Rebirth 1991: Keep the Fame, I'll Take the Royalties

The Interscope Ambush

The sun rising over Queens was a muted, smog-filtered yellow, doing nothing to improve the depressing aesthetic of the motel lobby Elias had temporarily commandeered as his East Coast headquarters.

It was 7:00 AM. He hadn’t slept.

In his right hand, Elias held a thick, manila envelope containing the heavy, quarter-inch analog master tape of ”Creep”—a multi-million-dollar asset he had successfully extorted from Electric Lady Studios hours ago. In his left hand, he held a stack of legal forms.

He approached the reception desk. The night manager was asleep in his chair, drooling slightly onto a copy of the New York Post.

Elias didn’t gently wake him. He slapped the stack of papers onto the counter with a sharp, violent crack.

The manager jolted awake, frantically wiping his chin. ”What?! Who’s there? The safe is on a time lock!”

”I am not here to rob you, though considering your hourly rate, it would be a mercy killing,” Elias stated, his voice a flat, deadpan baritone. He pointed to the massive, ancient fax machine sitting behind the desk. ”I require the immediate use of that telecommunications device. I am transmitting Form SR and Form PA to the United States Copyright Office in Washington D.C.”

The manager squinted, his brain struggling to process the European teenager demanding federal transmission rights before breakfast. ”The fax machine? Kid, that costs money. It’s two dollars for the first page, and a dollar for every page after. Out of state long-distance rates.”

Elias’s jaw tightened. A genuine, physical spasm of pain shot through his chest.

He looked at the five pages of legal documents in his hand. Five dollars. It was highway robbery. It was a localized monopoly exploiting his desperation. But without the time-stamped transmission receipt proving that Sovereign Media legally owned 100% of the Publishing and Master rights to the song, walking into a record label was equivalent to walking into a shark tank covered in chum.

With agonizing slowness, Elias reached into his pocket and placed a crumpled five-dollar bill on the counter. He smoothed it out as if he were saying goodbye to an old, dear friend.

”Transmit them,” Elias ordered, his eyes dark and brooding. ”And if the machine jams and ruins the fidelity of my signature, I am going to throw it into the East River, with you attached to the power cord.”

The manager sweatdropped, quickly grabbing the papers and feeding them into the machine.

As the machine whirred and screeched, executing the transaction, the familiar, terrifying sound echoed in Elias’s skull.

[CHA-CHING!]

[SYSTEM WARNING: SCHEDULED DAILY MAINTENANCE FEE DUE.][DEDUCTING -$50.00 USD FROM LIQUID CASH RESERVE.]

Elias gripped the edge of the cheap formica counter, his knuckles turning white. The fifty dollars vanished from his Los Angeles vault, evaporating into the digital ether. He had just spent five dollars on a fax. He needed two dollars to buy AA batteries for the cheap Walkman he had procured from a pawn shop. His liquid cash, the lifeblood of his daily survival, had dwindled to $50,683.50.

He was rich on paper, but he was starving in the physical world. He needed an advance. He needed a distribution network.

The fax machine spat out a confirmation receipt. Elias snatched it, folding it meticulously into his inner jacket pocket alongside the master tape. The intellectual property was locked.

He walked out of the motel and found a payphone, dropping his last remaining quarter into the slot. He dialed the number for Room 104 back at The Pelican Motel in Los Angeles.

It rang three times before a panicked voice answered.

”Sovereign Media, Paul speaking!”

”Paul. Report,” Elias demanded, leaning against the graffiti-covered phone booth.

”Elias! Thank God!” Paul practically sobbed into the receiver. ”It’s 4:30 in the morning here! I haven’t slept! The phone won’t stop ringing! The Levi’s commercial leaked to an early focus group, and now everyone thinks you’re the next James Dean! I have three agents trying to buy your contract, and Charlize is threatening to stab me if I don’t stop pacing! When are you coming back?!”

”My return is contingent upon securing our audio distribution pipeline,” Elias said calmly. ”I have the master tape. I am currently initiating contact with the target.”

”The target?” Paul asked, his panic spiking. ”Who is the target? Elias, please tell me you aren’t blackmailing another executive. We barely survived CAA!”

”I am not blackmailing him, Paul. I am ambushing him,” Elias corrected smoothly. ”I am targeting Jimmy Iovine.”

There was a profound, suffocating silence on the line.

”Jimmy Iovine,” Paul whispered, his voice trembling. ”The co-founder of Interscope Records? The guy who produces U2 and Tom Petty? The guy who eats indie labels for breakfast? Elias, you can’t just ambush Jimmy Iovine! He’s a titan! He has an army of lawyers! He will crush you into a fine powder and snort you off a boardroom table!”

”He is a titan who desperately needs an anchor in the impending grunge revolution,” Elias analyzed, completely ignoring Paul’s hysteria. ”My Photographic Memory indicates he is currently in New York, scouting talent before the West Coast hip-hop wars consume his schedule. He lunches at Balthazar every Thursday at exactly 1:00 PM. I am going to intercept his soup.”

”Intercept his soup?!” Paul shrieked. ”Elias, I am begging you—”

Elias hung up the phone.

He walked to a nearby bodega, slapped two single dollars onto the counter, and purchased a pack of cheap AA batteries. He loaded them into the bulky, scuffed Walkman, inserted a cassette copy of the master tape, and hit play.

The dark, hyper-dramatic synth chords and his own chilling baritone filled his ears. The audio fidelity on the cheap headphones was terrible, but the sheer, raw emotional gravity of the song was undeniable. It was a masterpiece.

It was time to go fishing for sharks.

Balthazar, located in the heart of SoHo, was a temple of bustling, high-end culinary arrogance. The air was thick with the smell of fresh oysters, expensive wine, and the frantic energy of New York’s elite trying to shout over each other.

Elias van Kempen walked through the revolving doors at exactly 1:15 PM.

He was wearing his faded vintage leather jacket, his distressed jeans, and the authentic, exhausted aura of a man who hadn’t slept. He looked entirely out of place among the tailored suits and designer dresses.

The Maître D’—a tall, imposing Frenchman with a severe haircut—immediately stepped into Elias’s path.

”Monsieur,” the Maître D’ said, his tone dripping with icy rejection. ”I am afraid we are at capacity. And your... attire does not meet our dining standards.”

Elias didn’t stop. He didn’t even look at the man. He simply extended his long arm, placing his hand flat against the Maître D’s chest, and smoothly, relentlessly pushed the man aside without breaking his elegant stride.

”I am not here to dine,” Elias stated, his voice a low rumble of absolute authority. ”I am here to conduct a hostile acquisition.”

The Maître D’ stumbled back, genuinely shocked by the sheer physical and psychological dominance of the teenager. By the time he recovered enough to signal for security, Elias was already weaving through the crowded tables.

Elias scanned the room. His eyes locked onto a corner booth.

Sitting there was a man in his late thirties, wearing a simple, dark baseball cap and a casual jacket. He didn’t look like a corporate executive; he looked like a guy who spent his life in recording studios. But the aura of power radiating from him was palpable. He was holding a glass of sparkling water, listening to an anxious-looking A&R rep talk a mile a minute.

It was Jimmy Iovine.

Elias walked directly toward the table. He didn’t introduce himself. He didn’t wait for a pause in the conversation.

He stepped up to the booth, reached into his jacket pocket, and slammed the cheap, scuffed Walkman down directly onto the white linen tablecloth, right next to Jimmy’s plate of half-eaten steak frites.

The heavy plastic clattered loudly against a wine glass.

The A&R rep froze, his mouth hanging open.

Jimmy Iovine stopped mid-sip. He slowly lowered his glass of water. He didn’t look scared. He looked profoundly, dangerously annoyed. He looked up at Elias, his eyes narrowing from beneath the brim of his baseball cap.

”Who the hell are you?” Jimmy asked, his voice calm, but carrying the weight of a man who could destroy careers with a phone call. ”And why is there a piece of plastic garbage on my table?”

Elias didn’t flinch. He leaned forward, resting both hands on the table, invading the executive’s space.

”I am the sound of your Q3 earnings report, Jimmy,” Elias said, his baritone voice smooth and completely devoid of intimidation. He pointed a long finger at the Walkman. ”Put the headphones on.”

The A&R rep finally found his voice. ”Hey, kid, back off! Security! Get this lunatic out of here!”

Jimmy held up a hand, silencing his rep. He looked at Elias. He saw the striking, unplaceable face, the raw grunge aesthetic, and the terrifying, dead-eyed confidence. Jimmy was a genius at identifying authentic energy, and the kid standing in front of him wasn’t faking it. He was a live wire.

Jimmy looked down at the Walkman. He let out a short, cynical laugh. ”A Walkman ambush? Really? What is this, a demo tape? You and your garage band recorded a track and you think it’s gonna change the world?”

”It is not a demo tape, Jimmy. It is a fully mastered, analog recording executed at Electric Lady Studios,” Elias corrected flawlessly. ”And it isn’t going to change the world. It’s just going to take all of its money. Put the headphones on.”

Jimmy stared at Elias for a long moment. He was a predator, and he recognized another predator.

Slowly, Jimmy reached out. He picked up the cheap foam headphones and placed them over his ears. He looked at Elias with a challenging glare and hit the play button on the Walkman.

Elias stood perfectly still, his hands in his pockets, watching the executive.

For the first five seconds, Jimmy’s expression remained a mask of bored skepticism.

At ten seconds, as the haunting, dark-synth chords kicked in, his brow furrowed slightly.

At twenty seconds, as Elias’s raw, hyper-dramatic baritone vocal hit the first chorus, Jimmy Iovine’s eyes widened. The boredom completely vanished. He stopped chewing. His posture straightened.

He was a man who lived and breathed music. He had produced some of the greatest albums in history. And he instantly, mathematically realized that he was listening to a generation-defining masterpiece. It was dark, it was cinematic, and it was undeniably, terrifyingly commercial.

The song finished.

Jimmy slowly took the headphones off. He placed the Walkman back on the table. He didn’t look at his A&R rep. He looked exclusively at Elias.

”Who wrote that?” Jimmy asked, his voice hushed, the annoyance replaced by the ravenous hunger of a capitalist shark.

”I did,” Elias lied shamelessly, protecting the future integrity of the true author, but claiming the immediate financial leverage.

”Who produced it?”

”I did.”

Jimmy nodded slowly, leaning back in his booth. He had just found the holy grail of the impending 90s music scene, and it had walked right up to his table.

”Sit down, kid,” Jimmy commanded, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. He looked at the A&R rep. ”Get lost. Go wait at the bar.”

The rep scrambled out of the booth, terrified, practically running away.

Elias sat down, crossing his long legs, entirely unbothered by the fact that two massive security guards were now hovering nervously ten feet away, unsure if they should intervene.

”You’ve got balls, walking in here like this,” Jimmy said, pulling a leather-bound checkbook from his jacket. ”The track is good. It’s raw. It needs a proper mix, but the bones are there. I can break it on alternative radio in a month. What’s your name?”

”Elias van Kempen. Sovereign Media,” Elias stated.

”Alright, Elias van Kempen,” Jimmy said, clicking a heavy Montblanc pen. ”I’m not going to bullshit you. Interscope wants that track. We want the album. I’m prepared to offer you a three-hundred-thousand-dollar advance right now to lock you in.”

Three hundred thousand dollars.

It was a staggering, life-changing amount of money. It was the kind of money that made struggling musicians sign their souls away without reading the fine print.

Elias didn’t smile. He didn’t even look at the checkbook. He knew exactly what was coming.

”And the terms?” Elias asked smoothly.

”Standard 360-Deal,” Jimmy replied casually, as if he were discussing the weather. ”Interscope takes the exclusive worldwide distribution rights. We own the Master recordings in perpetuity. We take fifty percent of your Publishing rights. And because we’re investing heavily in your brand, we take a twenty percent cut of your touring revenue, merchandise, and any cross-promotional film or modeling work you do.”

There it was. The trap. The exact same trap that had ruined Elias’s previous life.

Jimmy Iovine wasn’t offering him a partnership. He was offering to buy him wholesale. He wanted to own the song, the voice, and the face, permanently locking Elias into a cycle of infinite debt where the label recouped all costs before Elias ever saw a dime of royalties.

Elias mentally engaged the loan shark. The situation required absolute, unyielding dominance.

[SYSTEM SHOP ACCESSED.][ACTIVATING: DEMONIC NEGOTIATION AURA (DURATION: 5 MINUTES)][COST: -5 CP][CURRENT BALANCE: 0 CP - CRITICAL WARNING!]

[CHA-CHING!]

Elias didn’t care that his CP balance had just hit absolute zero. He didn’t care that he was entirely defenseless against the system’s random trolls for the immediate future.

The air around the booth suddenly turned freezing cold. The ambient noise of the restaurant seemed to aggressively mute itself.

Elias leaned forward, resting his elbows on the white linen tablecloth. His eyes locked onto Jimmy Iovine’s, and the raw, suffocating weight of his Demonic Negotiation Aura crashed over the veteran executive.

Elias smiled. It was a terrifying, predatory expression that belonged on the face of an apex predator.

”Jimmy,” Elias said, his voice dropping into a silken, lethal whisper that made the hair on the back of Jimmy’s neck stand up. ”I believe there is a fundamental misunderstanding regarding the nature of my presence here.”

Jimmy frowned, genuinely unnerved by the sudden, terrifying shift in the teenager’s gravity. ”What misunderstanding?”

”I did not walk into this restaurant to apply for a job,” Elias stated, his words hitting like physical blows. ”I did not come here to become an employee of Interscope Records. I came here to offer you a highly restricted, temporary license to rent my art.”

Jimmy’s jaw tightened. ”Kid, you don’t dictate terms to me. A 360-Deal is the industry standard. Nobody gets a major distribution push without giving up the Masters. You think you’re bigger than the machine?”

”I think your machine is built on the exploitation of the financially illiterate,” Elias countered flawlessly, his intellect operating at lightspeed. ”You want my Masters? No. You want my Publishing? Absolutely not. You want a percentage of my modeling contracts? That is a comedic proposition.”

Elias picked up the cheap Walkman from the table, holding it loosely in his hand.

”Here is the counter-offer, Jimmy,” Elias dictated, completely shameless, reversing the entire power dynamic of the music industry in a single breath. ”You do not own me. Sovereign Media retains 100% of the Master recordings and 100% of the Publishing rights. I have already filed the federal copyright paperwork this morning.”

A massive, highly visible sweatdrop rolled down Jimmy Iovine’s temple. He stared at Elias in absolute shock. The kid had filed his own copyrights? Before even shopping the demo? That was unheard of.

”Interscope,” Elias continued, ”will receive an exclusive, five-year terrestrial and physical distribution license. You will take a fifteen percent distribution fee off the gross sales. In exchange, you will fund the marketing, you will bribe the radio DJs, and you will ensure that ’Creep’ debuts in the top forty. You get to keep your job, and I get to keep my property.”

Jimmy Iovine slammed his hands down on the table, the silverware rattling. His face was purple with rage. ”Fifteen percent?! No Masters?! You are out of your fucking mind! Do you know who I am?! I built this industry! I don’t work for you! I will blacklist that track! I will make sure no radio station in America ever plays your voice!”

Elias didn’t flinch. He slowly stood up, looking down at the furious titan of the music industry. The aura held strong, rendering Jimmy’s threats completely impotent.

”You won’t blacklist the track, Jimmy,” Elias smiled, slipping the Walkman into his jacket pocket. ”Because you know that if you don’t distribute it, I will walk across the street and give it to Tommy Mottola at Sony. And you will have to spend the next two years watching your biggest rival print billions of dollars off a song you let walk away over pride.”

Elias turned on his heel. He didn’t wait for a response.

”Call my office when you are ready to accept my terms,” Elias called out over his shoulder, walking away from the table. ”Sovereign Media. The number is in the book.”

He strode out of Balthazar, leaving one of the most powerful men in music sweating, furious, and absolutely obsessed.

Elias hit the New York pavement, taking a deep breath of the smoggy air. He had done it. He had declared war on the entire music industry model.

He reached into his pocket to check his notebook, and saw the flashing red warning in his peripheral vision.

[SYSTEM STATUS: CP DEPLETED. NO DEFENSIVE HACKS AVAILABLE.]

Elias van Kempen smiled. He had zero points, fifty grand he couldn’t touch, and he had just made a very powerful enemy.

It was turning out to be a highly profitable Tuesday.