Selection From Don Schixote
Kane X. Faucher, July 2009
In that notorious book by Cervantes, Sancho Panza states that sadness is the proper dominion of animals, not of men. I would come to this conclusion independently, but in belatedness. We must all do the impossible; namely, to assume responsibility for our capacity for sadness, and not try to cover it up with muddied ambitious plans that only briefly obscure the inevitable truth. As a creature not disposed with ambitions beyond the rather quotidian and necessary – to eat, to sleep, to evacuate my bowels – there is room enough to discharge my mundane pleasures to allow sadness’ reign. It is not the absence of Reason that renders animals sad, but an overabundance of it. We, the silent watchers who cannot traffic in the same language as men, can only act as distant chroniclers recounting a story that none can hear or read – not even among our own species. My linguistic repertoire is limited to the bark or the trace of urine’s scent on a tree as I choose to inscribe myself in space. And what folly and redundancy that is! To think somehow that my identity is confirmed through a baseless act of marking territory, something so ephemeral as it is covered over by stronger urine or the next rainfall. Such acts will not redeem me any more than my bark will be understood as anything more than threat or annoyance. Making a map of the world does not bring anyone closer to possessing it – and even if one could, we only lease space before another cartographer of the human will comes along and shuffles the people differently, according to another set of distinct values and beliefs.
But there is a measure of grace, if not resignation, in acknowledging one’s limitations. Yes, this is rather banal and commonplace wisdom, so well-worn and hardly profound, but it is the hardest lesson to internalize. My master, rest his confused and warring soul, was powered entirely by ressentiment…and so his answer was that if he could not attain to that level of respect he felt entitled to, he would destroy history itself. And what is a revision of history, courting a belief that what one constructs is true, but history’s destruction? And what, again, is a plan of action based on this revised history but a confabulation of error?
I was waylaid by a few stuck piano keys. It was as out of tune, having fallen into disuse, as my voice. But this was only a matter of practice and correction. Even the songbirds of spring issue wrong notes after a long winter. By evening, I was nearing top form, but it would still be a few very intensive weeks of training before I could set foot on stage. Plus, there were calls to make, letters to write, announcing my glorious return.
“Orpheus Talent Management, Yolanda speaking. How may I direct your call?”
He went for the cliché classicism, didn’t he? Orpheus, no less. Look back to see if Eurydice is in tow while he picks your wallet, inserts hidden clauses after the fact.
“I need to speak with Paul Temple; he was once my agent, long ago.”
“Mr. Temple is out of the office right now. If you’d like to leave your name and where he could reach you, I’ll make sure he gets the message.”
“I’d rather make first contact. I don’t want to give him the option to let this lie. He owes me a great deal. When does he get back? I’ll call then.”
“Mr. Temple is very busy. I can relay the message when he returns.”
“Yolanda, you work for a crook, and I’m not about to mediate my demands through his secretary.”
I continued into a long harangue, doubtless her finger on the button that would end it. But she was being drawn into it, propelled by some mysterious desire to play this exchange out, or perhaps too polite to end a conversation so abruptly, even if the caller was justifiably irate. At one point, I was yelling, laying out the whole besotted affair of how he cheated me, left me for dead. She must have been visibly distraught, unsure of what to do or say, sputtering excuses that were running thin. I had caught her off guard. I knew Paul was in the office, and probably saw Yolanda in this state, probably hearing the shrill cacophony of my angry voice blaring through the receiver. I heard Paul tell Yolanda that he would take the call in his office.
“Hey, hey, now, what’s this all about? Berating my secretary. She’s new. How is that a way to conduct oneself?”
“You expect me to adopt a conciliatory tone after you left me in the lurch, you gold-screw?”
“Still as much of a firebrand as ever,” he said with a defusing chuckle. “How long has it been? Must easily be thirty years or more? I didn’t know you were still alive…I mean, aw, hell, you know what I mean. So what can I do for you? We should meet up and have a coffee – it has been forever. How have you been keeping yourself?”
“Keeping myself? In a state of vicious self-protection! I’ve learned from you what people are capable of!”
“Calm yourself, old friend. The past is the past. Let’s not go over this again. The industry was different back then, and I was a bit of a novice. No, I didn’t always conduct business very well, or even very fairly, but that was the reality of the biz at the time. The ethics of the thing was still in its infancy, and I can hardly be called to account for the decision I made when everybody else was doing the same thing. It was all the ne-ce-ssi-ty of being com-pe-ti-tive. But, seriously now, what can I do for you? If you’ve called to get your pound of flesh, I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“Ok, let me get to the bare bones of it. As much as I despise what you did to me all those years ago, you are my only in. I’m coming back!”
Silence.
“Coming back?” he asked as if it were preposterous. Take the wind right out of my sails! It was supposed to floor him, and instead I could tell that he thought the idea absurd and was trying to find a way of dissuading me. “My dear old friend, are you sure you’ve thought this through? I mean, the landscape of the industry has really changed since you were on the bill. It’s tougher now – “
“Bullshit! I see what comes out now! Walking jukeboxes that sing what they are told to sing, vapid songs written by silver-haired hacks in the marketing department!”
“Well, now, that’s not such a fair appraisal. But these days it isn’t just about talent…There’s a whole mechanism behind it now.”
“Yes! Profit mechanics! Legal intermediaries! Merchandising deals! Corporate bedfellows! PR splash! The support network has ballooned at the expense of real talent! You execrable goof, I wouldn’t be talking to you if I didn’t know what you were after, how you work, what you want. I am not naïve. I know daddy wants his sugar at the end of the day, and I have just the act to give it to you.”
“My friend, you know how many performers try to shill themselves to me, promising all sorts of lucrative return on investment? I have to side with realism here. Let me be blunt: you’re washed up. You were washed up long ago. No one even remembers you, no one buys your songs. Maybe it’s unfair that time forgot you, but that is just how things pan out sometimes. This is not to say that you weren’t a talented modest sensation in your time, but things move fast now. A comeback is just not feasible, really. I urge you to enjoy your golden years, delight in fond memories and forget all this return to glory…It will only result in disappointment.”
“You’re stonewalling me, Paul, and I know you owe me. You are honour-bound – if you have any shred of that! – to represent me. I’ve got new songs to mix with the oldies. It’s the perfect storm, a blast from the past, a return to order and quality in singing and songwriting! Let the public decide. You’ll see…A good bet!”
“Representation is very complicated and expensive now; we can’t just invest in anybody with a dream, even if they were once good in the ears of the listeners. But those listeners are gone now. We have to appeal to the youth.”
“When I started out, I had no audience. Remember? There was no fan base, and no precedent. I created my audience. Think of it, Paul: a whole new generation turning on to the old grooves!”
He was not convinced. “There was a precedent. The genre had already been in existence before you set up. The Zeitgeist was ripe for it; it was the type of music people came, and paid, to hear. But that genre is gone. There’s zero market for it now.”
“For once in your life, Paul, be brave and take a damn risk! We could reinvent the genre, can introduce it to the young crowd…They may love it!”
I could tell that he was exasperated. He perhaps thought that he was speaking with a lunatic…But there were signs of him yielding, if only to give me a condescending bone. “Ok, ok, listen: I don’t want to argue market realities with you. I still think at your age this would be arduous, not to mention disappointing. But I do know that I owe you something, and it is out of a feeling of debt and nostalgia that I’d be willing to give you a shot. But I know that whatever financing I provide for this will be at a loss for me, no matter how you sell it. But I’ll do it for old time’s sake. And if I do this, then we will be even for all past wrongs, comprende?”
I wanted to retort that nothing could settle such a debt he owed me, but thought better of it. “Of course! You won’t regret it, Paul.”
“Never say that – those are the famous last words that usually jinx the whole thing to result in regret. But let’s be clear: no big splash. I’ll only finance up to a point – small shows, modest coverage. We’re not talking packed superdomes and pyrotechnics. We are talking small out-of-the-way clubs. You have to work your way up from scratch since it’s been more than an eternity since an eternity in the music biz can be as short as a five-year fallow period these days.”
“Thank you, Paul. I never expected to make top act right away. I know I must struggle from the beginning, like any untested artist.”
“Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you the name of a producer friend of mine who has studio space. You bring your songs when they’re ready and we’ll cut a few tracks. Let’s be clear, though: I am not financing the pressing of CDs, but we can produce a sampler for a little bit of promo radio play. Not big radio stations, either, but local, wherever you’ll be slated to perform. I’ll call in a few favours at a few small town bars and the like and see if they can fit you in on an off-night. Fridays and Saturdays will, of course, be out. You might have to do the weekday performances. Small crowds, but it’s less of a risk for the owners. Maybe I’ll try to line up some light hotel gigs. Do you have a band?”
“I’ll have to rely on you for that one.”
“I’ll see if I can rummage together some kids for it. They’ll have to learn the old licks. We’re talking kids who are as old as rap music, though, so don’t expect miracles. It will be very likely boring for them. Grandpa music. But they want cash. I’ll subsidize a bit for whatever door won’t cover. Can you be ready in two months? I’ll need the time to arrange everything. I won’t make you top priority, you understand, so things might be a bit slower and modest. Are we in agreement?”
“Yes, I can be ready in two months. I’ll agree to this and – who knows? – I may surprise you.”
“I won’t build up any expectation. As far as I’m concerned, I’m doing a favour for an old client. That’s all this is about. Come in sometime this week and we’ll hash up a light contract, nothing too binding. I want to ensure that either of us can pull out at any time. If this flops, then we should both be able to shake hands and walk away from it, ok?”
“Ok.”
Ok, we'll leave things like that. I am, after all, a "just nobody" these days, so at least I was spared his usual sanctimonious claptrap airs...his peevish exhibitionism so rife for the mockumentarian circuit! I knew he had his cabal of market flacks all too busy shilling what passes for popular music these days: ridiculous t-shirt activists and their off-key neo-hippy caterwaul, frcoked by li'l missies who squeeze their daddy-bought titties together, going for the lootbag and their song-lyric ellipses lasting for infinity!
Don't let me lose you hear, but I do recall when music was music. Johnny Mathis...Bobby Darin...Belafonte, Vic Damone, Patti Page, Tony Bennett...chart-toppers all! And justifiably so. All thriving in the spotlight of the industry's salad days, before the boostership of it all came before the talent itself. And where is our jive and bop nowadays? Everything now sounds like it is being decanted through an angry, broken machine!
Oh, but my old manager, he wasn't a runner - heaven forfend! No, he was about as mobile as a heaping mountain of construction debris! I can tell you that it was a hard dollar - always! Sure, he wanted to manage the biggest acts, the real shekel-earners, the jumbo stars!...I signed on with him, bought his entire shill, how we was going to promote me throughout the whole damn solar system.
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