Page 12 of The Music Demon

“So what’s your favorite?”

Gray hesitated. “My favorite…”

“Song that you’ve written, but not performed publicly.”

The kid was sitting up a little straighter seeing that somebody appeared to have a genuine interest in his music. “It’s called ‘Shelter in Place’. You’re not gonna ask me to sing it, are you?”

The demon chuckled. “That’s exactly what I was going to do. Come on. Quick before the band comes back on.”

Gray wasn’t sure why he was surrendering so easily, but he put his fork down and launched into a quiet acapella version of a ballad that could even pull at a demon’s heartstrings.

The kid had something to say. And Lyric found himself wanting Gray to have the microphone to say it. After a near-eternity as a music demon, Lyric still had no idea where talent came from, much less inspiration. It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered how someone so young could have taken on so much ‘soul’. It would make him a believer in reincarnation if he cared about such things.

When Gray finished, he picked up his knife and fork and started eating again.

“I don’t remember you mentioning Dylan when you named references.”

“Goes without sayin’. We’re all influenced by Dylan. It’s implied.”

“Well. True enough.” For a full minute Lyric carried on an internal argument weighing the pros and cons of acting on impulse. In the end, impulse won out. “So let’s say you found yourself in 1967. Where would you want to be? Geographically, that is.”

Gray stopped chewing for a second, mulling that over. “Well. It would either be San Francisco or L.A.”

“Not London?”

Gray shook his head and laughed silently. “Not London. No.”

“Why?”

“I’ve never been outta Texas. California’s far enough. It might was well the far side of the moon.” He finished chewing the last bite of steak. “San Francisco I guess. I’ve been listening to Cass talk about it all my life. She thinks Bay Area music was the shit because of the San Francisco ‘sound’.”

“What’s the San Francisco sound?” Of course, Lyric knew the answer to the question, but he was interviewing the kid for a potential mindbender.

“You know. The albums were recorded live, which, she says, is the way music ought to be heard. London. L.A. Great studios, but the product was over polished, over produced, over packaged, and totally not replicable live.”

Lyric grinned. “Just like Quicksilver.”

Gray returned the grin. “Yeah. Just like Quicksilver. Can you imagine what it would have been like? To be there? When they recorded that album live?”

It was fairly easy for Lyric to ‘imagine’ that because he had, in fact, been at the Fillmore for the live recorded performances. He found himself wishing he could tell Gray all about it. He mused that maybe even demons are subject to waves of nostalgia. He decided to change the subject before he said something that gave his advanced age away.

“Your neighbor? Why’d she end up in Wimberley?”

“Don’t know.” Gray shrugged. “Never asked.” He looked at his phone. “I gotta take off. Thanks for dinner and the chat.”

When Gray started to rise, Lyric reached into his pocket and produced a business card that was thick, black and glossy with gold engraving. It was elegant in material, script, and in its abject simplicity.

It read:

Lyric

talent scout, producer, promoter, muse

PRIVATE NUMBER 666

Gray took it and turned it over. “What’s Lyric?”

“My name.”