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her square in the face. “Taking a presumptive leap, I’m going to assume you don’t want the legacy of your music to be recorded tracks full of nothing but the same guitar tricks that every other guitarist pull out of their bag and play over and over again. The music industry has an overflowing supply of mindless drivel, and don’t get me wrong – I, by no means, think your writing is mindless, butvirtuosity is in short supply today and what’s worse, it’s not readily recognizable to our unsuspecting consumer-driven public.”
    Eddie continued, “Remember what I told you last night? There are moments on your previous CD when I hear hints of brilliance, but it passes almost as soon as it begins, and these new tracks . . . well . . . you’re doing it again. Your riffs are treading a heavily beaten path. I’ve heard it a hundred times. You’ve just prettied it up with a bunch of effects and spit polish. Granted, it’s metal, but it’s been disguised with so much gloss, it’s like first date music—there’s no substance underneath . . . it’s a padded bra.”
    “The new tracks you heard this evening are a padded bra ?”
    “That track, ‘Magic Menagerie.”
    “You don’t like it?”
    “It’s a throwback to KISS with a little Gary Glitter thrown in for good measure. The track ‘Baal & Chain’ . . . it’s the same as ‘Rock Mondo’ from your last CD. ‘Night Walkers,’ that one could be better if you took the five chord down a half step, making the progression a one, five, four -- with a flatted fifth – more Black Sabbath, less glam.”
    “All that, huh?”
    “Slade, don’t be fake. I don’t just hear it—I feel it . . . you’re smarter than that. When you give me the most flattering version of yourself, give an honest one.” Pausing, she told him, “But you’ve got—I don’t know—mass marketing jitters with all its deficiencies and it’s totally cluttering up your creativity.”
    “I see,” he said, “well, was there anything that you did like?”
    “ Yes. ” Eddie was glad to give him the good news. She repeated his lyrics:
    Footprint of life
    Proof of mine
    I die every day
    Counting time
     
    “And that chorus:
    My soul unsublimed
    A helpless crime
    Tearing hinges off doorways
    I still stand in line –
    Going nowhere, fast
     
    “Ah,” he smiled, “You liked ‘Counting Time’.”
    “Slade, it was by far the best thing I heard—it could be better than ‘Love Slave.’ I want more of that.”
    “Uh, huh,” Slade sat thinking, thinking, thinking.
    “But, now, I really do have to go home.”
    “Oh, right.” Slade started the motor and began the drive back. As they stopped at a light, he asked, “Do you always give this unyielding opinion to the rest of your band?”
    “I just got in with them. That’s why I have the photo shoot on Friday. I’m the new girl. I don’t have a clue how all this is going to pan out, yet. I just finished a new song yesterday and fixed one of their old existing songs. It was awful, now, it’s less awful, I guess. That’s why I got the gig in the first place. I have to write these Katz a commercial hit so they can plaster their names on my writing and become famous .”
    “Isn’t that what you’re trying to do as well, the fame thing?”
    “Personally, I have no desire to become “face” famous. I’d rather be “name” famous, songwriter famous, Andrew Lloyd Weber famous. I’ll bet he can go into the supermarket and buy a loaf of bread without getting mobbed. I want to be able to walk to my mailbox, take out a royalty check and do it wearing bunny slippers.”
    “It doesn’t work that way. Anybody who has a pair of eyes in their head is going to take one look at you and, I’m sorry, but you can kiss the bunny slippers goodbye. You seem to be rather chummy with Raven.”
    “Raven, yes, the other two, no.”
    “They can’t be that bad,” Slade softly commented, watching the light.
    “We’ll find out. I’ve got my