Free Deeper Than Dreams by Jessica Topper Page B

professional on retainer, or the foresight to have Wren’s own deal examined at the same time, unfortunately. But Michael did all right by us. The most important revision he made, and to this day I am in his debt, was to stipulate that ownership of the masters from both the EP and from
Ruins of Decay
be retained by the band.”
    â€œWhy was that so important?”
    â€œWell, when a band breaks big, often several albums into their career, their less-commercially-successful back catalog increases in value. It was money that Wren could never touch, no matter how big he made us.”
    â€œAh, gotcha.”
    â€œOur contract was a five-album deal with two firm, and the label was hot to get the band in the studio. Recording near home rather than being on the road fit in perfectly with Rick’s schedule, as he and Simone had—surprise!—a baby on the way and a wedding to plan. The elder Rottenbergs were none too pleased.”
    â€œDidn’t they care for Simone?”
    â€œOh they were very fond of her, but once they learned Rick planned to juggle the band, the books, a wife
and
a child . . . they knew something was going to give, and from the looks of things, it wasn’t going to be the music.”
    â€œOh man. How old were they?”
    â€œSimone was twenty. Rick, going on nineteen.”
    â€œHer parents must not have been too thrilled, either.”
    Adrian shook his head. “But Rick and Simone were in their own little bubble of bliss and refused to let anyone pop it for them. That’s how things were, back in those days. Me and you and let’s shut out the rest of the world. Until, of course, contractual obligations forced us to tour in support of the album, ad nauseam. None of us saw our families much that year.”
    I turned the page and was surprised to see one of Marissa’s favorite bands during her high school years.
    When the band returned home to London, they learned that while they had been out playing some of their best shows yet, another British band was sashaying through the living rooms of America.
    â€œWhoa, what are they doing in your story?”
    â€œWhile Corroded Corpse really didn’t care what Def Leppard was up to musically, we were intrigued by America’s reception of them via a new channel called Music Television.”
    â€œAh yes. I remember them entering my living room.” I giggled. “My friends and I would rush to my house after school to watch hours of MTV.”
    â€œAch, probably the worst thing that ever happened to rock and roll. Personally, I’d rather watch wallpaper peel. So yes . . . Def Leppard. We didn’t give a toss. But Wren had a way of making us feel we had to. He dangled their
Pyromania
in front of our noses like a carrot. And vowed that if we stuck with him, it would soon be
our
album on the turntables of every teenager on earth.”
    He flipped to the back of the book, revealing a full-color photo of the band labeled “Rock in Rio, 1985: 350,000 strong.” Leather-clad, sweating and screaming for the crowd that spilled well past the recommended bleed lines of the glossy page. Adrian slowly shook his head, as if he could scarcely wrap it around the notion. “And well . . . you know the sordid story from hereon.”
    â€œYet here you are.”
    â€œAs are you.” He smiled and caressed my knee. “Your chariot awaits.”
    ***
    One spell was broken, yet another began as Adrian’s doorman ushered us through the heavy brass entryway of his building. Manhattan was alive at street level, the night’s pace frantic in every direction. Headlights swept north and south, and to the east loomed the dark leafy wilderness of Central Park; the valley I had stared down at from high windows today was now a backyard filled with secrets.
    Mixed feelings slowed my steps. Was all this fuss just preparation? Adrian buttering me up, just to tell me he was