December 19, 2002:
Sketch: Hill.
Frat-bellied Texan oil-boy damaged by art. An ordinary scion would pursue power; Hill pursues recognition for a mediocre and shallow talent exhausted within a few bars. His money allows him to exploit the skills of others, through whom he occasionally achieves small successes adequate to keep his name current in niche media circles, where folks are generally too busy to ask questions. He'd hoped to have the same relationship with you. Fooled him.
Hill's one real talent is for keeping his options open, usually through ambiguity and lack of written contracts. For the most part this serves him well, particularly among the inexperienced wannabe-types he frequents. Sometimes it backfires.
Tall thin man in a swivel chair, office cubicle, Golden Gate University Office of Information Technology, about 1993. Black denim jeans, black Converse high tops, black t-shirt, black leather jacket, jet-black hair now scraggling into the standard geek-boy pony tail. Holes where earrings used to be. He's between uniforms, morphing from rocker bad-boy to technology dude. Right now the two roles overlap.
Phone rings. "Yep," he barks. He scowls.
Hill's expat Texas semi-twang in the receiver. Big Bopper! Haven't heard from ya. Wazza matter? Pissed at Grant? Is he hard to work with? Want me to lean on him?
Hardly. Grant's an idiot but you're a crook.
Stunned, pause, regroups. Now look, we can work something out —
— We can work nothing out. You're a crook. End of story, end of relationship.
Pause, controlling his anger. Now look, we have a contract —
— We have no contract. I have nothing with your signature on it. You have nothing with my signature on it. Combine that with felony extortion and tell me what the judge'll say?
Pause, seething. Now look, I don't like being called —
— Then don't bother me anymore. Simple. Now fuck off.
You can hear the receiver slam all the way to Lubbock.
One day Hill informs me that, as Producer of the project, he'll generously split the copyright of the songs I've written. 50 / 50, my name and his. I tell him that's illegal, is called "payola," and went out of style in the late '50s. He mentions it would be possible to replace my songs altogether. I mention he's just replaced me, and my songs with me.
Sadly, his manipulativeness destroyed a friendship. For years I'd carried my partner, an old friend I loved and respected, but whose reliability was, let's say, minimal. I'd become so deft at mimicking his styles that I'd re-record his sketchy guitar and keyboard doodles after he left the studio, turning his germs of ideas into polished performances. Hill was blind to this dynamic, concluding arrogantly that my partner was the musician, I was the studio button-pusher. He dangled unspecific promises of money before my partner's tantalized eyes, and off they went. Predictably, my ex-partner failed to deliver. Predictably, Hill never paid him. Predictably, the project fell apart following my departure.
From time to time Hill's name turns up on lists of "most important" media movers and shakers within certain industry niches. You can bet it's because someone anonymous turned their work over to him, naively expecting it to be some kind of career break. Don't hold your breath.