Page 31 of Levi
CHAPTER8
Levi
Mondays are hell. That’sa given.
Technically, Tuesdays should be bearable.
Technically, being the operative word...
I spent most of yesterday catching up and updating my brother on my meetings while I was in London. Meetings that promise a flurry of talented British artists looking to make their mark on this side of the pond. As much as my body hates to have to adjust to the jetlag, the potential of new and lucrative business more than makes up for the temporary discomfort.
“Who the fuck does he think he is?” my brother barks. “We’re behind some of the biggest concerts in the last decade. Joel fucking Banner just landed from gay old London,” he says in a crappy British accent, “and he thinks he can tell us how to run our business,” he rages. “Again, who the fuck does he think he is?”
“Stop pacing, Linc. You’re making me dizzy,” I tell my brother.
“It’s either I pace, or I wring Joel fucking Banner’s neck!” he yells that last part.
To say Linc is pissed off would be an understatement.
I’m equally vexed, but one of us has to maintain a cool head.
Remember when I said Tuesdays should be more bearable than Mondays? That only applies when you’re not dealing with a bunch of finicky clients. We just ended an excruciatingly painful meeting with Joel Banner and his three bandmates at our Culver City office-slash-studio. They’re the four British rock stars behind the chart-topping group Brawn Impulse. Joel Banner is their lead singer and Linc’s main point of contention right now.
“Their manager needs to rein them in,” my brother points an agitated finger at me. “They’re acting like spoiled kids in desperate need of a good spanking. My son is more mature for God sakes!”
“Honestly, their manager is a snob, and it’s clear Joel calls the shots,” I argue.
“Joel fucking Banner,” Linc mutters.
The four band members and their snooty manager scampered out of here in a cyclone of indignation at our reluctance to roll over like dogs to accommodate their unreasonable last-minute requests.
“Sit the fuck down, Linc!” I demand.
He glares at me, but grants my wish.
He drops his ass in the seat across from me like a four-year-old sent to timeout. He even crosses his arms over his large chest and scowls at me, his eyebrows knitted together in frustration.
“You look like you’re about to burst,” I mock.
His blue eyes meet mine. “I’m well past that,” he retorts. He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I know working with musicians can be like working with prima donnas––and I’m fully aware I signed up for this kind of bratty attitude when I chose this profession––but Joel fucking Banner takes the fucking cake,” Linc says, jamming his fingers through his brown hair.
Linc is six years older than me. Together we own Lumen Opus Productions. The music industry is all we know. Just like our dad, uncles and grandfather, we’re part of the team of experts and tradesman who work in the background to make musicians look good when they’re on stage, rocking out their fans at concerts. Linc’s former boss was a bigshot in the industry, but he was difficult to work with, hence he went through employees like you go through tissue when fighting a cold. It was a constant revolving door. Linc was one of the rare ones who could handle this guy’s volatile temper. Since he didn’t have kids, he accepted Linc’s offer of a buyout to continue his legacy. My brother was only twenty-five at the time, but eager to prove himself. I joined him the minute I graduated from the American Film Institute Conservatory. Linc designs the actual the stage, while I’m the light show guy. Together, we make magic.
“Joel has the gall to bring a list of demands as long as the goddamn Golden Gate Bridge a month before their Vegas concert—their first on American soil, by the way—simply because he wants to upstage another British band that had a sold-out concert in Madison Square Garden last night?!” Linc balks. “This isn’t fucking kindergarten! If it weren’t for our friendship with Holt, I would’ve thrown Joel’s British ass out for having so little respect for what we do.”
“He’s clueless of the nightmare involved behind making such dramatic changes at this stage of the game,” I say.
“Damn fucking right he is!” Linc shouts.
Once upon a time, Rod Wolfe, Beckett Christensen, Jace Halsey and Holt Christensen were known as the formidable musicians behind Random Misconception, aka one of the biggest rock bands of our time. Linc and I designed the stage and light show for their farewell tour. I was really young when I secured that contract. I was hungry, too. It’s the concert that put our company on the map. Today, the four rock gods are execs, running successful companies. Holt is the head of a record label. He’s living in London now, but he has offices in LA and New York. Joel’s band is signed under Holt’s label. Don’t get me wrong, the guys are talented, but they’re a royal pain in the ass.
“I want to become a bloody legend, not just another musician, mate!” Linc mimics Joel in an atrocious British accent. “We design fucking stages, we don’t perform miracles!”
“I’ll concede he’s got a bit of a diva complex—”
“The pompous ass thinks he can walk in here and dictate how we do our job?Chill out, mate. Money isn’t an issue for us lads,” Linc mocks Joel again. “Fuck you! This has nothing to do with money, you British prick! Like he knows the first thing about building a stage with a wow factor!”
My brother is really a great guy, and he usually doesn’t swear like a sailor, but Joel managed to push his buttons during a meeting that extended by over an hour––precious time we’ll never get back.
