Vinyl

Check this guy out.

You lost?

Looking for sugar.

One thing about a pig, always riding the newest model.

I'm not a narc. I just want an eight ball.

All right.

You know what, fuck it, make it a quarter.

280.

It's what I'm charging. You okay with that?

Of course you are.

Keep the 20.

Ah...

Wall Street man?

I look like a fucking Wall Street man?

Record man.

Record man, ah.

At least till now.

Yeah? What happens now?

What, are you fucking writing a book? Get the fuck out of here.

Fuck!

Fuck.

Oh, yeah.

Homicide. Detective Voehel.

- Hey, come on, guys! - Detective Voehel.

Whoo!

Detective Voehel.

Hello?

Hello?

I said he's stranded in the jungle Flat as he can be

So come on, pretty darling, just you and me

Oh, yeah

Bop shoo-bop, bop shoo-bop

Oh, yeah

Meanwhile, back in the jungle...

Anybody got a ticket? Anybody got a ticket?

You got a ticket? Come on in.

Get in, get in, get in.

Thank you.

Whoa, ticket. Mr. Finestra. Clean your nose.

He's good. He's good. Let him in. Go ahead, go.

I need a ticket. Who's got a ticket?

Let me out of here

Bop shoo-bop, bop shoo-bop

Bop shoo-bop

Meanwhile, back in the jungle

Well, I jumped out the pot

I tried to get away

I'm frantic and worried about what my baby might say

So I jump in the ocean, I'm starting to swim

But my chance of survival was getting mighty slim

I thumbed down a whale that was passing my way

I reached the States in about a half a day

I got to Lovers Lane and my soul was dead

My heart was gone and here's what I said

I said

Baby, baby, your man is no good

Whoa, whoa, baby, baby, yeah

You should've understood

Bop shoo-bop, bop shoo-bop

I says you can trust me for as long as you please

So come on, pretty darling, like it used to be

'Cause I love you

Bop shoo-bop, bop shoo-bop

Yeah, I love you

Don't you know I love you, baby?

Baby, I love you

Yeah, yeah, yeah

Yeah, baby, no, no, baby, yeah

Yeah, no, no, yeah

Well, we can't take her this week

And her friends don't want another speech

Hoping for a better day to hear what she's got to say

About that personality crisis You got it while it was hot

It's always hot, you know

But frustration and heartache is what you got

Yeah, I'm talking about your personality

Yeah, yeah, yeah

Personality

Now you're trying to do something Now you want to be something

You want to be someone who cow wow wows

But you're thinking about the times you did

They took every ounce

Well, it sure gonna be a shame When you start to scream and shout

Wow!

Contradict all the time

You butterflyin' about, you was butterflyin'

Got a personality crisis

Got it while it was hot It's always hot, you know

But frustration and heartache is what you got

Talking about your personality

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Personality

And you're a prima ballerina on a spring afternoon

Change on into the wolfman You howling at the moon

Personality crisis, you got it while it was hot

It's always hot, you know

But frustration and heartache is what you got

Can't you hear me about the personality?

Yeah, yeah, yeah

Yeah, yeah, yeah

When I started in this business, rock and roll was defined like this.

Two Jews and a guinea recording four schvarkzes on a single track.

Now it's changed so much, it's not even recognizable

as the thing people used to be so afraid of.

Now, that's not a judgment.

I mean, I always tried to give the audience what they wanted,

and in return they made me ridiculously stinking fucking rich.

Now, you might want to hate me for that, but before you do,

remember this, you jealous prick.

I earned my right to be hated.

I started at the bottom working every club in New York.

I mopped floors, swabbed ashtrays, hauled kegs.

You think you work hard?

Try scraping Chubby Checker's vomit off the inside of a toilet stall.

By the time it's the early '60s, I get to start my own record company.

Then I built that company into a record label.

And then that label ate up other people's labels.

Devoured them.

I had a golden ear, a silver tongue, and a pair of brass balls.

But the problem became my nose and everything I put up it.

Add to that a couple of disastrous artists' signings

and by 1972 the label was bleeding,

fucking hemorrhaging, money.

But fuck it, that's what partners are for.

Zak Yankovich, my right-hand man and head of payola.

I mean, promotions.

- Mitch, my man. - Oh!

- Zakovich. - How are you, buddy?

- Hey. - Good to see you.

- You, too. - Got a little something for you here.

Oh, don't you always?

Hyman Weiss invented the $100 handshake back in the '50s.

But by 1971...

I don't know why this is in there, yeah, sorry.

...Zak had raised it to 5,000 and a gram of Bolivian dancing dust.

- Hello. Richie says hello. - So thoughtful.

What happened to the girl out front? The one with that sexy lip.

- All right. You know what? Fuck this. - Oh, yeah, fuck it.

- Ah, take care of us now. - Always a pleasure.

What, you thought songs only got played 'cause they're good?

Zak.

You heard of the wolf in sheep's clothing? Zak goes to the same tailor.

Skip Fontaine, head of sales with his magic mustache.

I hate that fucking thing.

All those unsold records the stores send back to us

for a full fucking refund, Skip made them disappear.

Something about the 90-day grace period for receivables, materials lost in transit.

- Some shit like that. - Here you go.

Point is, suddenly a disaster becomes a profit.

But still, it's clear all the book-cooking in the world ain't gonna save the company.

Time to dump and run.

So, this is my story clouded by lost brain cells,

self-aggrandizement, and maybe a little bullshit,

but how could it not be, this fucking life?

Hey, you know what?

Let me just shut up, put the record on for you,

drop the needle, and crank up the fucking volume.

Mr. Finestra. All is in order?

Mr. Finestra? ls there a problem with the document?

American.

I beg your pardon?

My company's name is American Century.

You dropped the "American."

PolyGram is an international conglomerate.

For us, dropping the word "American" makes logical sense.

The money they're paying, call it Nazi World.

Who gives a fuck?

No, yeah. Hey, you're buying it, right?

Richie's just a little sentimental, that's all.

Well, it was my father's band.

American Century?

Jazz ensemble. Played horn.

Ah! American big band.

Does he still play, your father?

Perhaps we should sign him to a record deal, ja?

He died in the war.

Okinawa.

Pearl Harbor... Despicable.

- Yeah. - Yeah. It was awful.

In any event,

looks like you are all soon to be very wealthy men.

And how is the Led Zeppelin deal coming, hmm?

Better than the Hindenburg.

Our guy in the States, he's closing Zeppelin now.

Right now, as we speak. It's a done deal.

Excellent. In the meantime, Mr. Finestra,

we and our Dutch partners hope you are seriously considering

our offer to join our corporate strategy division in New York.

lam definitely, uh, mulling it.

A final formality, if you please.

Our attorney would like to review the balance sheets one last time.

Perhaps next week in New York is convenient, hmm?

Yeah, sure. We can do that. No problem.

- Absolutely. - Meine Herren.

We have ways of making you sign the papers!

We are so fucking close, I can smell it, man.

"Smell it?" It's that German pussy you had last night.

You know what? I hate that fucking mustache.

Let me shave it into a Hitler mustache.

Come on, just for when the Krauts come.