, with pop overtones. These kids grew up with your music, and they signed with me precisely because I managed you. They..." Again with the hesitation--now Chris really wanted to know what was going on. "Out with it!" exclaimed Chris, not meaning to snap. "They want you to produce their first album. They like your early sound, and they want to try to replicate it with the help of 'the master.' I've seen born-again Christians who are less crazy about their boss upstairs than these guys are about you."
Now Chris was even more confused. "Do they know that there's a back cover? That a producer's name is displayed prominently on it? That the producer isn't me--on any of the albums?" "They seemed pretty insistent, and even when I told them that you hadn't done it, they said they wanted you all the same." "Have you already booked a studio?" asked Chris, praying he hadn't been roped in without consent again, a ploy Dan would occasionally pull from time to time. "No, there's no strings attached this time. I just think that since you're not doing anything worthwhile anyway, maybe you could put out some sort of product as a stopgap to fans who want The Lamb and want to know what's taking so long." Chris had never produced, and he didn't relish the prospect of taking it on, but he couldn't help seeing the logic in Dan's thinking. "Have they cut a demo?" "Yeah. It was recorded in the bass player's dad's garage. It's very rough, but if you listen, you'll be able to hear the potential." Chris couldn't deny that the thought of being the leader of a new breed like the old days intrigued him. "Alright, Dan, you've got me interested. I'll drop by to pick up the tape after I grab a bite to eat, and see if there's anything I can do, but I'm not making any promises."
As Chris edged to a crawl at a stop light, he spotted a Taco Bell just off the next exit. "Not my first choice, but it'll have to do," he sighed, as he turned to head for the drive-through.
CHAPTER ONE
"CHRIS GAINES TO PRODUCE NEW BAND?"
LOS ANGELES, CA, Oct. 30, 2008--"Stacks on deck, Patron on ice, and we can pop bottles all night…baby, you could have whatever you like…late night sex, so wet, you're so tight…" As the "song" reached that line, he leaned over and clicked the radio off. Music just wasn't what it had been. "This is popular now?" he thought to himself. "I worry sometimes about music if this is what they want people to go out and buy. Where are all the real musicians at?" He snorted as he took a look at himself in the rear view mirror. A wan smile and the driver who'd been hugging his bumper all the way down Laconia Boulevard stared back at him. More often than not, a few people had been asking that question about him. Where are all the real musicians? Where's Chris Gaines at? Is he still struggling with sex addiction? The Top 40 hits aren't coming as easily as before, are they? Just a month ago, he'd taken out an ad that he thought said enough: "To be perfectly honest, if I never have another hit record, I can live with that, really. I have everything I need, I don't feel that drive to come in to the studio and pour my soul out on a record like I used to." And still people asked the same questions again and again.
Not that he didn't get a little charge out of the fact that the press still couldn't keep moving without a few stories on him, especially when he left them hanging like that. He hadn't the heart to tell them that he was suffering from a major double attack of perfectionism and writer's block. But now Capitol was constantly breathing down his neck about his long-promised magnum opus: "Hey, Chris, when's The Lamb coming out?" It almost seemed as if the two teaser songs on the Greatest Hits collection weren't enough for some people. In fact, the question now seemed to be all over everyone's lips again, as it tended to be periodically. The fact that Guns and Roses were actually releasing the long-awaited much-ballyhooed Chinese Democracy, which had been stalled for well over ten years, was only putting on more pressure to finish it. "If a washed-up old hack like Axl Rose can finish an album before Chris Gaines, something has gone horribly wrong," lamented Chris' favorite columnist from Rolling Stone a week ago. He wished he could explain, but that would only disappoint the fans, and his former manager Dan's mantra kept replaying in his head every time he thought of telling the world: "One mustn't disappoint them."
He sighed when he thought of the circumstances in which Dan Lanier, the manager with the golden touch, the Chairman Mao of rock and roll, the major wheeler-dealer of the music industry, had decided to drop his most lucrative client. He'd been sitting through another business meeting at his apartment in Bel-Air, repeating the same tired excuse about perfecting the material and that the album would be delivered in a month, when Dan had cut him off, his head in his hands, near tears. This was the first time Chris had ever seen him like this. "Chris, I can't listen to this. I just don't care anymore. I've put up with this business from you for long enough, and I've had my fill. I helped clean up your messes when times were rough because of that instrument of yours--your talent. I did it because I believed in you. Now...well...now I don't think I can lie to myself anymore. You're done. And so am I." And with that, Dan got up and left. If only Chris had explained instead of trying to stall, maybe the situation could have been saved. Dan always did seem to have a solution when they were in the thick of it and there was no other way out. Now that was over.
Just then, his cell phone rang. He glanced at its caller ID to see who was calling, and gasped when he saw the number. It was Dan! "I wonder what he wants," Chris thought to himself. "Maybe he's changed his mind. Maybe he needed a little time. He'll see, if he just comes back I'll finish it!" But such thoughts are born from desperation, and little credence should be placed on whether or not he actually planned to finish the album if Dan came back. He answered the phone. "Dan! How are you?" he exclaimed, not bothering to conceal the excited tone of his voice. "Ease up, Chris. I'm not calling you to sign back on. What's done is done. But..." (a hesitation crept into his voice) "...I need your help." Now Chris was puzzled. What could it be? His curiosity outweighed his manners. "Enough chitchat, what's the issue?" "I've signed this new band called The Run-Off. They're sort of grunge, with pop overtones. These kids grew up with your music, and they signed with me precisely because I managed you. They..." Again with the hesitation--now Chris really wanted to know what was going on. "Out with it!" exclaimed Chris, not meaning to snap. "They want you to produce their first album. They like your early sound, and they want to try to replicate it with the help of 'the master.' I've seen born-again Christians who are less crazy about their boss upstairs than these guys are about you."
Now Chris was even more confused. "Do they know that there's a back cover? That a producer's name is displayed prominently on it? That the producer isn't me--on any of the albums?" "They seemed pretty insistent, and even when I told them that you hadn't done it, they said they wanted you all the same." "Have you already booked a studio?" asked Chris, praying he hadn't been roped in without consent again, a ploy Dan would occasionally pull from time to time. "No, there's no strings attached this time. I just think that since you're not doing anything worthwhile anyway, maybe you could put out some sort of product as a stopgap to fans who want The Lamb and want to know what's taking so long." Chris had never produced, and he didn't relish the prospect of taking it on, but he couldn't help seeing the logic in Dan's thinking. "Have they cut a demo?" "Yeah. It was recorded in the bass player's dad's garage. It's very rough, but if you listen, you'll be able to hear the potential." Chris couldn't deny that the thought of being the leader of a new breed like the old days intrigued him. "Alright, Dan, you've got me interested. I'll drop by to pick up the tape after I grab a bite to eat, and see if there's anything I can do, but I'm not making any promises."
As Chris edged to a crawl at a stop light, he spotted a Taco Bell just off the next exit. "Not my first choice, but it'll have to do," he sighed, as he turned to head for the drive-through.
