Crime Plus Music (30 page)

Yes, thought the boy. One hundred and twenty-eight beats per minutes. Four beats per bar. Here comes the breakdown, right on time. Now the drop. Music by prescription.

“It's very Avicii,” Bowie replied. “Late Avicii.”

Bowie knew Avicii had signed with a label before he'd turned eighteen. He topped out at twenty-one.

Malik knew Avicii hadn't yet turned thirty and was worth $50 million.

Ion hid his frown. Was this kid from the North Pole probing? Or did he just send Rakesh a sign that he was dotted-line ready?

Ionic Strength had told Malik he had it under control. EDM was ready for a new boy wonder. “Bowie Thomas, he slides right in,” Ion had said. The kid next store. The all-American. He's having fun, you're having fun. Porter Robinson, Flume, Bowie Thomas . . .

A woman approached. A goddess. An African queen. She nestled into Malik as if she had reserved the spot. “Rakesh,” she pouty-moaned.

Bowie couldn't tell if it was a request or a command.

“I trust we will see you again soon,” Malik said.

“Thank you. For the invitation.”

As Malik was steered away, Ion said, “Let me ask you something, Boing-Boing. You think you're ready?”

“I can do what I do, so, yes. I'll say yes.”

Ion said, “Bold. But you can only get so far by yourself.”

Bowie did not reply. He had known what the game would be before he left Sault Ste. Marie, before he put on the Tiësto jacket, before he was in a roomful of mannequins.

B
EN
T
HOMAS
HEARD
THE
SHOP
door open. The morning mail, he thought when no customer called to him. He kept sanding, the rhythm smooth and easy. But then he realized there was no mail delivery on Sunday.

There was a teenager girl, slight, shy, slumped into her down coat. Mittens.

Ben put the sandpaper in his back pocket.

“What did I do?” asked the girl.

He saw that she had been crying.

“I'm sorry,” Ben said. “Are you . . . you must know my son, Bowie.”

“It's my fault.”

Whoa
, Ben thought as he hurried to reach her. Now she was sobbing.

He steered her toward a rocking chair awaiting brush and stain.

It took a while, but she got it out.

She had placed a few songs Bowie had composed—two, actually: “Euphrosine” and “Bonnie Bonnie Holiday”—on the Internet and now he was furious with her. He wouldn't return her emails, her texts. She tried to call. But he didn't— He wouldn't—

He excused himself and returned with tissues. She was a child. So was Bowie and now he was in Hollywood, and they were going to try to steal his soul. That's what Hollywood was for. It had no other purpose. Cyphers and vipers.

“Bowie's not home. He's on . . . a business trip, I guess.”

“Well, I know that now,” she said, dabbing at her nose. “I'm Emily, by the way.” She offered a little wave.

Ben watched as she took out her phone. Soon, she was showing him a photo of his son. “That's Ionic Strength. They're at Chalk. It's a club in Hollywood.”

The man had his arm tight around Bowie's red-leather shoulders. “So that's Ionic Strength . . .”

“He's huge,” she said. “And awful.”

Ben sat, balancing on the edge of a nightstand. “How so?”

“He makes the worst—the
worst
—music, and now he has Bowie.”

He waggled his finger at the photo on the little screen. “Is there some kind of write-up with that?”

Just a caption, it turned out. Ben saw the word “prodigy.”

“I killed his reputation,” she said.

“Emily, how can this be your fault? Really.”

“When Ion owns you, it's over. Ask—” She rattled off names Ben had never heard. But he could tell they had some sort of purchase in the marketplace. “They haven't made any good music since.”

“Bowie's seventeen. He can't sign a contract. No one owns him.”

Emily took back her phones and danced her thumbs across the keys.

Now Ben was looking at what appeared to be a magazine article in miniature.

“Who is Ramaaker?”

As Emily explained, Ben read the screed, written by Ramaaker in awkward English. In brief, Ionic Strength was the personification of all that was wrong with electronic dance music. A corruptor. Vile. Took the money and ran. Banal. Void of musical talent; void of music. A parasite. No soul.

Bowie had great promise, Ramaaker railed. Listen to “Euphrosine” and “Bonne Bonne Holiday” and you hear . . .

Not “Bonne Bonne.” Bonnie had been Bowie's first piano teacher. Bowie labored, but he never quit.

“Ramaaker sent links to all the EDM websites,” Emily said. She looked for a trash can for the tissues. “It's blowing up.”

Ben tried to tamp his anger. He remembered he was speaking to a tender heart. “If Ionic Strength is as terrible as this man says, wouldn't everyone already know this? That he's in it for the money, not the art of it?”

Frustrated, Emily said, “That—that right there—says Bowie is dead.”

Ben smiled. “Bowie is not dead. I don't know much about that kind of music, but—”

“No one will take him seriously.”

“Emily . . .”

She snatched her phone and shoved it into her coat pocket.

“Emily, this is just . . . it's a setback, if that. It never goes smoothly.” He shrugged. “It just doesn't.” He tapped her soft shoulder. “Let's believe in Bowie, okay?”

B
OWIE
SPENT
MUCH
OF
THE
day in a daze. He had never traveled so he knew nothing about the effects of jet lag. He hadn't eaten much, and he was uncomfortable calling for room service. He turned on the TV. Football at 10 a.m. He bumbled around the room before walking to lunch at P. F. Chang's. He swam in the hotel pool. In January. The sun tingled on his shoulders. Freckles would emerge.

He answered emails, the total now exceeding five hundred.

“It's fine,” he wrote to Emily. “No worries.”

To Ramaaker, the message was even more succinct: “Have faith.”

Then, the next email: “Mom, all good. Hi to Dad. Home soon.”

He was napping when the bedside phone rang.
Someone to see you, Mr. Thomas.

Bowie felt compelled to tidy the room. He brushed his teeth.

He expected the driver, but it was Ionic Strength. Bowie stepped back to let him in.

“I want to show you something,” said Ion, who wore a long electric-blue shirt over baby-blue slacks. Barefoot. A gold bracelet rattled on his wrist as unzipped his satchel and removed the latest iPad.

Bowie sealed the door.

“Sit,” said Ionic Strength, nodding toward the long, boardlike sofa.

Bowie sat as he received the tablet.

“Watch.”

Bowie hit the proper arrow.

Oh, no
, he thought.

The man in the shaky video footage was slope-shouldered in a long ratty coat as he trundled along a joyless city street. Long-nailed and frazzled, he seemed small against an ancient building's heavy gray stones and invisible to the people who waited for a trolleybus. The man, who oozed suspicion, carried a tattered tote bag that strained to contain a collection of vinyl recordings. A billboard touted an American movie, the glowing actress familiar, but the title now in Dutch.

Now the man stopped to wait for the traffic light to change. He shuffled impatiently, almost angrily. He scowled; he wiped his nose on his sleeve. The camera pushed in: a desperate Ramaaker. He needed a shave, a bath, a meal. He lifted the tote and held the vinyl to his chest, as if to protect it from theft. The trolleybus arrived and soon departed, and Ramaaker remained. He howled, turned on a battered heel and rushed toward where he'd come from.

“There's more,” said Ion, as he took back his iPad.

Bowie slumped.

“Your advocate. It's more than jealousy.”

Bowie fumbled for his defense.

“Speak,” Ion said, “but it comes down to do or bitch.”

“He does.” Meaning: he makes good tracks.

“Who listens?”

Bowie was about to say: I do. But he held his tongue. Ramaaker, oh man. Beaten down Ramaaker.

“The earth spins and nobody cares about the crazy man who wants it to stay in one place.”

“‘Crazy,'” said Bowie, shaking his head. “That's cold.”

Ion tsk-tsked. “Paranoid, bipolar, whatever, but functional without the drink.” He put the iPad on an end table. “Keep it. There's more. The arrest in Ibiza: bottle through the window, handcuffs? It's on there.”

Bowie wasn't sure what he had heard. Ramaaker spun in Ibiza, but blew it?

Ionic Strength crossed the room. “You're on tonight at Chalk. We're gonna set it straight.” He nodded toward the iPad. “The playlist is on there too.”

“I don't have my gear,” Bowie replied.

“Behind Plexiglas, remember? Just let it flow.”

Bowie had visited the lounge last night. He would be shielded and on a raised platform. No one could see that he was pushing buttons and sending out Ion's playlist.

“Fake it to make it,” Ion said.

C
HALK
'
S
MAIN
ROOM
PULSED
AND
rattled, and the dancers bounced and squealed. Glee ruled, so did abandon, and laser lights and soap bubbles heightened the dizzying effect. The music wasn't horrible: the DJ had skills, no doubt, if narrow tastes; he kept it moving and given a choice of remixes, he chose close to the most appealing. The crowd: glitter on faces, yes, and Day-Glo wristlets; but not too many hat-imals, no pacifiers to ward off the effects of grinding teeth—alcohol, not E, the drug of choice on the Strip, at least on a Sunday night. Or maybe not. Bowie didn't care. Circling, he looked for people who were listening. Soon, the driver ushered him back to the shadows where Ionic Strength held court with bottle service. The women smiled as Ion pointed to the boy from UP in a $380 hoodie, spanking new skinny jeans, and his Dr. Martens from back home. Bowie couldn't hear the names as Ion made introductions, but no one seemed to mind.

Ion shooed until a space opened next to him on the banquette. Bowie squeezed around the table, bypassing long legs, dimpled knees, and Jimmy Choos.

“You brought your laptop,” Ion shouted, his lips inches from Bowie's ear.

Bowie nodded. He wasn't going to tap a button on the iPad and let Ion's playlist represent him. It was dreck. Music as product; music to move product.

“You're thinking you can pull it off,” Ion said, as he reached for his glass. “But remember where you are. These people, they want what they want. Don't confuse them. This isn't the Warehouse in 1977, and you're not Frankie Knuckles.”

Bowie was surprised that Ion knew the club where house music got its start. But then he remembered that he was in the game way before there was money to be made, before the B-list spun for fame.

“I hear you,” Bowie nodded.

Ion threw his arm around Bowie's shoulder. “Rakesh is here. Both of us—me, you—we could have a very sweet week.”

“Okay,” said Bowie.

H
E
FLEW
COACH
AND
THEN
had to use his emergency credit card to get to Sault Ste. Marie from Detroit. His father drove him home after engulfing him in a hug.

“So . . . ?” asked Ben.

Bowie shrugged as if to remind his father that, as a teen, he had the right to remain petulant. Heat streaming from the vent rode up the leg of his Levi's. Outside the truck, it was silver-sunny and a crisp eighteen degrees.

“Was it what you thought it would be?”

“Sort of,” Bowie replied.

“The good? The bad?”

“Something to remember, for sure.”

They left the airport grounds, and soon they crossed 3 Mile Road. Ben had left a sign in the window: L
ONG
L
UNCH
.

“Regrets?”

If Bowie regretted anything, it was leaving behind that hoodie. He was never going to have a hoodie like that again. He thought about keeping the iPad too, as if burying it would protect Ramaaker. But it remained in the booth at Chalk.

“I'm good, Dad,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Maybe it was necessary.”

Ben tapped his son on the thigh. “All right . . .” he said softly.

They headed south toward home.

At Chalk, the handoff had been fluid: The DJ who called himself Deen Angst ended his set with a pop hit with an EDM platform, so Bowie slid in with a Latin remix of the same backing track. The handful in the crowd who knew the craft caught it, and so did Ionic Strength, who was standing with Rakesh Malik and his African queen at the side of the booth. Bowie popped open an energy drink.

The Latin groove felt right for the room, so Bowie rode it for a while. African queen was digging it. Bouncing along with the rhythms, Bowie looked through the Plexiglas: people were dancing, not fist-pumping and pogoing in place. One a.m. on a Monday and the room was swinging side to side, not up and down. Rhythm ruled happy, happy Hollywood: Bowie knew good music knocked the blasé out of anyone with feels. He had known this since he toddled.

He had in his laptop a version of his “Bonnie Bonnie Holiday” that he sweetened with percussion from an old Deodato track. The beats-per-minute was a tad slower than what he had been spinning so he dropped in a few scratches and a thunder pop, then let it fly. It worked.

But Ion was displeased. Two bars in, he knew Bowie had chosen to spin his own composition, one Ion intended to register with his name as co-composer.

Bowie brought up a seventies disco remix, then, as if to appease Ion, tossed in a Lady Gaga track that drew heavily on retro house music. But Ion guessed what was coming, and Bowie transitioned to funk and disco-influenced house hits out of mid-eighties Chicago and Detroit. And the crowd, which now included people who had been savoring the main room, didn't mind at all.