The band goes straight back on the airplane. "I think the future can only be positive if we make it that way," Erik theorizes. "Everything has happened so quickly...I see a bright future ahead of us, if we keep our eyes open." I see Erik writing fortune-cookie slogans. He quickly notes that it's all up to O-Town. The band must seize control in its epic battle against mediocrity, inflated egos and the zillions of clones that came before and will come after them.
Three months later, B/M helpfully points out, O-Town is back in New York City. Dan takes control of the screen to share that he never in a million years expected this to happen -- "I'm going to sign my name to a record contract, and in my wildest dreams I never thought I'd be in this position," Dan enthuses. Neither did we, Toothy. Neither did we. This is utter crap. What's up with the three-month fast-forward? I'll wager the impromptu showcase went so badly that no one stepped up to sign O-Town, and B/M glossed over that part to save face. Lou likely had to get down on his hands and knees -- a movement process that itself probably took a good eight weeks or more -- and beg people to put O-Town on their label. Note to B/M: For every triumph, I need about three weeks' worth of tribulation, okay? Thanks.
Back to the jubilation. O-Town has signed with Clive Davis, who once ran Arista. "We're signing under the most famous and respected record executive in the entire world, in history," Jacob boasts. Well, he won't be for much longer. O-Town scampers out of a limousine and enters an office building as Jacob adds, "He's using us to make sure the world knows he's not done." Sanity collapses in tears, sobbing into my shoulder. "Clive, oh Clive, why have you forsaken me?" it wails. The screen graphic tells us Clive now heads a company called J Records, which Jacob probably thinks is a nod to his own impending stardom and fourteen years of musical brilliance. The guys are blown away that the man who "discovered" Whitney Houston and Carlos Santana is now taking an interest in O-Town, but I suppose it makes sense. After all, desperation does breed strange bedfellows. "Here we go, boys!" Erik shouts, turned on by the word "bedfellows." We're informed that Clive searches only for the stars of tomorrow, people playing music that has a signature and will endure. And on the B-Sides of those people's records, there may now be an O-Town single.
The guys look a little different this time around. Trevor's hair is longer, Ashley and Dan both have mini-sideburns that curve back toward their ears and Jacob's hair is long and dyed red. He looks so incredibly repulsive -- kind of like the bastard child of Carrot Top and Macy Gray, conceived while she wore that pimpin' hot-pink afro. The band lines up for a group photo with Clive, because if no one gets photographic proof, the people back home won't believe any of it. "A man of his stature is not gonna put a lot on the line unless he believes in it," Lou intones. "He believes in you guys. You've worked hard, but now you can't let him or anybody else down." To us, Lou confesses he's impressed with the band and how fast and fluidly the guys clicked. He thinks O-Town is marvelous, Lou says, casually whipping out a Ginsu knife, slicing a pineapple and gobbling the pieces with a fiendish grin.