Fairy Metal Thunder (Songs of Magic, Book 1)
Page 53
Chapter Twenty-Four
Friday morning, Jason took the elevator to the twentieth floor of Malarkay Tower. Painted murals on the walls depicted popular bands and movie characters, while the theme music to popular TV shows like the sitcom My Wacky Family and the lame teen show TTYL :) played softly from overhead speakers.
Jason slowed as he passed the mural of Nigel Rocket and the Martians, a band that had been wildly popular in the late sixties and early seventies. Most members of the band wore green suits with metallic silver trim, and big wraparound sunglasses, to make them look outer space-y. Nigel Rocket himself wore his trademark red vest and black leather pants, an outfit inspired by old Flash Gordon comics.
The electric guitar in Nigel’s hands was the shape of a thick lightning bolt, and it was a legend in the guitar world. Nigel Rocket had built it himself, and decades of guitar enthusiasts had since tried and failed to make knock-offs of it. None of them had come close to sounding like Nigel’s famous axe, but Jason thought his own fairy guitar might be capable of it.
Jason continued on down the hall, gripping his guitar case tight enough to turn his knuckles white.
As a star producer, Heath Blank had his own small lobby with a magenta-haired receptionist behind a black lacquer desk. Everything was black, from the walls and floor tiles to the uncomfortable black leather couch.
The receptionist ignored Jason when he walked through the door with his guitar case. She was playing a game of checkers against herself.
“Um, hi,” Jason said. “I need to see Heath.”
She ignored him.
“Just for a second,” Jason added.
She looked up from her checkers board and scowled at him.
“No visitors,” she said. “He’s recording today, so he has to keep his mind clear of outside energies.”
“Okay...He’s recording my band, though. The Assorted Zebras, have you heard of us?” Jason asked, but the lady didn’t respond. “So that’s why I need to talk to him.”
The young lady smirked as she jumped a black checker over a red checker and kinged it.
“So, can I talk to him?” Jason finally asked again.
She sighed. “I suppose I’ll inquire.” She pressed a button on her phone. “Heath, the guitarist from that new American band wants to bother you.”
“Tell him I’ll see him in the studio. I’m occupied now,” Heath’s voice crackled back.
“It won’t take long,” Jason said.
Heath didn’t reply.
“Go on in,” the receptionist said after a minute. The wide black door to Heath’s office swung open.
“So that was a ‘yes’?” Jason asked her.
“If he wanted you to leave, there would have been more insults,” the receptionist said. “I suggest you hurry before you annoy him further.”
Jason walked into Heath’s office, where the lights were dim. The walls were plastered with faded concert flyers for English punk bands. Jason didn’t know most of them, but he recognized The Clash and The Smiths, who were also playing over the giant thumping speakers embedded in the wall. Spiky metallic sculptures made of old circuit boards and transistor radios decorated the office.
Heath himself sat behind his desk, feet up, with cucumber slices over his eyes. He didn’t say anything, so Jason knocked on the door frame.
“Who’s that?” Heath asked.
“Jason. Your receptionist said I could come in—”
“The guitarist, right?” Heath lifted a cucumber slice from one eye. “Cucumber?”
“Um, no thanks.”
“Have one anyway!” Heath flung the cucumber at him, and it smacked Jason in the face. Heath hurled the second one, which splatted into Jason’s shirt as he tried to dodge it.
“What was that for?” Jason asked.
“That was nothing. Try playing the Meat Locker in Glasgow. You’ll have much worse things thrown at you. Why are you here?”
“I just wanted you to hear something.” Jason set his guitar case on the floor and opened it. “It’s this riff I’ve been working out.”
“We could have done this in the studio,” Heath snarled. “You’re interrupting my me-time.”
“Sorry. It’ll just take a second.” Jason played the little riff he’d practiced in his room, when he had tried to remember just what he’d played to persuade his parents to let him come to Ireland. He watched Heath’s face to see if the music entranced him like everyone else.
Heath just stared.
“Well? That’s all?” Heath finally asked.
Jason felt worried, but he was determined to carry on with his plan. “Are you listening closely?” he asked Heath.
“It’s a bit bland,” Heath said. “Not really what we’re looking for. Come back when it has some kick.”
“Really? The music doesn’t have any effect on you?”
“What do you expect? Some sort of award for playing a couple of basic chords?”
“There’s lyrics, too...” Jason cleared his throat and played a little faster.
“Fine. Quickly, then,” Heath said.
Jason opened up the riff a little, and he trembled as he sang:
Heath, change your mind,
You know Erin’s songs are fine
Let’s record those she wrote
You’ll love every note—