It’s a typical corporate office with a mahogany boardroom table and comfortable-looking, expensive chairs.
The windows look out all over Manhattan, just like I imagined. But now, here in the boardroom I can see the Statue of Liberty in the distance.
Derek Ward stands at the head of the table.
"Well, gentlemen," he says. "I was delighted to experience your concert in Las Vegas. More importantly, see the crowd’s reaction to you. You guys did a bang-upjob. And I don’t have to tell you what a contract with Midnight Records will do for you as individuals and as a band."
He sits down.
"But here's the question. What will youdo formycompany?”
No one says a word.
"No one's piping up?" says Ward. "I want to hear it from your own mouths. What willyoudo that none of my other bands do? How are you a unique addition to the Midnight Records family?"
Still silence.
Prince Michael stands.
"Not since 1967 and the legendary Jim Morrison and The Doors,” he continues. "Has there been a band that achieved such a strong cult following.”
"Rio Wilder, our lead singer, has the ethos and charisma of that famous singer,” he says, gesturing theatrically toward me. “He’s a quiet poet with male beauty and the kind inner charisma that defines the Rio and the Wilders brand."
Derek Ward scoffs.
“Look at my albums,” he says, pointing to the gold records lining the one solid wall.
“All of my lead singers are gorgeous. All of them are charismatic. You haven’t said how your poetic version is any different.”
I stand.
“Prince Michael called me poetic. Maybe that’s true. I wrote poetry before songs. But I had an enabler. And that enabler is sitting right here in this room.”
I gesture to Steven.
“Steven’s been my best friend since sandbox days. He’s a talented guitarist on his own. He took the poems I wrote, read them, admired them, tore them apart, and then worked with me on how to put them together into a song.”
I pause to read the interest in the room. The Midnight Records team, including Derek Ward appear energized. Clearly interested in what I have to say.
“Steven’s the mastermind behind whatever musicalgenius I’m rumored to have. And Keith," I say, gesturing toward our blonde drummer.
"Keith joined us last year from Manchester. You should see him when he gets going—sweat flying everywhere, arms moving so fast they blur. The way he hits those drums changed everything for us. Listen to our last album compared to the ones before. The difference is night and day. The beats are tighter; the energy is higher."
“Continue,” says Derek Ward.
"Now, I know these bands of yours," I begin, my voice steady.
"I've listened to every album. I've been to their concerts when they came through town. I even met a couple of them backstage. All solid guys. But what you're getting from us isn't just one dude with a microphone. It's all of us together."
I pause to let this soak in, then I sit down.
Prince Michael gives me a solemn nod and mouths the words, “You nailed it.”
But I’m not so sure.
There’s so much riding on this. So much at stake.
“All right,” says Ward. “You’ve said your piece. Let’s get down to some of the terms we'd want to negotiate if we decide to sign you. And that’s a big if."
