The Book of Dema

CHAPTER NINETEEN + Wake Up You-Need to Make Money

Rogers Hamlin's office in New York City was as gaudy as it was spacious. Tyler dreaded these trips to meet with the marketing geniuses who represented their music label, but he and Josh were contractually obligated to see Rogers and his team at least once a quarter. The office reinforced this very superficial side of the business.

He looked at Josh sitting on the red leather sofa. Its back arched out from the middle to the sides, and it was pitted with deep buttons tufted in a diamond pattern. Its rolled arms and wood frame attempted to say it was shabby chic, but the square zebra print pillows tossed casually upon it to one side suggested that Rogers was trying too hard to impress the musicians. Two high backed gray chairs, also tufted, sat opposite.

Rogers had stationed himself behind one, while his assistant sat at a little writing desk just off to the side. Tyler was seated at a right angle from the sofa in a third chair, royal blue in color, velour in material. It had an embossed regal design embroidered on the seatback and was complimented by a matching ottoman. Tyler had eyeballed it as he sat down, wondering if he should move it out of the way to make room for his legs or use it.

"It's a cultural revolution Italian," the assistant said. "It's a replica, so it's OK to put your feet on it." Tyler looked at her, trying to hold back the skepticism he felt for this individual. He wondered how anyone ended up in a job like this, taking notes and trying to seem important to musicians. It could only be for the money and maybe the chance at having influence. He glanced at Josh, who gave him a wide-eyed look that said, "Be cool."

"Thank you," Tyler said to her, trying to sound friendly. "This chair is very comfortable. Where did you say it was from?" An uncomfortable look washed over her face. Either she was not supposed to be talking to the artists or she was clueless to the details of the chair. He glanced over at Rogers. He was looking at her sternly. Note to self: don't talk to the assistants. Rogers doesn't like it, Tyler registered watching the two.

Rogers was thoroughly a marketing guy, right down to the textbook scotch whiskey he offered both Tyler and Josh. Tyler pointed to the X marked on his hand. It had been part of his make-up routine when they played clubs before the Vessel tour. He hadn't been twenty-one at the early shows, and he preferred the waiters not try to serve him alcohol. For at least two more years he had worn the X. Rogers knew what it meant, but since he loathed "uptight" artists, he offered twice.

The marketing fellow had been in the business for twenty-five years. He had started like the young lady sitting next to him–as an assistant. Through persistence, presence, and a willingness to do anything to please an artist or put up with any artist behavior, he had clawed his way to this position. He did not like nor hate the business. It was only money to him. It is true that there was the art and creativity in what they did, but most of those acts failed within eighteen months. It was usually pretty obvious.

This duo was a hard one to call. They were only one album into their contract. They were quirky, and they had an unpredictable audience. It was composed mostly of people under twenty-five years old, who had discovered the band in college. While the international audience showed promise, the bulk of this American audience was notorious for its brief attention span.

Rogers assumed they could get a couple more albums out of these guys, and while he did not treat them with disdain, he also found himself annoyed with them at these meetings, and he usually expressed it.

The time it took to lose his patience with Josh and Tyler usually ran between thirty and forty-five minutes. He was going to have to try to extend it to follow through on his promise to the label. This conversation was important, and Tyler was not going to like it. It was his job to get Tyler on board.