Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 8: Contract

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

The offices of Bowery Beat Records in New York City was a busy place, even against the backdrop of a metropolitan area known all over the world. Their focus on new-age entertainment used a business model that was thoroughly modern and timely. No one involved in the operation had any illusions about tackling the dominance of dinosaur labels and their huge, legacy catalogs. Yet by providing access to streaming services, one-off releases, and sharp promoters of live events, nationwide, they were a factor of consequence in the marketplace. Indie artists flocked to their label with the sort of ingenuity and eagerness that had long ago disappeared from the rosters of competitors. In addition, they scouted talent wisely. At isolated venues in every state, where rhythms of social upheaval and creative zeal were strong. Where audiences received the joyful exuberance of yonder days, in prodigious quantities. And where unique noises and protestations could be heard that shattered stale paradigms of art and public behavior.

 

Seely Frye was the mastermind of this work-in-progress. But she considered herself to be more of a guide than a leader. A library scholar, channeling work already brimming with value and importance.

 

I had been awake for about an hour, when she dropped an invitation at my Messenger account. Something that made me remember her previous attempt at making contact. A full pot of coffee had barely affected the gloomy grayness inside my head. So, as I read her virtual note, over and again, a sense of disbelief took hold. The thought that someone, somewhere, would watch one of my homemade YouTube videos, and be moved enough to reach out with a proposed contractual agreement, seemed quite ridiculous. Yet she included a number where I could reach her, for further discussion.

 

I bristled at the confident tone of this bold gesture. Most likely, a sales pitch from the dirty underbelly of hucksters and hawkers who liked to troll naïve troubadours and their bandmates. But when checking with my long-time associate Yarl Trite, in the Finger Lakes, I received confirmation that BBR was indeed, a legitimate enterprise.

 

My pal was a record collector, and veteran of hundreds, even thousands, of Rock, Jazz, and Reggae performances. A fellow who had figured out the trick to enjoying physical longevity, while maintaining a fresh attitude toward being alive.

 

He left a quick response after I had called, and missed making contact.

 

“Hey Rod, I got your voicemail. Bowery Beat is real, I have some of their releases. Like a CD box set from Salamander Sacrament, they’ve got a big following in Maryland, I’ve heard. Or Atomic Gelatin, that bunch broke up after playing at CBGB in the 70s, and reformed about five or six times afterward. They actually have a few titles on 8-track tape, believe it or not. Maybe intended as a spoof on Record Store Day, I don’t know. But I thought it was hilarious. Worth checking out, if you’re still into that kind of stuff. Now, who called you from their headquarters? A woman named Frye? I think she’s a distant cousin to Martin Fry who was in the group ABC, but her branch of their fam dropped the letter e, for whatever reason. Trust me though, they’re legit. Shit buddy, I don’t figure you get ten hits on your video channel from anybody in Ohio. You’re practically anonymous out there. Let her talk! Give the lady a listen, what can you lose? It can’t be much fun sitting in that singlewide trailer!”

 

My face reddened a bit upon hearing his jab about my home residence. But what he observed made good sense. So, as the morning brightened with more caffeine and a break in the clouds overhead, I reached for my cellular device.

 

The line rang several times, before being picked up by an automated answering service. When I punched in a client number to their personnel exchange, I got another series of tones. Then, a soft, buttery voice filled my ear. I could nearly catch the tickle of her breath with each spoken word.

 

“This is Ms. Seely! How may I help you today?”

 

I have always been awkward in social situations, particularly when making a cold call. My mouth had turned salty and dry. I actually wished for a brew from my refrigerator.

 

“I umm, am responding to a message you left here. This is Rodman Swindle, I live in a county near Cleveland, south of Lake Erie...”

 

I heard a squeak of recognition. Followed by a deep breath and a tapping of nails on a desktop.

 

“SWINDLE! IS THAT YOUR REAL NAME? FOR FUCK’S SAKE, TELL ME IT’S NOT A MADE-UP PRANK!”

 

I sighed heavily. My lips tasted like sand and dust.

 

“Yeah, that’s a genuine handle there... not a joke. I got teased quite a bit in grade school!”

 

Frye sharpened her tone as if concentrating on a job list for the day.

 

“I’ve been trying to find you for a few weeks. I must say that your footprint on social media is very limited. That made my staff surmise that you weren’t a young songwriter, to be blunt. Those kids are more savvy about the trade. They know a lot, right from the get-go. Their promotional strategies are really very interesting!”

 

I wasn’t sure if her comment was intended as an insult, or a compliment.

 

“Well, yes... I’m in my 60s, if that means anything.”

 

The record maven laughed and whistled before continuing her hustle.

 

“Okay, I can appreciate that, Rod. With such things in mind, let me get right down to business. My label makes its bones from innovation. We operate differently than the ancients. Our promotions, our concerts, our product line, everything is based on artistry. It’s a matter of mining a groove, do you understand? That might be doing pop-up shows on a street corner, or grabbing photo-ops where they are least expected, or even collaborating with inspired vandaleros and their spray-paint canvases, wherever they might be...”

 

I had become lost in her terminology.

 

“Vandaleros? Who? What?”

 

Frye was amused by my cluelessness. She snorted and rustled paperwork on her desk.

 

“They are urban activists. Performance artists, of an aggressive and energetic sort. I think we need to have a real meeting, Rod. How long would it take you to get here... to New York City?”

 

My stomach had begun to ache. What I really wanted was a cold beer, and a quiet interlude on my front porch, alone. Yet now, that seemed unlikely to transpire.