Chapter 37 – For What It’s Worth (2)

Reedley.
The Chapel.

Saturday morning began with hope.

At 8 AM sharp, Father Parson unlocked the church for the choristers of the Reedley Parish, flanked by the two girls who had arrived a few minutes earlier by virtue of Uncle Paco. With the Tule fog swirling like churned butter around them, the choristers marched into the church and the pews, ready to receive the blessing that Mio’s angelic friend had brought to them from the high heavens.

Yesterday, almost all of them had heard the girl sing. Still, no one knew exactly what they were in for, or how famous they might become by Christmas, but they were Father Parson’s choristers, and when he called, they showed.

“Hi everyone!” The girl was chirpy and pretty and sweet, unlike any choral mistress they had ever known. “I’m going to do my very best to teach everyone a song!”

They also would not know that she knew nothing about choir training and was operating entirely by the will of God, which was thematically appropriate for the occasion.

Eppie had printed the music sheets she had long prepared, but was told that 75 per cent of her congregation could not read music. She had spent both time and effort to improve her skill, only to realise her rural congregation sang through vibes, practice, and memorisation.

Which was BRILLIANT for Eppie, because she knew jack shit as well. That and she preferred that Mio’s learning with the choristers remained as organic as possible.

Channelling her inner Dr Cooper, her lesson began with a demonstration, her own melodic line, alone and unaccompanied. She stood at the nave and sang the song of the crying dove in slow tempo so that they could hear every detail, every note.

She then heard each of the women sing, each to each, taking notes with her [Perfect Pitch]. Instinctively, she arranged them through synesthesia, through visualised sound.

She then re-arranged them, like the older women with the natural talent for finding the root of a chord with their souls, and told them: This is your line. Hold it low. Hold it long. Don’t let it resolve.
She found the higher voices, younger, and led them herself. Follow. Don’t anticipate. She said. Her [Persuasion] somehow adding to her ethos. Hum… hum… until the moment of suspension.
She found a middle-aged farmhand with a brilliant low-G, which to her [Perfect Pitch] was something like a streak of earth among the brilliant emerald, and told him to come in when the word drops. Then hold it until the ladies over there stop.

It made no sense to Eppie. It made no sense to Mio. And it made no sense to Zara, to Father Parson, or Uncle Paco.

Then, after four hour of beating about with her [Clockwork Pulse], it somehow came together, and somehow, it all worked.

Mio’s voice caught the air like fire catching dry tinder, a harmony of talent and technique that had been recollected after being left to collect dust for seven months in the attic.

The choristers clapped. A few of the older ladies wiped joy from their eyes with hand-sewn hankies.

“I don’t understand,” Paco said to his niece beside him. “This is like herding cats. Meowing cats.”

“Well…” Zara blushed as she gazed at Eppie’s perspiration-covered, reddened face. “Eppie is kinda the Cat Queen of CSULA.”

“Senior Parson said she is an angel.” Paco threw his hands in the air. “But I don’t know. This is more like witchcraft. Dios mío. Let’s break for lunch before the Father notices.”

Madison Avenue.
Midtown East, New York.

Sony’s Belmont Building quaked.

“Well, this is awkward. So er… did you hear the Gospel song Eric sent over? The one with the killer Chorus?”

Trent Davis watched his friend, Frederick Curon, lean on the opposite side of his table, twiddling his thumbs.

“I did…” David said coldly.

“Good,” Curon gave him a thumbs-up. “Its ours! How lucky! So long as the following conditions are met. The Parish of Reedley is credited as the originator and composer, and Luciana Mio is credited as Lead Artist. Royalty structure as follows: The Reedly Church, Sony, Luciano Mio, Eppie.”

Davis glared at his musical maniac.
Curon glared back with a maniacal grin.

“And if Lucia was to perform it, what is her cut, may I ask?” Davis asked slowly.

“We’ll give her half a per cent, and that’s a bargain!” Curon said seriously. “She should be paying us royalties for using the song.”

“I can give Eppie’s cut to Lucia, have her break the song into the mainstream,” Davis retorted bitterly, his anger rising. “We can make up a story. A child of immense talent, with abusive but beautiful parents. A child fearful of their own potential, it will make an aesthetic, if expensive, music video. Would she mind? You said she doesn’t care about money.”

“She doesn’t,” Curon’s mouth was no longer smiling. “You do that.”

“You think I won’t do that?”

“If you did, you wouldn’t be Trent Davis,” His Creative Director scoffed. “Is CEO Davis still residing in that head of yours,Trent?”

“Care for a wager?” Davis fired back. It was a matter of pride. His Director was taking his mollycoddling too far. Their god damned legal department was on god damned fire thanks to the Bailey Ray Richards Estate. The dethroning of Lucia was a matter of time. Umbrella would hit No.1 Tuesday, throwing Lucia’s Out of My Head from its two-week throne, two weeks ahead of schedule. With his own experience as a yardstick, unless something of a greater quality arrived to replace it, Umbrella would reign unchallenged until Christmas.

Did Doves Cry have a chance?
David didn’t know, but he knew his Gospel and, with certainty, that the Richards Estate would accept the olive branch.

Then Fredrick had told him Eppie’s demands.

The bloody Royalty structure made no sense! Nothing Fontaine ever demanded made sense in any sense, but they had always accommodated her, because she delivered. Somehow, like clockwork, the girl had delivered, and delivered and delivered. That made the least sense of all.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Deer-ri-me, of all things, was apparently taking the European Childcare sector by storm. Give it a year or two, and it may become as ubiquitous as Wheels on the Bus. Disney, of all the corporations buying from Sony, has expressed a desire to purchase exclusive rights to the song for their daytime toddler programming for the US.

Exclusive rights! For the House of Mouse!

If Trent turned down the deal, his head would be on the Board’s desk by Tuesday.
Did Curon know of this?
Was this why his director was being a pain in the ass?

“You know,” Curon did not answer him, but instead gave him a sneaky smile. “Maybe it’s best to pretend the song isn’t up for grabs. Lucia Lancet is going to lose, but what if we can made her feel better about losing?”

“Feel better?” Davis furrowed his brows. “The hell does that mean?”

“Well,” Curon blinked innocently, which looked disgustingly disturbing on his unkempt, bohemian face with its scraggy beard. “Rikki Lynne does South Gospel, doesn’t she? She’s our last American Idol winner, the nation’s darling.”

“Your point?” David demanded, then it dawned upon him that Curon was truly a genius.

A mad genius.
And a bastard. A total, unapologetic bastard.

“Yeah boi… now you’re getting it.” Curon’s expression was once more manic ingenuity mixed with derring-do. “We take that power chorus, add a percussive line, electrics, synth, then Kellie’s biblical voice comes in as the bridge, cue the grand piano, add reverb, add recursive, Electronica!”

“DEN-den-den-DEN! Den-de-de-den-DEN—” His Director played the tune in his head by mouthing it through his lips, his knuckles rapping on the table. The tune worked. Davis could hear it. It won’t beat Umbrella in this day and age, but it will come close. “What do you think, partner?”

Looking at his friend chasing the tune like a dog chasing a ball, Davis experienced the psychological disorder they called split personality.
The artist part of Davis, the dreamer from long ago, wanted to leap across the desk and kiss the man’s hairy, filthy mouth.
The executive Davis, the iron hand of modern Pop, wanted to sock the bastard so hard that Curon would spend the next ten minutes finding his teeth.