Atlanta Records decides to bet on Billy under Jerry's insistence. Atlanta Records was disarmed, in its twenties, the pressure from Jerry was only carried out in that way, by a group that ended up being one of the most profitable groups of the time, who rejected a tough contract and lost to Sony Music. They wouldn't fail again; Atlanta Records knows it, Warner Music knows it, Ahmet Ertegun knows it, who decided to sign a bastard 360 contract that only respects the framework of music; the child's profits will be insane if he sells a million records. The kid will be rich, which annoys Ahmet, but Jerry, like Peter Wolf, agrees to help the boy follow a good path.
The contract is a musical bomb, presented for 5 years, with an almost mandatory extension for another 5 years, 22% in music royalties, an outrage only set for a talent every hundred years. The problem is that he must give three tours in five years, and three more tours if he extends. Here is where the trap lies; Jerry knows that tours are where the brand makes a lot of money, but he had to compromise on something and preferred to compromise on a complex issue like a tour.
Jerry didn't call because he was reviewing the contract with his lawyers, but as soon as he could, his lawyer sent the contract to Spencer, and he confirmed the green light with his professor Chomsky, who mentioned that it was a great contract, although Spencer and Connor were relegated to a musical salary, as band members, at Spencer's request, it's better not to be in the spotlight. The music is created by Billy, composed by Billy, and sung by the boy; they are just accessories in the right place.
Spencer ran all the way looking for Agustina until he found her in a bar working as a waitress. She had pronounced dark circles and looked somewhat pale; Spencer thought she was sick, but he wasn't wrong; she had a broken heart.
-Excuse me, Agustina, - said Spencer, calling her with some terror, even though the bar was empty, and nobody paid attention to a man in a wool vest, mostly because of the heat, but the vest was always worn.
Atlanta Records decides to bet on Billy after Jerry's insistence, on an unprecedented talent, the bet is made that allows Billy to have a superstar contract, eight years, three albums, numerous concerts, and 21% of the label's profits, along with 4% for Jerry. "He's a star," Jerry murmurs; the boy will shine in the starry sky or burn like an eternal fire that can't bear the weight of the masses.
Jerry Wrexler took a plane in a hurry; he needed to sort out all the details. Billy had a mother, and he hoped to convince her that attending Atlanta Records was one of the best steps for her life. Like an old man, he has many tricks to get the lady's attention, especially a lady who, according to his investigations, is a caregiver for her son. Jerry mentally made plans on who to pay, whom to whisper to, to bring young Billy out of the correctional facility and bring him to a music boarding school, much more restrictive.
He got off the commercial plane with ease. His cane hit the ground forcefully, a renewed vigor altering his being, a purpose in life, a rock to push on his back now with strength. The dazzling image of the city where he grew up came to his mind; what is more important for a musician? For Peter Wolf, it's passion; for Ahmet, it's technique, style, and performance; for Jerry, it's what he transmits.
If he can convey emotions through his songs, he doesn't need anything else. Even singing elevator songs will generate a connection with the audience.
He breathed in the atmosphere of the angels with renewed grace. He took a taxi, paying without caring about the price; he was happy and sure of himself about this new purpose that he was setting in his life. He arrived at a somewhat distant café from the center of Los Angeles, a bit further from the spotlights, and more in a residential neighborhood. Spencer took thirty minutes to arrive; it wasn't that he was late; it was just that the unexpected Jerry arrived without a fixed appointment. Spencer, a yielding man, accepted the arrival and immediately headed to Jerry.
The music professor's vest, white with musical notes, gray pants, and a white shirt, made his black hat stand out even more. It was a common hat, very popular thirty years ago in men's fashion of that time, forgotten and revived by new trends; now young people have their own idea of style, followed and guided by rappers and some Pop celebrities with their tight pants.
-Mr. Wrelex, I apologize for the delay; I finished my last class less than an hour ago. I hope you haven't waited too long; I'm embarrassed to have to receive you in this way, - said Spencer, cordially, with a bow, uncommon for an American.
-Boy, sit down. We have a lot to talk about, - said Jerry Wrelex.
-I think it's better to have this discussion at Florence Bar's Irish. It's the bar where Billy's mother works as a waitress until 1:30 in the morning. She's a woman to be feared; I think someone experienced in this kind of dealings should sort out the issues, - said Spencer, softly, his voice always gentle.
-You're right. Did you bring your car? -Jerry asked, to which Spencer handed him the keys to his small coupé, owned by his great-aunt-grandmother; she no longer used it, and Spencer inherited the car as his own. However, it still had the spirit of a feminine car.
-It's a short trip; don't worry, - said Spencer.
Adjusting his seatbelt, even though it was a short trip, respect for traffic rules reverberated through the journey for another twenty minutes.
****************************************************************************
Billy Carson found himself in his singing paradise, as Spencer would say. He attempted to improve with all the exercises provided by Spencer, but success lay in gathering a giant group to listen to him while he sang. With the help of his advisor, he was allowed to have the guitar and take it everywhere.
Though it seemed silly, singing in the middle of meals was just a little trick he would use from time to time. Some security guards cast suspicious glances at him, believing that Carson would use the guitar to attack one of the inmates. A search of the official records revealed the fact that he was extremely violent when challenged or provoked.
He was alone in the middle of the cafeteria, while the voices of laughter, cutlery, and gossip contaminated the environment. Billy took only a spoonful of food and returned to his guitar; the glass of lemonade beside him was welcome, even if it tasted like watered-down piss.
He started a classic solo; Billy could almost feel the drums at his back. Playing meticulously, he managed to execute the song in one go, albeit with some mistakes on the strings, he continued to crash into the song repeatedly.
I'm gonna fight 'em off
A seven-nation army couldn't hold me back
They're gonna rip it off
Takin' their time right behind my back
And I'm talkin' to myself at night
Because I can't forget
Back and forth through my mind
Behind a cigarette.
He sang loud enough for some tables to stop and watch him sing. Now he had more confidence, thanks to reaching level 4, which gave him a certain sense of security. Although he had been singing for three days, his level wasn't increasing; he found himself compelled to imprint his mark in front of an audience.
And the message comin' from my eyes Says, "Leave it alone"
Don't wanna hear about it
Every single one's got a story to tell
Everyone knows about it
From the Queen of England to the Hounds of Hell
And if I catch it comin' back my way
I'm gonna serve it to you
And that ain't what you want to hear
But that's what I'll do
He imbued the strength from his heart, the courage to never give up. He imagined a soldier trotting in a war, miles away, operating in fear, through unknown terrain, the breath of enemies very close to his position, alone, with only a few provisions at his disposal. With the absolute fear of dying, but no matter what, the soldier kept running with more determination, camping, hiding from insects, rain, heat, enemies.
And the feelin' comin' from my bones Says, "Find a home"
I'm goin' to Wichita
Far from this opera forevermore
I'm gonna work the straw
Make the sweat drip out of every pore
And I'm bleedin', and I'm bleedin', and I'm bleedin'
Right before the Lord
All the words are gonna bleed from me
And I will think no more
And the stains comin' from my blood
Tell me, "Go back home"
Billy Carson went through his singing process with closed eyes, so he didn't have much time to see people's reactions. He entered his meditative trance, forgetting even that security guards might punish him. However, the power of his music was conveyed through his thoughts; a security guard wanted to approach, but he saw a vast forest, war cries, with a soldier running.
Security guard's POV:
For Esteban Callahan, finding himself in a giant barrier, a battlefield, was a fleeting moment. The powers of the mind passed those seconds like minutes. Guard Callahan, who was about to stop Billy in his prose, stopped upon feeling insects on his skin, the heat of a summer night, soaked by rain, mud, and water.
The pain in his feet from walking long distances, the blisters on his hands from parachute landings, the pain of an injured shoulder, along with fear, his heart beating a mile a minute, enough for him to feel a thud in his chest that led him to clutch it.
-G-g-gone... - he tried to pronounce something, but his tongue felt heavy. A tear escaped his eye, thin, almost unrecognizable. He took a seat, incredulous at the power of the song, sighing. He almost found himself in a void, a room with no end and people to accompany him.
End of POV.
For the rest of the people in the cafeteria, their situation was the same. Billy entered a trance, something he had done only twice before, both times to impress Jerry Wexler.
The singing was thunderous; you could see over a space of 30 meters rebellious youths in silence. The chatty, euphoric cook fell silent for the first time in five years, though the times he fell asleep didn't count—his wife said there were even nights he talked in his sleep.
From muteness to uprising, like a roar of the heart, the warmth Billy ignited in people's hearts was enough to awaken some who had succumbed to the loneliness of prison, they woke up like fireflies. Vibrating with colors, the singing continued as everyone returned to reality.
Billy finished singing; sweat streamed down his body as if it were a marathon. He tried to regulate his breathing, but the attempt was futile. His body, which had transcended to another plane, now returned to a more three-dimensional reality. The world of music had arrived, and only silence pervaded the prison; the elders, who had suffered more, were the ones with the most moved hearts.
Billy opened his eyes, and the light gave him some pain; his head was ringing from top to bottom. Unlike many singers, his music was so powerful that it infected even those who weren't fans.
He tried to swallow but got a cough; his throat hurt, raspy from the tragic excess of singing, too much power in too little practice. He made a gesture, which many would remember as Billy Carson's seal, a crooked smile.
-Want another one? - said Billy.
No one responded. They were amazed; some palms fell asleep, others froze, and others could only feel effervescent in their hearts, like a good dose of caffeine would do, remaining oblivious.
-I'll sing another one tomorrow, - said Billy, leaving the guitar on the table and starting to devour his food.
After a minute, almost as if in a gesture of respect, everyone returned to their activities, this time much more awake, never losing sight of Billy's back after he left.
His system wasn't progressing. Everything remained the same. What the hell? Billy thought.
Status: Billy Carson
Singing: (4/80) Level 4: Semi-professional
Piano: (6/20) Level 2: Novice
Guitar: (1/10) Level 2: Novice
Evaluation: World-class
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Numbers: Followers
115
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