Neaing the top of the hill

The crowd goes mad as he bows and turns to leave the centre stage.
He exits and makes his way to his changing room, their noise echoing in
the corridor, reverberating round his eardrums, almost leaving him
deafened and disorientated. The stagehands and hanger on's, avoid his
'bull-like' charge into his room. Occasional pats on the back are his
reward from the more powerful back stage entourage. The music business
people, here to check that there investment is still blue chipping it
away for them and their shareholders.

He heard the crowd, more astutely than anyone else. He heard the
lessening, felt the climax and felt their passion, 'Less, always less,
they give me now', his mind murmurs. 'The faces, the same as last year,
one year closer to puberty, one year less of pre-pubescence. A year's a
long time in this business, too long', he continues to muse in his
mind, not aware of the commotion around him. His agent fends off
journalists and groupies at his door. Closing the door, the agent
congratulates the star on a successful tour. "Big bucks, big bucks",
the agent rants and he plonks himself down on the sofa in the star's
changing room. "Time to go back to the studio", the agent intercedes.
The star sits in his sweat, his performance juices and stares into his
mirror. 'Time to escape', he laments in his mind, 'To the movies,
television, anywhere, anything!'. He wipes his mascara and eyeliner
off, ageing a couple of years swiftly. Not now the twenty-one, the
Smash Hits readers believe, nearing his mid-twenties, pulled and tugged
in every direction his skin has not survived the tour well. "Must go to
Trisha's", he states aloud. "You've plenty time for that now", his
agent interrupts, "Plenty time for anything. You've earnt it. Back to
the studio. Next single. New album. We will capitalise on this tour,
keep you going well into next year. Then back on the road again. I like
that demo you did last week. Like it a lot, Rick".
'Hold on??', the star thinks, hearing doors close in his mind.
-

"The eye of the stormmmmmmm", clangeredy, clang. "Thank you. Struggling
artiste. Please give generously", the busker and his guitar shout to
passers-by, willing his hat to grow more plentiful. So he can have a
lunchtime butty and pint in the Red Lion, before he has to tackle the
teatime post work crowd. Chaffing his hands in the mid-November
sunshine he feels the tips start to go numb. 'No life, no life for
someone as talented as me', he ponders. The people pass him by, past
the music man outside HMV, they go to grab lunchtime sandwiches, crisps
and other snacks from the Tesco Metro and other city centre stores.
Slowly his money rises through the lunch hour. Mixing covers with his
original songs, the busker keeps himself warm, interested and often
inspired.

Two fifteen approaches, the church clocks add their own interpretations
of the exact time. Musically chiming at regular intervals to announce
the real two fifteen. The busker recognises that work has restarted for
the masses, he considers packing up and counting his takings, hopeful
that at least a pint will be on the cards and a warm bowl of soup. He
cranks up his voice and guitar for one last rendition. Mentally he
plays his encore that has been demanded by an ecstatic crowd. He
launches into his favourite song of the moment. His own, naturally.
With fervour he enters the trance of his performance. A suit pauses, as
he wanders late to his work place. He stares. Perplexed. He watches the
busker's performance. The busker makes a mental note of his audience,
and raises his performance to the next level for the second verse. He
hopes the suit will put a fiver in the hat, 'he can easily afford it',
he thinks as his fingers move, creating a blur to change chords and
rhythms to suit his latest masterpiece, 'A quid at least', he
prays.

"Bravo, Bravo", the suit cheers clapping madly. "Thank you", the busker
answers, taking a theatrical bow to his audience, the suit. He quickly
packs his guitar into its soft leather carry case and returns to his
hat, his wage check for the morning's work. He offers it to the suit to
contribute, 'Come on you tight bastard', he thinks. The suit goes into
his suit pocket to find his wallet and the busker's face lights up like
a Christmas tree. 'Yes a fiver, or even a tenner', he wishes.
"Nick Smithwicks is the name", the suit says, offering the busker his
business card.
"Agent to the stars. Ricky Reliant, The In-Betweens, The Shoppers, Pop
Circus, are mine, to name but a few. Got more acts that you haven't
heard of, yet. I liked that one, got more I'm sure. Fancy coming to my
office. It's just round the corner, discuss your song, songs". The suit
turns expecting the busker to follow. "Come on lad, lots to do, lots to
do", he adds.
The busker reels in shock, he stumbles realising he has just busked his
best tip ever. 'yes, Yes', he thinks to himself, slinging his guitar
over his shoulder. He chases after the mysterious suit, agent to the
stars, the one he's prayed for, knew would recognise his talent. "Yes",
he shouts, clenching his fist to the doubters, his friends that said he
was wasting himself, quitting a good university course for a pie in the
sky dream. "Yes, I'm Dan, Mister Smithwicks. Dan. And I've lots of
songs. Lots of songs", Dan beams attempting to catch up with the
agent.

The office is just how Dan had imagined it to be. Big, too big with a
receptionist waiting with messages and this was just the waiting room.
In the agent's office, Dan sits himself on a big leather reclining
chair opposite Mr. Big, the nickname he has given the suit, the man
that could make him Mr. Bigger. A huge desk that feels like half the
size of a football pitch separates the agent and the busker.
'Where's the cigars?', the busker wonders.
'How am I going to deal with this problem!' the agent thinks.
"A coffee?..Sorry didn't quite catch your name ?", the agent
states.
"Dan, Dan's my name, Yes", Dan says disappointed that no cigars are
being offered yet. 'Deals still to be done', Dan thinks.
"Coffee Miss Pilkington", the agent says through the intercom. Dan the
busker, grins inanely.
"and some sandwiches, you look hungry Dan. Bet that busking makes you
fair hungry", the agent adds.
"Thanks", is all Dan can muster, attempting to remain cool, whilst his
insides churn up like a tropical storm. Butterflies and Golden eagles
soar in his rib cage.
"Well Dan, I like it. Like it a lot that song you played me. Got any
demos of it? Of others?", the agent inquires.
'No demos. Can hardly feed myself and pay the rent. Let alone go into a
studio', Dan answers courteously.
"Good, good"', the agent replies. A tray of coffee, sandwiches, and
biscuits arrive. They are carefully placed on the huge mahogany desk by
Miss Pilkington. The coffee next to the agent and sandwiches and
biscuits next to Dan.
"Thank you, Miss Pilkington. Swift as ever.", the agent states in his
assertive business manner. Dan is starting to get used to this. 'More
fact based these music business types', he ponders.
"Set about them young lad", the agent directs Dan pointing to the
sandwiches, Miss Pilkington quietly leaves the conference. The agent
arranges the coffee cups and saucers, then pours two cups from a silver
antique coffee pot.
"Black with two sugars, that's how I like it, thank you", Dan requests
as he munches at his first bit of food of the day. The agent obliges
and pushes a cup and saucer towards Dan.
"Tell me a bit about yourself son?", the agent requests.
"Not local like. Came down to London a couple of years ago for a
university course, but ditched that in favour of my guitar and music,
my first love. Got loads of songs, that one you heard, one of my best.
I like playing it a lot, it always gets a good reaction. It'd make a
good single, always telling my mates that. Make a great single.", Dan
nervously explains his passion, his calling, like a priest that just
passed out of the training college and been given his first
parish.
"Indeed, indeed", the agents cajoles. "The song you played, where did
you hear that one?", the agent adds with an accusing tone.
Confused Dan mouth gapes and he slurs, "What do you mean?".
"Catchy that song, sounds so like another song. Tch, What's it called.
It's on the tip of my tongue", the agent replies rapier like.
"Urgh, like the Beatles and Oasis and other guitar folk gods like
Dylan. But that's my song, my own. I guess you could hear some of them
in it. They are my influences, I suppose", Dan says feeling like he's
lost, losing something.
"Yes, yes." The agents states abruptly, adding subtly, "and you've
registered it with the Performing Rights people".
"No, I can't afford that. Membership's something like fifty quid", Dan
replies with mounting desperation and confusion. 'This ain't right.
Where are the cigars!', his mind ticks over with fog clouding his
thoughts, where so briefly the sun was shining all powerfully and
giving him the dream that he could reach for his omnipotent
moment.
'Where the fucks this going', his analytical mind intercedes.
"Well then young man, I have to inform you that this song of yours is
mighty similar to a song one of my Artists has just recorded. We
registered it at the P.R.S two days ago. The record company are
planning a huge marketing campaign and this artist is going to go
interstellar on the back of it. I thus suggest that you refrain from
using this song or else I may be forced to call in my solicitors. As an
act of good faith on my behalf, I will pay for studio time so that you
can record a demo of some of your other songs and then we will see from
there. What do you think of that Dan, maybe this will be your first
step onto greater things.", the agent announces.
"Well?.. Errrrr", the gob smacked Dan musters.
"Take the sandwiches with you and come back tomorrow. My secretary Miss
Pilkington will sort it all out for you. Yes you met Miss Pilkington,
didn't you. Busy very busy. So hurry along young man we will have it
all sorted out for you tomorrow". This is the last thing Dan hears as
he is ushered out of the office and into the lift.

Quarter to six chimes on the assorted church clocks that surround the
shopping centre. Beacons that announce time to the watch less. Dan
stumbles through the throng of post workies, guitar case over shoulder,
the worst for wear after spending his takings in the Red Lion. He had
managed to get a freebie from George the bar man for his story of the
day's events. "Disbelieve me, disbelieve me", he mutters defiantly,
passing HMV on his way home.

Home, a student squat-like house, he shares with up to ten others,
sub-arctic from the lack of central heating. Dan makes his way to his
shared room. John, his roommate is sleeping off last night's session
that most likely went on to today's opening time. Dan ignores his old
'versity folders and law books. He picks up an unopened thick envelope
addressed to himself. He drawls to himself in his alcohol induced
stupor and says, "I'll show you. No poxy day in the studio for me. I
might not have the money to register my songs with the Performing
Rights Society, but I know enough about the law to know that sending my
songs to myself registers the rights as mine. So fuck you Mister Agent
MAN, Mr Smithfuckwit. I'm going to screw you for thousands, enough for
a fucking album nah a frigging demo, like."