George stared intensely at Renly before him, unsure of how to handle him.
He was a man of unyielding character, who never knew how to compromise. He would rather crash headlong into obstacles, even if it meant getting bloodied and battered. But evidently, Renly was the same.
In this face-off, George eventually succumbed. He lowered his head, shoulders drooping, and lifted his glass to take a sip. All the sharp edges seemed to vanish in an instant.
This was only their second meeting, and each encounter had been brief, not exceeding a quarter of an hour in total. Yet, Renly could sense George's sense of loss. The lion, once fierce and combative, had suddenly become listless—a transformation that evoked sympathy.
However, Renly had no intention of compromising out of pity or compassion. He wasn't Jesus Christ.
Renly raised his head to look at Neil. "Has Ed been to the bar recently?"
"..." Neil barely managed to open his mouth before George interrupted him sharply, "If you care so much, why don't you contact Ed directly?"
George wasn't someone who could be defeated easily. Otherwise, he wouldn't have obstinately waited at Village Vanguard for four months. He turned his gaze back to Renly, once again fixedly. "Ed comes here periodically to perform, accumulating live performance experience and drawing inspiration for his compositions. He may not be a genius creator, but he's an excellent storyteller. That's his strength."
Renly nodded in agreement.
But then George shifted the conversation, his tone changing, "I don't understand why you're so unwilling to record an album." Barely two sentences had passed before George circled back to the starting point.
Renly couldn't help but suppress a laugh, meeting George's gaze with an amused smile. "I don't think I'm a genius. Music is merely a hobby for me. This is New York, teeming with outstanding independent musicians. I believe you can find many talented singers who love music."
George could tell that Renly was sincere, which made him feel profoundly defeated. The taste was bitter, and the fiery anger that comes from frustration surged in his chest. If he were ten years younger, he might have raised a fist and given the young man before him a thorough lesson.
"Because what I want to produce is your music," George said earnestly. His voice even carried a hint of urgency. His haste led some of the whisky to spill from his glass, amber alcohol splattering on the table. But he paid it no mind. His eyes were fixed on Renly, "Your music possesses a kind of world-weariness and moving power, as if... as if you've seen through the meaning of time and space, as if you've experienced death and been granted life anew. That power is inherent, the very reason music is moving. It's different from other forms of art; it displays colors from the soul. It can't be fabricated or forced out."
Rebirth.
Renly's heart trembled slightly, and his fingers gripping the beer glass grew slightly moist. He lifted the glass to his lips, taking a big gulp. The taste of the smoky alcohol spread a bitter tang on his tongue. So, music truly was the sound of the soul.
George didn't notice Renly's subtle reaction. He continued with sincerity and focus, "If you're willing to record an album, I promise, I won't let commercial elements corrupt your music."
"In this market, there are far too many compromised music pieces, bowing to trends, leaning toward profit. One more or one less doesn't matter. What I hope to produce is a genuine, pure sound from the heart." George's murky eyes shimmered with earnest anticipation, "So, there won't be any commercial promotion, no pressure for sales figures. It will be a wholehearted production of an album."
In George, Renly saw not only Stanley Charlson but also a reflection of himself.
For Renly, music was merely a hobby—something to pass the time, express emotions, a casual interest from childhood to adulthood. Even when "Cleopatra" achieved remarkable success on the billboards, Renly remained relatively indifferent. It was merely a gift to Stanley.
He wasn't a singer, nor would he ever be. He was an actor through and through.
He was willing to lie in a coffin for eight hours for the sake of "Buried", a testament to his dedication to performance. Yet, he would never invest such intense and fervent emotions in any other hobby.
George and he were cut from the same cloth.
Renly was acutely aware of how rare George's commitment was. Like "going mad," no company was willing to invest, not even independent film companies, because they needed profit. George, like Drake, needed to leverage his connections and even fund his own venture to fulfill his promises. All this just to realize a dream.
Renly also knew that for four months, unwavering through wind and rain, George's resolute persistence didn't seek Grammys, album sales, or a revival of music. It was only to safeguard the last pure sanctuary deep within his heart—for the sake of music.
Even more clearly, Renly understood that such pure dreamers had no place in this brutal reality.
More accurately, in George, Renly saw his own future. At least, he hoped it was his future—that he could remain steadfast, even fanatically stubborn, unwavering on the path he had chosen, walking all the way to the end of life, burning out the last bit of passion from the depths of his soul, then returning to silence.
When he ceased loving his dream, that would be the end of his life. Freedom and dreams must not be betrayed.
For him, performance was a dream; for George, music was a dream. The difference was that simple.
"Alright." Renly nodded in agreement.
George paused, looking at Renly fixedly. It seemed he hadn't quite caught Renly's response, but he also didn't ask. He simply stared at Renly, afraid that speaking might shatter the magical moment they had just shared.
This single gaze, teetering on the edge of hope, had become fragile. Filled with excitement, it was now laced with doubt, yet immobile in its joy. Emotions surged overwhelmingly, heavily pressing on Renly's chest. He didn't know if he could bear this intense and fervent dream, but he knew that on the path to chasing dreams, he was never alone.
It was true for Sundance and it was true for the man before him, George.
Originally, Renly had only impulsively agreed, but now he felt a surge of certainty. "I said it earlier, alright." Renly repeated with a smile.
A surge of ecstasy washed over George, leaving him somewhat flustered. His gaze darted around, and he picked up his glass, as if to take a sip, but then he put it down directly. His look of confusion was so sincere, so pure, and so deeply moving.
Renly took another sip of his beer, the lingering smoky taste still bitter but now carrying a hint of sweetness after he swallowed it.
"Do you have any requests?" George finally remembered to ask, his eyes widening, his face radiating an unprecedented brilliance.
"Copyright split? Refusal of commercial activities? Rejecting unreasonable demands from producers? Involvement in music creation and production? Prevention of misuse for commercial purposes? Preventing excessive commercialization and packaging? Reasonable recording schedule? I know, I know, you're an actor, I'll schedule it reasonably and won't disrupt your regular work."
As George spoke, he became lost in his own world, chattering on like a child. Then, he raised his head again, looking earnestly at Renly. "Do you have any requests? Tell me, I'll fulfill them."
Renly couldn't help but laugh, lifting his mostly empty beer glass and tilting it slightly. "I thought everything was about music."
George blinked, then burst into laughter. "Yes, yes." He nodded repeatedly, "It's all about music."
He just wanted to create a true folk album, leaving aside all commercial considerations, all market plans. He wanted to focus wholeheartedly on music—no matter if he couldn't sell a single copy of the finished recording.
He just wanted to rediscover the passion for music deep within his heart. Such a feeling had been absent for so long.
"Give me your agent's business card, and details about the contract and record company stuff—I'll contact them directly." As a seasoned producer, George understood the production process all too well. It was clear that Renly was also a pure person, uninterested in these nitty-gritty details.
Renly raised his beer glass towards George, flashing a broad smile. "That's perfect then."
George also picked up his glass, gesturing towards Renly and then downing his entire glass of whiskey in one go. After finishing, he set the glass down heavily on the bar counter, exuding an air of determination and fervor.
Renly also promptly finished his beer in one gulp. He heard George's eager voice in his ear, "When can we get into the recording studio?"
Indeed, he was impatient.
"Um... I'm not sure, maybe after the Oscars?" Renly hadn't really thought about it. He was on vacation lately, with no desire to disrupt his plans. Next, he would be busy with a series of awards season galas, followed by the Oscars ceremony. So, in the short term, he really hadn't thought about it.
George choked a bit, but this time, he didn't get angry. He just comforted himself softly, "Recording an album requires preparation of tracks, it needs to be taken slowly."
For Renly, a musician who persisted in creating original music, rushing through recording an album indeed wasn't wise. Even just selecting tracks required ample patience.
"Are you currently persistently documenting the songs you're composing?" George changed the topic, but upon seeing Renly's hesitating expression, he immediately knew the answer was negative. This left George feeling quite disheartened. "Didn't I tell you last time? You should document the songs you create! Have you really not been doing that?"
His heart was bleading.