THE CONTENDERS
Mike must have taken it for granted that his song would be scheduled for release as the first single from our new album. So he was stunned when he read the official memo from the record company. It was decided that The Swan Song, as he had titled his composition, had to make way for a track written by me.
However, instead of throwing a fit, he stared at the memo, lost in thought. Suddenly, he seemed struck by an idea and rushed out of the office without saying a word. Maybe the others thought he wasn’t bluffing this time about quitting the band—or was he up to something else?
Who would’ve thought I could burst his bubble, after all the work he’d put into this release? Mike was the only member who stayed late at the studio overdubbing tracks we considered finished, long after the rest of us had called it a day. He even took on the role of the “great producer,” telling us when and how to perform our parts. It was clear that Paul McCartney or Brian Wilson had gotten into his head, because lately we had to endure the invasion of those bloody trained musicians stuffing the recording studio with violins and French horns.
Of course I had dreamed of beating Mike this time, but I didn’t think I had a chance. While he went for lush arrangements, I just fumbled with loops and computer-generated stuff—that’s always been my thing. That’s how I work, since I’m not a trained musician. I just piece things together until something happens. And when it comes to lyrics, I can’t write oblique poetry the way Mike does. I say things straight out, just as they are, no matter how shallow my lyrics may seem (or so the snobbish Mike would say).
It’s obvious he looks down on me as a songwriter. Whenever I start a song on my own, he barely gets involved in its development. Last week, when I told Mike I was also submitting my music to the record company, he said, “Well, I suppose you might as well,” sounding as though he'd summoned all the self-confidence in the world.
I could’ve killed that big head when I played him my demo and he asked—while yawning—what the song was called.
“Do the Job, Blow It,” I said.
“A most suitable title for a late bloomer’s output,” Mike replied sarcastically. He used the word output instead of creation or composition, clearly referencing how I work. “Besides,” he continued with a smirk—and here I was taken aback—“this sounds way too much like something from The Crabs or one of those crappy bands… Why should we stop living up to what critics have written about us?”
“Knock it off, Mike,” I said. “You just can’t stand that one of your typically poignant songs got rejected. It’s high time we climbed the charts with something trendy and lively.” Then I walked away.
Alright. I believe we’re all rummagers. All musicians are. Rummagers at tag sales. Picking through neighbors’ ideas for material—whatever we can get our hands on. Shamelessly. Well, maybe not just ideas; we could call them discards or buried things. But of course, this realease... I still feel what I came up with is my own design.
Now, Mike must’ve gone to the music library downstairs to dig something up… I expect he’ll want all of us—including management and the label—to listen to a certain shelved track by The Crabs. I bet he recognized it. I’ll call my lawyer. Just in case.
by Eusebio Natanael