Old Joe

Unlike the music company Song Ya had imagined would be at the cutting edge of fashion, Old Joe Music was tucked securely behind a narrow, thick iron door. It didn't even seem to have a doorbell. AK stepped forward and pounded on it, making it boom dully.

"Go buy some pizza."

Pablo pulled a wad of cash from his pocket, peeled off a few bills, and handed them to Silencer. "Get some drinks, too." He pointed toward an intersection. "There's a place two traffic lights down."

Silencer silently took the money and went to the car. Just then, a narrow peephole in the iron door flickered, and a lazy-looking Black thug with tattoos all over his face pushed the door open.

"Pick up the pace, Carl," Pablo complained. Beyond the door was an equally narrow staircase, and he went up first.

Carl bumped fists with everyone coming in. "This is my little brother, Ya Li. You can call him APLUS, too." Tony introduced Song Ya, and Carl nodded. The two bumped fists, and that was that.

Looks like he's another quiet type, just like Silencer.

Song Ya muttered to himself, but his attention was soon drawn to the pictures lining both sides of the staircase. They were all in beautiful frames, portraits of various people in black and white or color. Most had a distinct fifties or sixties—sometimes even earlier—style of clothing and photography. And, of course, they were all Black. Old Joe appeared most often: there were pictures of him as a young man and as a middle-aged man. It seemed he'd once been a moderately well-known singer.

"That's me."

Old Morgan proudly pointed to one of the pictures. "Look at that handsome young fellow."

The young man in the photo was indeed in his prime. He held a golden saxophone against his chest and flashed a bright smile, showing off a row of white teeth.

"Too bad the age of jazz is over..." Old Morgan hugged his saxophone case a little tighter. His melancholy lasted only a moment, though. "Damn rock and roll, damn disco, damn rhythm and blues..." The gray-haired old man suddenly turned into an angry boy, cursing a whole era and blaming it for his own failures. "Damn Kelly King!" In the end, he even went after his own contemporaries.

The second floor was much more spacious. Two posters, each taller than a person, hung in the foyer. One showed Old Joe, whom Song Ya remembered well. He stood in the middle with his arms spread wide, two Black older ladies tucked under each arm. They all had the same barrel-shaped figures as Aunt Susie, and Song Ya didn't recognize a single one of them. The other poster featured Little Lowry and Al. Little Lowry stood at the visual center, a guitar slung across his chest and both hands gripping a stand-mounted microphone as he stared coolly into the camera. He looked every bit the rock star. Beside him, Al had to bend down, holding a microphone in one hand and flashing a famous hip-hop gesture with the other.

"So Little Lowry must be the company's biggest star."

Song Ya had a clear sense of Old Joe Music's standing. It might once have been a success, but it was definitely second-rate now.

"Call Al and tell him to come over."

Pablo snapped his fingers and pointed to the landline at the reception desk. "As fast as you can."

AK reached over the empty reception desk, picked up the phone, and dialed.

Pablo kept walking. He stopped in front of a door marked "Recording," pressed his ear to it for a few seconds, then turned the handle and shoved it open.

A woman's scream immediately rang out from inside.

"Pull your pants up and get the hell out!" Pablo didn't care who was in there. He went straight in to kick them out.

There was a rustling in the pitch-black room. Then a shirtless young Black man came out with his jacket wrapped around his companion's upper body, head bowed as he slipped past.

Tony laughed and hollered from outside, but didn't forget to make introductions. "This is my little brother, Ya Li. You can call him APLUS, too. Ya Li, this is Eric, our sound engineer."

"FXXXYOU, Tony," Eric muttered. His companion flipped Tony the middle finger.

"Come in! Everyone, get in here!"

It was a standard recording studio. The outer room was the control room, with a mixing console, chairs, a sofa, and assorted equipment. The smaller room inside was the recording booth, and the two were connected by thick glass.

Pablo turned on all the lights. "Get to work! We're short on time." He opened the booth door and ushered Old Morgan and Little Lowry inside. "The sheet music!" He snapped his fingers at Song Ya.

Song Ya took the sheet music from his bag, went into the booth, and placed it on the music stands in front of Old Morgan and Little Lowry.

Little Lowry was still sulking. He put on an attitude and didn't say a word, not even making eye contact with Song Ya.

Old Morgan pulled out his reading glasses, put them on, and slowly began opening his saxophone case.

"Come out. We'll talk out here," Pablo ordered over the speakers.

Song Ya hurried out and shut the booth door.

"If you have any feedback, use this, but don't interrupt them unless you have to."

Pablo demonstrated the talkback button. "Start when you're ready." He pressed it and spoke into the microphone.

"Don't rush me, don't rush me. I'm old, unlike you young folks..." Old Morgan's grumbling came through the monitor speakers.

"Where's Eric?" Pablo turned to look around.

"Didn't you tell him to get lost?" Tony asked, confused.

"Go get him. We can't do without him here." Once he'd arranged everything, Pablo hurried out.

Song Ya was left alone in the control room. He sat at the mixing console and looked around. Besides the console, there were plenty of pieces of equipment he couldn't name. The walls were covered in sound-absorbing material, so the place seemed pretty professional. Of course, there was also the long sofa behind him, a mess, and the faint smell of sweat in the air—a clear sign of how intense things had gotten just before.

Most of the saxophone accompaniment in "Thrift Shop" consisted of mechanical repetition. Old Morgan followed the sheet music and tried a few sections. "WTH..." He lowered his saxophone and cursed. "What idiot wrote this garbage?"

"I did," Song Ya replied honestly, embarrassed. Then he remembered he hadn't pressed the talkback button. "Uh... I did," he repeated.

"I just don't understand the music kids are making these days. Do you really think this stuff will be popular?" Old Morgan kept complaining, then turned to Little Lowry. "Do you think it'll be a hit? Singing this stuff, huh?"

That made Little Lowry laugh. "I don't know," he replied.

"Ah, kids these days... I understand less and less... You know, when I was your age..."

Old Morgan went on and on, while Little Lowry seemed perfectly content to slack off. Song Ya knew he had no way to make them listen, and didn't feel like offending anyone by speaking up. Fortunately, before long, Pablo came back in with Old Joe.

Old Joe was still wearing the pink suit from that day. "Morgan!" He pressed the talkback button and shouted, "Do you believe I'll come in there, rip that old mouth off your face, and throw it in Lake Michigan to feed the fish?!"

That same booming bass—his looks, too, were almost identical to the old man in the pink suit in the "Thrift Shop" music video from The Apocalypse Plug-in. The moment Song Ya saw him, he felt like laughing.

"APLUS, right?" After putting Morgan in his place, Old Joe turned and held out his hand. "Let's get acquainted. I'm the owner of this company, Joe. You can call me Old Joe, but I prefer people to call me BOSS."

"Hello, BOSS." Song Ya shook his hand. When the music started in the booth, he stepped aside.

Morgan played saxophone while Little Lowry sang and played the djembe. They went through the song properly, and the result was much better than the last time Song Ya had performed it with Little Lowry.

"Hmm..."

Old Joe pursed his lips, withholding judgment. "Let's do it again." He pressed the talkback button.

While Old Joe and Pablo listened to the second run-through, Song Ya's thoughts raced. Tony had told him to butter up Pablo, but from their conversation in the car, Song Ya could tell their interests conflicted. Pablo was Little Lowry's manager, and he'd wanted Song Ya to "give" the lyrics to Little Lowry. Flattery alone probably wouldn't change his mind. Even if Pablo became Song Ya's manager later, there was no telling how he'd choose if Song Ya and Little Lowry came into conflict.

Maybe asking Pablo to be his manager wasn't such a good idea.

But Old Joe was completely different from Pablo. As long as the record sold well, the owner of the music company would definitely have the same interests as Song Ya...

Once he'd figured it out, Song Ya acted. When the second run-through ended, he caught Old Joe's attention. "Uh, boss. The thing is, the inspiration for this song came from the day we filmed Little Lowry's music video..."

"Mm-hmm, I heard about that. Thrift Shop, right?" Old Joe replied casually.

"Not only that. Part of the inspiration came from you, boss," Song Ya continued. "I wrote the chorus for you. I really like your bass voice."

"Me?" Old Joe looked surprised.

"Yeah. Why don't you give it a try?" Song Ya gestured invitingly toward the booth.

"Give it a try?" Old Joe exchanged a glance with Pablo.

Pablo pursed his lips and nodded.

"Sure, I'll give it a try." Old Joe pushed open the booth door and went inside.

He took the sheet music and spent a moment getting ready. Then they began the third run-through.

I'm gonna pop some tags, only got twenty dollars in my pocket

I'm, I'm, I'm hunting, looking for a come up

this is FXXXing awesome!

As soon as those few lines came out, Song Ya noticed Pablo lean forward, his eyes lighting up.