The Space Between

In the '60's,

a soulful and brooding singer-songwriter

named Micky Adams burst from the folk scene

and onto the pop charts with a string of hits.

By the early '70's, he was a legend.

Critics were comparing his lyrics to Baudelaire's poetry.

By 1973, Micky Adams had won eleven Grammys.

By 1974, he had sold over 70 million records.

And by 1975, he was off-the-grid: a ghost.

I was in diapers.

When I met Micky Adams, he tried to teach me

what music is, that the wind is the world breathing

and sometimes you can even hear it sing.

What the fuck did I need to know any of that for?

It was 1996, and I was in the music business.

Johnny Depp owns this place.

I had a drink with him once.

He quietly made me feel like an idiot.

Space Hog, big fuckin' jam, man.

Yeah, fuckin'-A right?

Right over there? River Phoenix flamed out

never to rise from the ashes.

They say he died for our sins.

Thanks, Bud.

I don't think that's gonna cover it.

To me, guys like Micky Adams were ancient history,

and I was focused on the future:

the next Nirvana, Weezer, No Doubt.

That's what I was looking for.

Can I get a vodka rocks?

Vodka Rocks, a great name for a band.

Pectorals meets The Clash, tip of the hat to ZZ Top.

Thank you.

Rock 'n' roll is here to stay.

Life is a disease and the only cure is rock 'n' roll.

I have seen the future of rock 'n' roll.

Landau!

About Springsteen?

Fuck off.

Charlie Porter. Indigo Records.

Hi. Charlie Porter. I'm Cory.

Think it was Dylan that said, "When opportunity knocks,

don't be too stoned to answer."

Dylan never said that, but if he was here right now,

I bet he'd say, "Fuck off!"

One day, and I hope it's soon,

I'm going to smash a pie in this kid's face.

Three of you are really good.

Um, sorry about that.

Rocket is a horrible drunk and a worse boyfriend.

And an even worse guitar player.

He's clunky, and he's derivative,

and you blow him off the stage.

I actually don't blow him anywhere anymore.

We broke up.

Can I get you a drink?

Beer.

Beer?

Can I have a beer please?

Thank you.

You know I don't think he knows it yet, though.

That we broke up.

We just kind of entered the sexual-tension-in-the-band

part of the rock 'n' roll cliché.

I could help with the lead- singer-becomes-a-star

while-her-boyfriend-spends-his time-in-rehab-teaching-fellow

juicers-Voodoo-Child-on-a second-hand-Strat...

part of the cliché.

Well, do you think we're any good?

I think your band can't decide if it's Guns N' Roses or Hole.

Whatever it is you're all trying to be, but never will be.

You aren't very nice.

I'm not paid to be nice.

Well, I'm not very nice either, but I don't get paid for it.

Part of the not-getting-paid-at-all cliché.

I can help you with that too.

Call me.

There you go.

Josh.

Steph!

Oh, you look really good today.

You think I like doing this?

Don't you think I'd rather be on the floor watching the Lakers?

What's happening with, Micky Adams?

I-In terms of...

I-In terms of dropping him, you fucking moron.

Cobain may be gone, but somebody's got to keep Courtney

in smack and ripped stockings.

Well...

And yet again, I'm forced to deal with the specter

of Micky Adams.

Has Micky Adams crossed him?

Micky Adams was my friend. I managed Micky Adams.

I got him high, and I got him laid,

and I watched him get a quarter million a year in perpetuity.

And now Micky Adams haunts me because no one seems to know

how to get rid of him.

Well, we've tried. He has no agent.

He has no lawyer.

Does he have an address?

Yes.

Then why don't you go there and drop him?

We've tried. We've sent people.

- And? - Well, no one...

No one comes back.

I'll do it.

- Who are you? - I'm Charlie.

- He works in the mail room. - Yeah, he's nobody.

Is that what you are, Charlie?

Nobody?

Nobody's fool.

Why don't you two go?

How long have you been in the mail room?

Long enough to know better.

Want my job? You can have it.

Get your shit outta here by lunch.

This fucking business,

I feel like I'm riding a dinosaur

into the jaws of the apocalypse.

Come here. I want you to hear something.

This is Micky Adam's latest offering.

It's a CD he calls, "Doors."

Some kind of homage to Jim Morrison.

No, it's a very real homage to masturbation.

- Listen. First track. - Homage.

Second track.

Third track.

This is my personal favorite here.

What is that?

It's a coffin. Unfortunately, it's not his.

If it were, he'd sell more than two CD's in a decade.

And finally, ten minutes of a refrigerator opening and closing.

Boy, is he nuts.

Yeah, he's a big crazy baby.

Uploaded leftover from a drug-addled, pampered,

completely out of control time in music.

Stephanie!

The bill for which has somehow landed on my desk.

Go out to Montecito. Get that big baby to countersign

that buyout agreement that releases us from blah blah blah blah...

and then maybe...

maybe your mail room days are over, Charlie.

You got it.

That's the last great thing he did.

Give it a listen on the way up to Montecito.

Maybe there's a clue in there on how to dump his oatmeal-y ass.

How soon do you want this done?

- Yesterday. - I'm already there.

Talk to me.

- Guess I shouldn't be shocked. - By?

The fact that a record guy lied to me.

Not that you're even a record guy in the first place.

How are things in the mail room?

Busted.

- So busted. - Things in the mail room are temporary.

Fuck!

That old man is out of his fucking skull!

I'm Charlie Porter. Um, hello?

Jesus Christ!

Fuck!

Who the hell are you?

I'm Charlie.

- Are you one of them? - What are you doing?

You could have electrocuted yourself.

You A&R piece of shit.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to stay under?

How much willpower it takes?

I was recording, you dipshit!

What the hell do you want?

I'm from Indigo Records.

You actually sound proud of that, Sparky.

Okay, Mr. Adams, we have some business to discuss.

I'm an artist. I don't discuss business.

With all due respect, I don't think I would call

the sound of doors opening and closing art.

I'll tell you something, Sparky.

There's nothing more evocative

than the sound of doors opening and closing.

Nothing more hopeful and nothing more final.

When you reach my age, if your callowness and stupidity hasn't already done you in,

which is something devoutly to be wished...

maybe you'll understand that.

I doubt it.

Hungry?

What is this?

It's a spaghetti and mayonnaise sandwich. My fave.

Lowell George turned me on to 'em.

Eat.

Is this Sprite?

I haven't had Sprite in a long time.

Sure, it could be. Sprite, yeah.

The new Spritelier Sprite.

You want to know why you don't have any hair on your ankles?

I didn't know I don't have hair on my ankles.

How did you know that?

I'm an artist. I notice everything.

'Cause you're getting old.

I'm 23.

Well, just 'cause you're young, doesn't mean you're not getting old.

You think you're free from the vagaries, man?