Page 19 of The Deviation
I wish I were half as eager to work with them. I’m picky as hell, I know, but I never wanted to launch my career with justany band who can compose a tune and string a few rhyming words together. I wanted a band I could believe in. An act I could put my heart and soul into.
Unfortunately, only one band has fit every one of my lofty requirements. That way lies chaos and rejection. Which leaves me here. Settling.
I launch into a brief summary of the first band. Promotional photos flash up on the enormous monitor mounted on the wall behind me, followed by charts with statistics regarding their target market and the current size of their audience. I play samples of their music through the room’s surround sound speakers. Their eagerness and dedication are obvious, but the state-of-the-art equipment gives the lack of originality in their work nowhere to hide.
The presentation for the second band is more detailed. They’re also eager and dedicated, but with the addition of a fresh sound. Unfortunately, their talent comes with an excess of ego that could prove problematic as they grow more popular. Working with them would be a step forwards, but the path ahead could be bumpy.
When the final sample finishes, I close down the files and await Genevieve’s response. The impassive expression she’s maintained throughout my presentation already has beads of perspiration forming on my forehead. Now, my stomach sinks. The bands I’ve brought her lack star power. I know that. But I’ve seen far less competent bands get the nod in this room.
Genevieve stares at me for a long moment, her arms draped casually along the sides of her plush chair as the fingers of one manicured hand drum a slow rhythm against the leather. Everyone is silent. Arthur’s grin is smug, his gaze mocking.
Finally, Genevieve steeples her fingers in front of her and tilts her head to one side. “How do you expect me, or anyone else inthis room, to engage meaningfully with either of these acts when you so clearly find them lacking?”
I freeze in place, my mouth hanging open.
“Truly, Calum, you could have been presenting on a barely adequate jingle for all the passion you’ve shown,” she continues. “It’s been three months. Have you truly not found a single act who excites you?”
“Yes.” The word shoves out of me in a panicked rush. Managers who can’t bring in marketable talent don’t last long in this company, and I’m a long way from proving myself. Two months ago, attaching my career to a musician I’d already crossed lines with seemed like a fast track to the unemployment line. Now, I’m beginning to think he may be my only hope for staying out of it. “Give me one second.”
My hands shake as I scramble to bring up the information I’ve gathered on Fifth Circle. There’s plenty of it. I could claim to have collected the multitude of photos and recordings so I’m prepared if they change their minds, and it would only be a partial lie. My strange obsession encompasses the band as a whole—and I thrill at the thought of all I could do for them—but Johnny is always going to be the fixed point at the centre.
The first photo, taken from their website, appears on the monitor and Arthur shifts in his seat with a low groan. “Fifth Circle again?” He rolls his eyes. “You begged me to let you see them at Autumn Skies, despite the fact we were swamped with work, and then you said they were no good. Which, I might add, I’d already told you.”
I grit my teeth at the mixture of truth and bald-faced lies. “I said they’re resistant to the idea of being managed. The band itself was incredibly impressive.” I meet Genevieve’s gaze. “If I may?”
She nods her assent.
I cover the basics of the band’s background at top speed. How Johnny was the one who put the band together. It originally had five members, including current members Gavin and Oz. The keyboardist left after about six months and was never replaced. The band’s development was hampered by a series of sub-par lead singers. “That would be when Arthur saw them,” I add, gesturing in his glowering direction. “However, that changed with the arrival of Ned Corbyn two years ago. It’s taken time for them to find their sound,” I conclude, “but there’s an incredible amount of untapped potential there. With the right management strategy, they could be huge.”
I hit play on a video recording from the festival. Produced by the organisers, it does a decent job of showcasing the band. I keep my gaze averted as the clip plays. I already know every note, every movement of Ned’s performance, every gesture Johnny makes as he works his magic on his guitar.
The song ends a few minutes later, and I pause the playback. Looking up, I force myself to meet Genevieve’s gaze. She’s frowning at me.
“Why am I only hearing about this band now?” she says tersely.
“They’ve been surprisingly good at keeping under the radar. Autumn Skies was their festival debut. Until then, they’d been keeping to small pubs with small audiences. They’ve opened for other bands at some larger gigs, but that’s it.”
“The festival was two months ago. Why didn’t you sign them then?”
“I had a meeting with Ned Corbyn at the festival.” More accurately, I chased him across the lawn like a deranged groupie while he did his best to escape me. “Fifth Circle see themselves as a simple pub band, and nothing more. Ned was adamant about their desire to remain completely independent in all regards.”
Arthur barks out a laugh. “He told you to fuck off is what you’re saying.”
I smile tightly, waiting for the murmur of smothered laughter in the room to die down. “He was more polite about it.”
Arthur turns to Genevieve with smug confidence. “Let me talk to them, Genny,” he says in a low voice, as if I’ve already been dismissed from the conversation. “Perhaps they’d be open to someone with more experience and less…” he glances at me with a hint of disdain, “desperation.”
Genevieve appears to consider the suggestion. “I suppose you could—”
“No!”
Every person in the room snaps their focus to me. Most with horror. Arthur with delight. Genevieve regards me with lifted eyebrows and a hint of amusement on her lips. “You have something to add, Calum?”
I stand there, jaw dropped, but nothing comes out. My mind is still busy reeling with the possible ramifications of talking over the CEO of the company. Loudly.
Clearing my throat, I manage to croak out a few words. “I apologise for the interruption. I didn’t mean to—”
“Spit it out,” she snaps.