Dissent and drums

It took the kids less than five minutes to destroy the chord harmonies and sever the trust of the artist in their pursuit of something new that was their own. They had it all lined up on the mixer yet their efforts of dissembly and reconstruction left a machine-taste in her mouth.  This wasn’t what she wanted �" this was an effort at loss and not gain.  They had cracked the jaws of the monster but had not severed the tongue and it screamed for mercy.

“Stop, stop stop!” she shouted over the text of the scene, over the decimal value of the cacophony that loitered and in a corner like a sullen vandal. “Turn it down!  I can’t hear myself think!”

Choms twiddled the knob and the vandal melted into the floor leaving a disgusting puddle.  Aaah.  She could talk.

“Look boys.  This isn’t what I want. You said a remix would put more life into the old, it would savour my vocals and freshen my lyric.  That isn’t fresh!  It’s oldhat!  Sure you’ve revamped the bassline and put in a few scratches but it isn’t a touch on a live act. You can’t do it.”  Candy said with finality.

Choms and Booza exchanged amazed looks. 

“What?  It’s not your kind of music?” said Booza, trying to hide a smirk.  “We thought you might be a little resistant but you’ve gotta give it a better listen, Hon.  This ain’t no misfit act, we knose what we’s doin’ here, you dig?  This is for our fellow man.  The crowd will get up and par-tay when they get a snatch of this mutha.”

“Christ, no!  You can’t do it, I said. I won’t have it.  You’ve destroyed the piece without even trying to integrate with the rhythm, for the sake of a few decibels.”  Candy was adamant. 

“What are you on, babe?” said Choms, the brim of his baseball hat waggling at the ceiling as he pushed it back with an exasperated hand.  “This is what we do!  We get a lot of repec’ for this d ‘n b and it ain’t yours to say no more.  We’s cabled it through and now it’s ours. H’ours, you dig?  When you signed, you signed and that’s the deal.”

“Well I don’t want it anymore” said the Jazz singer.  “You can’t.  You’ve destroyed a thing of beauty and turned it into a rehash of the latest Tin Machine.  That was not what I wanted, from the start and I told you so �" don’t deny it.”

Booza took a turn at.  “Look I can understan’ artistic differences but you haven’t given it a chance. This is gonna grow on you like a hard core solar tan, it gets deeper as you get closer, if you know what I mean.”  His Afro-perm was out of hand and she was irritated by it so much she wanted to take some shears and…

“Goddamn! Fix it!  Fix it!  Back to the drawing board boys.  If you want something out of my magic then you’re just going to have to work harder.  I’m too old to have to put up with first attempts.  Now back on your keyboard and I wish you luck. No approval from me and nothing goes out.  So stem your complaints and save them for management.”  Candy slammed the door behind her.

“Christ!  What’s got her in such a boo-fit?  Come, let’s carry on.  She don’ know s**t” said Choms. “We’ll cut her out and then let’s see who’s who on the label. I ain’ puttin up with dat!  Axe me agin’ whether I think she’ll like it!”  He grinned, and bent back over the machine.

Author's Note

It's all yours. I bare my t'roat. Come now, Occam!