Tchula Junction, Mississippi
Nov. 19th, 2007 07:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dexfarkin"I appreciate you seeing me, man."
"Of course. Have a seat, son. You can leave your guitar on the couch."
"I wasn't sure, you know?" Mikal 'Sonny' Black put his guitar case carefully on the butter cream coloured leather couch. The entire place was rich looking, a contrast to the antiseptic white and grey of the halls and the lobby. "Like you'd want to hear me live or something. Make sure that the demo was legit or something."
"Really?" His laugh was dark and brown, like his skin, and it fit the office in a way that he'd never heard before; exact and suited. "No, I believe you're the man on your recordings. You've got a blues eye, boy. That means no way you say another man's music is yours."
"s'right."
"What do you think coming here will do for you?"
"Ari Gold, he's one of you clients. I played his daughter's bat-mitzvah a couple months ago. He gave me your card, told me he thought you guys might be interested." Mikal said. He'd been a little surprised at the sudden gesture during the party, but Gold was known to have a good ear for the blues. So he's sent off the disk, and when the plane ticket to Mississippi arrived with the appointment, Mikal wasn't about to question his good fortune.
"Ari's a good writers. He's going to get better." There was a click, and Mikal heard his own music coming out of the speakers. "Here's the deal, Sonny. You've got a lot of skill, but not enough talent. You're on that razor edge. There's a fine career available as part of a band, or maybe as studio talent. But not as the lone blues man. There's were we can come in. We can give you talent."
Mikal was halfway from confused to angry. They dragged him down here to tell him he wasn't good enough? "Shit. You get born with talent. Skill's all you can learn."
"Not anymore, boy. See this place? Big white building on the middle of a no-where's Mississippi crossroad. This look like the kind of place for just a production company? No, most of the people here have come for something." The white grin grew. "We going to open up your head. Twist a little of the material grown out of BB King's premotor cortex into yours. Maximize the neural pathways between that and the nervous system. We'll take some of the basal ganglia from Steve Vai and Eric Clapton, grow the complex looping into your mind. In a few months, you'll have all the talent you need to get further."
"I... what? I don't--"
"Son, it's not legal here, but that don't matter unless you're caught. We'll give you the mojo hand and the voodoo eye to be the best blues man since Johnson gargled a strychnine cocktail. All it's going to cost you is a seven year contract, and we collect at the end."
"Damn. Seven years?" Mikal shook his head. Illegal or not, this was his only wish. "Shit, you just tell me where I sign, Mister Scratch."
"Of course. Have a seat, son. You can leave your guitar on the couch."
"I wasn't sure, you know?" Mikal 'Sonny' Black put his guitar case carefully on the butter cream coloured leather couch. The entire place was rich looking, a contrast to the antiseptic white and grey of the halls and the lobby. "Like you'd want to hear me live or something. Make sure that the demo was legit or something."
"Really?" His laugh was dark and brown, like his skin, and it fit the office in a way that he'd never heard before; exact and suited. "No, I believe you're the man on your recordings. You've got a blues eye, boy. That means no way you say another man's music is yours."
"s'right."
"What do you think coming here will do for you?"
"Ari Gold, he's one of you clients. I played his daughter's bat-mitzvah a couple months ago. He gave me your card, told me he thought you guys might be interested." Mikal said. He'd been a little surprised at the sudden gesture during the party, but Gold was known to have a good ear for the blues. So he's sent off the disk, and when the plane ticket to Mississippi arrived with the appointment, Mikal wasn't about to question his good fortune.
"Ari's a good writers. He's going to get better." There was a click, and Mikal heard his own music coming out of the speakers. "Here's the deal, Sonny. You've got a lot of skill, but not enough talent. You're on that razor edge. There's a fine career available as part of a band, or maybe as studio talent. But not as the lone blues man. There's were we can come in. We can give you talent."
Mikal was halfway from confused to angry. They dragged him down here to tell him he wasn't good enough? "Shit. You get born with talent. Skill's all you can learn."
"Not anymore, boy. See this place? Big white building on the middle of a no-where's Mississippi crossroad. This look like the kind of place for just a production company? No, most of the people here have come for something." The white grin grew. "We going to open up your head. Twist a little of the material grown out of BB King's premotor cortex into yours. Maximize the neural pathways between that and the nervous system. We'll take some of the basal ganglia from Steve Vai and Eric Clapton, grow the complex looping into your mind. In a few months, you'll have all the talent you need to get further."
"I... what? I don't--"
"Son, it's not legal here, but that don't matter unless you're caught. We'll give you the mojo hand and the voodoo eye to be the best blues man since Johnson gargled a strychnine cocktail. All it's going to cost you is a seven year contract, and we collect at the end."
"Damn. Seven years?" Mikal shook his head. Illegal or not, this was his only wish. "Shit, you just tell me where I sign, Mister Scratch."
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no subject
Date: 2007-11-20 01:09 am (UTC)