Bandwagon

to me,’ said Ben.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Riff, ‘and he goes on to say that “the harmonic structure of the vocals provide a true insight into the meaning of existence” – what does any of this mean?’

  ‘I think it means that we need to ask the barman what he’s hiding under the bar,’ said Vid.

  18

  The intrusion of art into music is not something always warmly welcomed by the music world. Although many early ‘sound experiments’ have given rise to techniques later adopted by more conventional musicians, most are given to wonder whether it was really worth listening to all that ‘weird shit’ just to learn how to wind a piece of magnetic tape around a broom handle.

  The early musical stylings of the composer (a term offered loosely by encyclopaedias for anyone who makes a noise which someone might buy) Ernst Gerbilstein are a case in point. His was music which divided opinion: divided it and then spliced it back together with half of it backwards.

  Gerbilstein’s fans are quick to his defence: they point to the simplicity of his sound, the clear resonant tones which speak of a yearning for a deeper, more meaningful life; the critics grimace at the sentiment; the fans point out that his works are so unique as to be instantly recognisable and so persistent as to penetrate the mind in a manner stronger than many legal drugs; the critics will concede that it’s true, but argue that it isn’t necessarily a good thing; the fans will say that his legacy outlived his life and has become part of the aural texture of the modern world; his critics will, again, admit the truth of this, but point out that the sounds made by alarm clocks and pedestrian crossings may well be omnipresent, but that they aren’t music.

  Probably the most serious problem with the art world, however, is the passion and pretension of its protagonists. The conceptual composer (once again using the word in its loosest sense) Needila Monet took to the stage with his Unstarted Symphony to a great fanfare, or at least an infinitely louder fanfare than any which graced the piece itself. The audience response after watching an orchestra do nothing for two hours was varied: some claimed that it was the best thing they’d never heard and that atonality was dead; others said that their stubble had grown by a sixteenth of an inch and they could have been home listening to the electric razor.

  Probably the most extreme response was that of fellow composer Isla Xoyu, who promptly took Monet to court, claiming that the piece was a direct copy of his own Study of Silence with two extra cellos.

  Whatever the personal feelings of members of the art world for the music world or vice versa, it is clear that the free exchange of ideas between the two has enriched their output for their respective audiences and that the free exchange of blows has increased the output of a news media with no artistic abilities of its own to speak of.

  The group were still gathered around the newspaper looking for phrases that they recognised as language when they were interrupted by a sharp, authoritative rap on the door. Without waiting for a response from within, Tony entered, a copy of The Age in his hand, the photograph prominently displayed. He smiled when he saw the band were also looking at the article.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he began. ‘I see you have already seen it.’

  ‘I should think that everybody has by now,’ Vid replied acidly.

  ‘There’s no need to thank me…’

  ‘Thank you?’ said Keys. ‘What do you mean, thank you?’

  Vid’s digitised eyes narrowed. ‘You mean you did this?’

  Tony gestured expansively. ‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘As a demonstration of my… friendship.’

  ‘Friendship? I’d hate to see how you treat enemies.’

  Tony seemed slightly nonplussed. ‘You aren’t happy? You don’t want to be loved by all the world?’

  ‘We don’t want to be dismembered by people much closer to home.’ Vid prodded at the newspaper viciously, tearing the page as he did so. ‘If this gets back to our owner, it’ll be tinned fruit all round.’

  ‘I was aware of that difficulty, yes.’

  ‘You were?’ said Ben.

  ‘Yes. That’s why I insisted on a photograph.’

  ‘What?’ yelled Keys, Riff and Vid in unison.

  Tony shrugged with disinterest. ‘I merely thought it might make you think differently about touring.’

  ‘It’ll certainly make me feel differently about an extended warranty,’ said Vid. ‘How could it possibly make me want to tour?’

  ‘Well, I imagine that your owner will be receiving his anonymous cutting in about…,’ Tony looked at his watch, ‘… five minutes and he might wonder why two of his robots are playing in a band rather than supporting his ailing electrical store.’

  ‘Ailing?’ Keys queried.

  ‘Yes, business hasn’t been so good lately,’ said Tony with mock sympathy. ‘He might soon be selling his store to a rival concern.’

  ‘So you’re offering to buy his robots to help him out?’ Ben’s expression registered puzzlement. ‘Why didn’t you just do that in the first place?’

  ‘Now, now,’ Tony protested, lifting a hand placating, ‘I’m only a poor club owner; I’m hardly in a position to buy two very expensive custom robots.’

  ‘So you’re stealing us? I thought you were going straight?’ A subtle wallpaper of spinning question marks decorated Vid’s puzzled face as he attempted to get to grips with the logic.

  ‘Stealing?’ said Tony. ‘Why? I’m not stealing anything. I don’t do things like that - I never did. No, I’m merely assisting some friends who I am lucky enough to represent in their need to get away for a little. To take a holiday.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Keys, ‘let me get this straight. What you’re saying is that you’ve set up – sorry, events have arranged themselves - so that Vid and I have to steal ourselves and that you’re willing to give us sanctuary as long as the band signs a contract with you.’

  Tony smiled. ‘I see that you have a very firm grasp of business,’ he said.

  ‘So that is it?’

  There was no confirmation, but the smile broadened. ‘I’m sure that we’re going to get along just fine. If you need a moment to decide...’ He made for the door.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Vid. ‘What if we decide that we’re not going to sign and we’re just going to walk out of the door?’

  Tony paused and made a show of considering this. ‘I think,’ he said eventually. ‘I think my duty as a good citizen would require me to phone your owner. He might, after all, be concerned over the whereabouts of two such valuable robots, don’t you think?’

  ‘And your duty wouldn’t be to do that if we do sign?’

  ‘Well, I can see that you are running away – perhaps he mistreats you? I would only be doing my duty as a citizen to protect you. After all, robots have rights too.’

  Keys and Vid exchanged glances. Neither robot looked – in as far as was possible – particularly happy with the situation. Keys turned back to the manager slowly. ‘I suppose we don’t have much of a choice,’ he said. ‘Vid neither.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘The others,’ Keys gestured to Riff, Nutter and Ben, ‘however, do.’

  ‘Indeed. However, I don’t believe you would wish them to exercise it. I couldn’t, after all, represent the two of you as a band.’ With this, he turned and strode from the room.

  Vid waited until he could no longer hear the receding of smartly clad feet. ‘Now what do we do?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘We sign,’ said Riff.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard what he said.’

  ‘He is doing you a favour,’ said Ben.

  ‘How?’ demanded Vid.

  ‘You wanted out – now you’ve got it.’

  ‘I hardly think being blackmailed constitutes a favour,’ snapped Vid. ‘I mean, what are you supposed to buy him as a thank you – a box of chocolate coated razorblades?’

  ‘Well, I’m signing anyway,’ said Ben. ‘He seems like he’s genuinely interested in our success and tha
t’s what I want in a manager.’

  ‘I’ll sign,’ said Riff, ‘but I still don’t trust him. Who knows what he’s really after?’

  ‘What about your owner?’ said Vid.

  Riff shrugged. ‘She’s been in care for years,’ he said. ‘To be honest, she wouldn’t notice if I turned the place into a bomb factory. Knowing the management firm, some of her property probably already has been.’

  ‘And they won’t care about the museum?’

  ‘Nobody else does.’

  ‘Well Vid and I haven’t got a choice,’ said Keys. ‘We’ll have to sign.’

  ‘H-hey, c-count me in,’ called Nutter from his chair at the back of the room.

  ‘Why do you want in?’ said Vid. ‘He hasn’t got you over a barrel.’

  ‘He u-used to o-own the club anyway,’ said Nutter. ‘W-what difference does it m-make.’

  Keys looked around at his fellow bandmates. ‘So that’s it, then?’ Nobody answered. ‘I only hope we’re doing the right thing,’ he added. Barely had he finished speaking when the door began to squeak open.

  Vid looked vaguely at the ceiling. ‘What happens to someone who gets convicted of stealing themselves, anyway?’ he muttered to nobody in particular. ‘They can hardly lock you up, can they?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Keys.

  Vid looked at him. ‘That would be receiving stolen goods,’ he said.

  Keys nodded quietly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose it would be. I just hope being locked up wasn’t the sensible option.’

  19

  To the inexperienced entertainer taking their first steps on the road to stardom or to the unthinking dreamer who hasn’t even read