'energizing the base': ur doing it wrong [RP for Peter Webster]
New York out the window, a bit of cloud cover but not rain, which Robin found vaguely depressing. If he was in London it'd be rain. Rain down the windows, rain turning the City, his city, grey and wet and cold and prompting him to make plans for Los Angeles or Cyprus and yet, down at the core of his quintessentially British self, loving it because, well, it was British. The rain. London. Grey. Umbrellas swarming the streets.
Failing that, the sun of Los Angeles or Cyprus would be very nice indeed. But this half-hearted unfortunate cloud cover that promised nothing except continued overcast, that was depressing. Neither sun nor rain, neither Los Angeles nor London: halfway between the both of them.
"Neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring," the Puck muttered morosely, and spun his swivel chair so that it faced, not the steel jungle and gray sky, but his office walls and sleek computer screen. There was, after all, work to be done. He regarded his monitor, glowing with the soft light of the day's tasks, for several blank minutes, and then set instead to playing with one of the office gadgets on his desk, a thing of steel balls and wires that held his attention for a full thirty seconds before he scowled and gave up.
This was getting boring.
'This'-- all of it, this pleasant fiction with the music and the label and the suit and the bands and the contracts and the interviews and so forth and so forth. Had it really been thirty years now? More or less. Thirty years that, mm, barring some of the interesting things that had surrounded the start of this enterprise, hadn't been particularly eventful.
Profitable, certainly-- and Robin did not measure this in money, but in less tangible terms-- but not eventful. Not... exciting.
This, this cultivating of little human minstrels as Titania had cultivated the gardens of the Palace (or, more accurately, as Titania had ordered the royal gardeners to do so)-- this weeding of the crowd of hopefuls for those who had that spark necessary to capture audience, and then to carefully prune and train them like rare floral breeds, to see them grow to fruition and flower. And then to take from them his due, those drops of nectar drained harmlessly off to provide him with nourishment.
It had been an experiment at first, to see if it could be done, if the theories he was only beginning to form about the sketchy mutual territory of art and magic and worship held true. And then it had been a battle, against the bulwarks of human hierarchy settling themselves into firm corporate stone. And now?
Now it was getting routine.
This thing, for instance, with Breaker Street's fan website. It was a pattern now: have Bernard send the letter, let the site's owner fret a day or so-- whether they took down the site in the intervening time was irrelevant-- then give them a friendly ring and clear up the whole matter quite amicably. And profitably. Lovely arrangement all around. Worked like a charm.
Rory'd called earlier, up-in-arms about the matter, but Robin had said, dear boy, kindly let me handle it, I've no intention of shutting down this charming little site and you've got a lot to learn about the music industry... And now, he supposed, he might as well get around to handling it. Monday now, the owner-- Robin checked something on his screen, ah yes, this Peter Webster, and there was his telephone number-- would have had the weekend to contemplate it, very well, time to dance the requisite steps and sing his bit and arrange one more piece of his pie...
Dull. Routine. Robin looked out the window as the phone rang in his ear, watched the regrettable lack of rain against his windows, and wondered if it was time to be moving on. Time to be someone else, yet again.
But then, Rory and his band did promise to be of considerably more interest than the usual bands. Might as well see the whole affair out.
When the phone was answered, he said, quite pleasantly, "Hello, good afternoon-- I'm trying to reach one Mr. Peter Webster?"
Failing that, the sun of Los Angeles or Cyprus would be very nice indeed. But this half-hearted unfortunate cloud cover that promised nothing except continued overcast, that was depressing. Neither sun nor rain, neither Los Angeles nor London: halfway between the both of them.
"Neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring," the Puck muttered morosely, and spun his swivel chair so that it faced, not the steel jungle and gray sky, but his office walls and sleek computer screen. There was, after all, work to be done. He regarded his monitor, glowing with the soft light of the day's tasks, for several blank minutes, and then set instead to playing with one of the office gadgets on his desk, a thing of steel balls and wires that held his attention for a full thirty seconds before he scowled and gave up.
This was getting boring.
'This'-- all of it, this pleasant fiction with the music and the label and the suit and the bands and the contracts and the interviews and so forth and so forth. Had it really been thirty years now? More or less. Thirty years that, mm, barring some of the interesting things that had surrounded the start of this enterprise, hadn't been particularly eventful.
Profitable, certainly-- and Robin did not measure this in money, but in less tangible terms-- but not eventful. Not... exciting.
This, this cultivating of little human minstrels as Titania had cultivated the gardens of the Palace (or, more accurately, as Titania had ordered the royal gardeners to do so)-- this weeding of the crowd of hopefuls for those who had that spark necessary to capture audience, and then to carefully prune and train them like rare floral breeds, to see them grow to fruition and flower. And then to take from them his due, those drops of nectar drained harmlessly off to provide him with nourishment.
It had been an experiment at first, to see if it could be done, if the theories he was only beginning to form about the sketchy mutual territory of art and magic and worship held true. And then it had been a battle, against the bulwarks of human hierarchy settling themselves into firm corporate stone. And now?
Now it was getting routine.
This thing, for instance, with Breaker Street's fan website. It was a pattern now: have Bernard send the letter, let the site's owner fret a day or so-- whether they took down the site in the intervening time was irrelevant-- then give them a friendly ring and clear up the whole matter quite amicably. And profitably. Lovely arrangement all around. Worked like a charm.
Rory'd called earlier, up-in-arms about the matter, but Robin had said, dear boy, kindly let me handle it, I've no intention of shutting down this charming little site and you've got a lot to learn about the music industry... And now, he supposed, he might as well get around to handling it. Monday now, the owner-- Robin checked something on his screen, ah yes, this Peter Webster, and there was his telephone number-- would have had the weekend to contemplate it, very well, time to dance the requisite steps and sing his bit and arrange one more piece of his pie...
Dull. Routine. Robin looked out the window as the phone rang in his ear, watched the regrettable lack of rain against his windows, and wondered if it was time to be moving on. Time to be someone else, yet again.
But then, Rory and his band did promise to be of considerably more interest than the usual bands. Might as well see the whole affair out.
When the phone was answered, he said, quite pleasantly, "Hello, good afternoon-- I'm trying to reach one Mr. Peter Webster?"