"Fxxk, such a famous newspaper is as unprincipled as those tabloids." Seeing the situation was not right, Phil hurriedly leaned over. "According to common sense, they shouldn't be so harsh on you. Your reputation on the West Coast is not bad, and the Los Angeles Times' base is all those leftists."
"Who knows?" Leon spread his hands.
Either the media responsible for the interview was bribed by his opponents, or they wanted to forcibly leech off the heat.
Like all traditional print media, this newspaper with the largest circulation on the West Coast is facing a huge crisis under the impact of social media.
For the first time since 1990, the Sunday circulation fell below 1 million copies.
The number of editorial staff has been reduced from a peak of 1,000 in the late 1990s to less than 600.
Currently, there are many capital parties eager to move in the market, wanting to take this opportunity to pocket this 130-year-old newspaper.
As soon as Leon left, as expected, he received a call from Tim immediately. "What happened? I'm in Los Angeles; do you want me to come to you now?"
His tone was a bit complaining. Having been deeply cultivated in this industry for more than twenty years, he has cooperated with quite a few first-line superstars, but he has never dealt with a character like Leon.
Although Leon is not a gangsta rapper, the frequency of causing trouble is a level higher than those nggas.
In terms of notoriety, in the entire history of the music scene, probably only Frank Sinatra, who had the dual identity of superstar and Mafia boss, can match him—their personas and styles of conduct are almost identical.
In the 1940s, anyone who offended Sinatra would face immediate retaliation.
Comedian Jackie Mason was shot by a gunman as soon as he returned to his hotel room just because he mocked him on a talk show. Even after escaping by luck, he still had no peace.
He was beaten unconscious several times and almost went to see God.
The FBI released investigation files on Sinatra totaling 2,403 pages. In this regard, Leon did much more cleverly—music fans all over the world know that he was involved in multiple shooting cases in the entertainment industry, but no one can find direct evidence.
"It's over, Tim. That female reporter is a btch; she didn't want to talk about music at all, just wanted to humiliate me." Leon complained: "I thought you would have coordinated the interview content with the Los Angeles Times in advance."
"Wait... something must have gone wrong here." On the other end of the phone, Tim touched his head.
The Los Angeles Times is not a tabloid; it can be considered one of the few serious media outlets on the West Coast.
Such interviews generally have strict red lines; the host asks questions according to the script, and the celebrity answers according to the prepared answers.
"That reporter almost pointed at my nose and sprayed me as a vampire relying on women for traffic, a scumbag who abandons women..."
"I will communicate with them seriously about this issue; there must be an explanation for this!" Tim was depressed. The purpose of promoting the new song was not achieved in the interview, and the media caught him by the braid (found a fault).
Unsurprisingly, tomorrow's Los Angeles Times entertainment headlines will feature eye-catching titles like "Superstar Leon Smith Throws Tantrum, Sprays Reporter and Leaves Angrily," "Ruthless Scumbag Breaks Defense and Runs Wild, Revealing the Inside Story of Leon and Robbie's Breakup," etc.
The sluggish newspaper sales will climb a big step.
"No need; if they want traffic, let them write it." Leon said, "How much sales they get, we can get equal benefits."
"This..." Tim rarely saw a public figure who cared so little about reputation like him.
As an old-school manager, he experienced the heyday of the American music scene in the 80s and 90s.
In that era, even rock singers cherished their feathers very much, trying to avoid media reports of their scandals of alcoholism, drug abuse, and promiscuity.
For idol singers like "Britney Spears," scandals are enough to destroy their entire career.
The last superstar who played black traffic so thoroughly has to be traced back to Madonna.
After a few seconds of silence, Tim asked: "Really just let them report? If you have time, you can meet me now. I will go to the editor-in-chief of the Los Angeles Times to ask about this face to face!"
"I said no need." Leon glanced at his watch. "I don't have time now; I have some things to deal with, private matters."
After hanging up the phone, he got into the business van and asked Jorge to go straight to Taylor's mansion in Beverly Hills.
To guard against the paparazzi in Los Angeles, which are more numerous than flies, he entered the mansion through the back door as discussed on the phone.
After sneaking in like a thief, he was immediately stunned by Taylor's attire.
She wore a pink short-sleeved T-shirt on her upper body, using the same fabric as yoga pants to fit tightly with her body.
Her lower body was a miniskirt with sneakers, revealing her long legs over 110 cm.
"Honey~" The moment Taylor jumped up to ask for a hug, he could even glimpse the curve of her buttocks through the raised skirt hem.
"Honey, why are you sticky?" After a brief hug, Leon noticed that Taylor was almost soaked all over, sweat constantly sliding down her skin.
A blush dyed her fair face, and her body emitted heat as if she had just undergone strenuous exercise.
"I was practicing tennis?" Taylor showed a proud smile, waving the tennis racket in her hand.
"Tennis? I didn't see that you were a sports expert."
"Serena taught me; she is the best tennis player in history!" Saying that, she dragged Leon's arm to the tennis court. "Want to play two rounds with me?"
"Okay..." Leon knew nothing about tennis, but under her enthusiastic offensive, he couldn't resist at all.
Serena Williams is the number one figure in women's tennis today, winning four consecutive Grand Slam singles titles from the 2002 French Open to the 2003 Australian Open.
After achieving the cross-year Grand Slam, this unprecedented achievement was named after her, called the "Serena Slam."
Before Serena, tennis was not very popular in the United States, but it was a veritable super project in Europe.
Europeans often mocked this: Americans only like barbarian sports that emphasize physical confrontation like ice hockey, football, and basketball.
With Serena's sudden emergence, the popularity of tennis in the United States increased rapidly, especially in the rich circle.
Leon often saw photos of female stars like Heard and Megan Fox wearing revealing clothes and playing tennis with middle-aged investors on social media.
"With you here, it seems I don't need this anymore." Taylor pointed to the serving machine.
"I advise you to practice with the machine; I've never played this thing," Leon said.
"It doesn't matter; I can teach you."
Across the net, Taylor kissed him lightly on the cheek.
"Okay, I might spend more time picking up balls than playing later; be mentally prepared..."
"I'll teach you how to hold the racket first." Taylor handed over a racket, teaching hand in hand. "Start with the most basic [Continental] grip."
Leon followed the instruction, putting the racket face down, the palm contacting the plane of the handle, ensuring the thumb and the other four fingers were evenly distributed.
"Very good, looks like you are talented." Taylor breathed hot air into Leon's ear, their bodies pressing together. "When counterattacking, you can also use both hands to hold the racket; this hits the ball faster."
Seeing her serious look, Leon couldn't help teasing: "You look like a real tennis coach."
"Don't you believe me? I was taught by Serena." Taylor said, "You should pay me!"
"Of course I will pay, but maybe in some special way..." Saying that, his hand became restless again, sliding down Taylor's waist.
Just as he approached the danger zone, Taylor pressed the racket against his chest, separating the distance between the two.
Her expression was as serious as participating in the Wimbledon final. "You have to prove your learning results first."
"No problem."
The hard court was baked hot by the sun. Taylor and Leon stood at their respective baselines.
Taylor crouched, ready to toss the ball and swing at any time.
"Swing when you see the ball, just hit it back, right?" Leon asked while turning the racket.
"Yes, but your shot must go over the net."
Leon understood; isn't tennis just an enlarged version of ping pong?
"Ready?" Taylor tossed the ball, legs pushing off the ground, swinging with all her might.
Smack— Her hitting action was smooth, and the muscle lines bursting on her thighs at the moment of jumping were no less than professional tennis players.
But the hitting power was obviously insufficient; Leon could easily judge the landing point of the ball.
"Just this?" He moved quickly to the left baseline position, swinging back with both hands.
Just when he felt proud of this hit, the ball unsurprisingly hit the net at the center line.
He could only obediently run to the vicinity of the center line to pick up the ball, repeating this process for a long time afterward.
Twenty minutes later, he slowly got used to the rhythm. At this time, the physical advantage of men was reflected.
Although Taylor had two and a half years of practice time and the best tennis coach in the United States, physical strength is harder to train than technique.
Two long legs flew up and down in the court. Finally, her physical strength couldn't support it, and she threw down the racket and sat on the court.
"Can't do it anymore? I just found my state." Leon approached, the corners of his mouth rising to reveal a triumphant smile.
"I was afraid you would lose too shamefully; you lost every service game of yours." Taylor rolled her eyes, sweat soaking every inch of her skin.
"Maybe I'm not good at tennis, but I have a master-level understanding of another sport you are interested in." Leon took a bottle of Gatorade from the sundry basket on the side of the court and handed it over.
"A sport I'm interested in?" Taylor searched repeatedly in her mind, stunned not understanding which sport he was talking about.
Except for being obsessed with tennis following the trend recently, there is almost no sport that interests her.
In her spare time, she likes to write songs, play guitar, pet cats, lie in bed and chat about gossip with best friends; she is a standard homebody.
Leon pointed to a piece of grass ten meters away from the tennis court, where Taylor practiced yoga daily.
"You mean yoga?"
"Yes, remember when I first came to your house, you were practicing yoga? At that time, I told you that no one in the world knows yoga better than me."
After the millennium, there was a wave of Indian immigration in North America, with tens of millions of Indians pouring into North America.
In the United States, they are the third-largest immigrant group after Mexico and El Salvador.
In Canada, their total number exceeds 2 million, accounting for more than 5% of Canada's total population, and this is just the registered immigrants on the surface.
More fortunately, they caught up with the woke reform of the Democratic Party, and the leftists in developed countries cheered.
Large enterprises across the United States, especially technology companies in Silicon Valley, introduced immigrant groups in large numbers, actively responding to political correctness in employee skin color.
Compared with other immigrant groups, most Indians are proficient in English and have taken advantage of this environment.
Almost all internet companies in Silicon Valley have Indian executives, and many have reached the position of CEO.
The ancient Indian exercise "Yoga" also became popular, becoming the lifestyle of middle-class women in the United States in the 21st century.
They touted yoga as the mobilization of internal body energy, a magical spell to achieve humor balance and nature.
Leon turned up his nose at this statement, seeing through it but not saying it.
Yoga is basically a bedroom technique invented by ancient Indian women to please nobles and slave owners; many difficult movements are basically self-mutilation.
It can't be done without flexibility training from childhood.
"What? Don't you believe it?" Leon noticed Taylor suddenly blushing, which aroused his curiosity.
She is not a conservative woman; she shouldn't be blushing and heart-beating just practicing yoga with a man.
"No, I'm just a little tired; let's wait a while." Taylor hurriedly tidied up her skirt and got up from the ground, her cheeks flushed.
She leaned on Leon's shoulder, and the two entered the house closely together.
"Everything you told me before came true..." Taylor brought two cups of coffee, her brows furrowed, completely lacking the joy on the tennis court just now.
"What happened?"
"Scott wants to sell the master rights of my first three albums to Braun..."
"Fxxk, this bastard..." Leon took a sip of coffee and couldn't help cursing.
Everyone in the circle knows that the small church of Big Machine Records cannot keep the archangel Taylor. The three major record giants have long coveted this sales queen of the 21st century.
Once Taylor leaves, Big Machine Records will become a worthless empty shell.
Scott's idea is very simple—before Taylor determines to jump ship or gets poached by other record companies, squeeze the maximum value out of her!
"I don't want to see this happen. As you said, I am doing my best to prevent this from happening." Taylor said.
"How to avoid it? Are you really going to spend 200 million dollars to buy those masters?" Leon said, "Don't be silly; those were originally your works. Besides, they aren't worth that much money at all. I think Scott and Braun are putting on a show for you to see, squeezing your value to the greatest extent."
Taylor was silent for a long time, struggling internally. On the one hand, she didn't believe that Scott, the boss she had followed since she was a teenager, would be so greedy.
But she was more willing to believe Leon. So far, every word the other party said has come true.
"I was thinking, I have a lot of money in my bank account, and using some real estate for loans should be about enough..."
"Don't be silly; do you have no concept of this number?" Leon just established a copyright management company and knows the profitability of copyright very well.
In the streaming era, the priority of master rights is even higher than songwriting copyrights.
After leaving Roc Nation, the income generated by the debut album Demons, into which he poured his heart and blood, has almost nothing to do with him.
Even if the works in this album are played in any commercial scene, users need to pay the copyright owner.
But anyway, three albums can't be worth 200 million dollars, even if they are Taylor Swift's albums.
The payback period is too long.
Unless she can become a global phenomenal superstar like Mariah Carey, Madonna, or Michael Jackson in the future, and her works endure for decades.
Leon pulled her into his arms and comforted: "Don't worry, I will think of a way..."
"Really, honey?" She stared at Leon infatuatedly, with light in her eyes.
"Of course, no one knows how to deal with scumbag bastards better than me..."
Although Leon didn't specify what the so-called way was, these words gave Taylor great confidence.
She couldn't help kissing his neck, murmuring: "I'm lucky to have you by my side at this time."
After the strenuous exercise just now, neither of them had time to take a shower. Plus the affectionate atmosphere now, the temperature in the living room couldn't be suppressed even by the air conditioner, soaring by two degrees.
Leon felt dizzy, followed by unbearable thirst, his throat dry and itchy.
He suddenly got up and pressed Taylor onto the sofa.
The sudden reckless move made Taylor exclaim: "Wait!"
"What's wrong?"
"Want to take a shower first?"
No one can stop at such a heady moment, especially because the hormones emitted by exercise are dazzling.
"No!" Leon refused sternly, breaking the seal for Taylor.
The secret hidden under the tennis skirt stunned him, freezing in place and forgetting to attack.
"This..."
At this moment, he finally knew why Taylor's attention was always unfocused when playing ball, looking down at her skirt from time to time.
Also understood why she refused yoga training.
"She really didn't lie to me..."
Under the tennis skirt was the new style from Wicked Angel; the pure white pearls looked particularly playful.