Chapter 12: Pablo

Song Ya played the trumpet, while Little Lowry played the African drums and sang. Together, they ran through the whole song roughly.

After listening, the manager tilted his head and looked at Song Ya. "You're really the lead trumpet player at your school?"

"Uh, yes, I used to be," Song Ya quickly offered his pre-planned explanation. "I suddenly lost interest in music recently, so I didn't practice much and I've fallen behind. Also... I was really nervous just now."

"Yeah, he got distracted. He was being an idiot, focusing on his studies and all. He got an A+ in math, so we all call him APLUS, hahahaha..." Tony chipped in, helping to explain.

"This doesn't make sense. The song sounds so complete. You couldn't possibly have..." The manager started to say but then cut himself off. He took out a cigarette holder and put a Camel cigarette in it. "Forget it, let's not get bogged down in small details. I'll just pretend you're a genius."

"Yeah, Ally, did you hear that? You're a genius! Turns out, you're actually a genius after all..."

"Shut up, Tony."

The manager told Tony to keep quiet, lit his cigarette, and took a puff. "You've registered the lyrics and music, right?"

"Yes, the lyrics, the music, and this demo." Song Ya could sense hesitation from the manager. Little Lowry had already hinted that AK was rejecting the collaboration. If the manager remained negative, then this path would be completely blocked.

But on second thought, Song Ya wasn't that worried. After all, he had the good songs, and the one desperate to grab onto the last straw was the manager. As long as he secured the copyright, making money in America's capital-driven society was just a matter of when, not if—whether more or less. If the manager was sharp enough, he'd see the opportunity here.

Little Lowry was completely zoned out, his gaze drifting across the ceiling, his legs swaying casually, looking utterly indifferent.

"I'm here to save you, Little Lowry!" 

Song Ya thought to himself. He was certain that Little Lowry was still being kept in the dark by the manager and the music company boss.

"Let's go to the company first."

The manager snuffed out his cigarette with his thumb and forefinger. "AK, go get my car." He kicked Little Lowry's leg and shouted, "Move it, everyone! Let's go!"

"Silencer" patted Song Ya's shoulder. "Cool!"

Tony, as happy as a giant child, jumped up and high-fived Little Lowry, then AK, and finally pulled Song Ya downstairs. "I knew you could do it!" he shouted.

Once they reached the bottom, Tony pulled Song Ya aside and whispered, "Did I say too much upstairs? Probably made things worse, right?"

This guy was definitely rough around the edges, but he knew how to use it to his advantage. For example, the gun incident on the basketball court—he later explained that most of the kids who played there were from families with decent backgrounds, so he felt confident doing that. If the location had been a poor neighborhood, he would never have been dumb enough to try and act tough.

But he definitely didn't know how to keep his mouth shut.

"No, not at all..." Song Ya smiled bitterly. "It's all thanks to you and Little Lowry's relationship, right?"

"Yeah!" Tony loved this. "You guys are my brothers, and brothers should help each other out like this..."

Little Lowry and the manager came down last. It was clear they had just argued. Little Lowry angrily opened the door of the "Silencer" Toyota and sat inside.

"You!" 

The manager ignored him, snapping his fingers at Song Ya, then pointed to the Volvo 760 that AK had just driven out.

"Flatter him a little," Tony reminded.

"Don't worry." Song Ya separated from him and sat in the front seat of the Volvo.

"The luxury car feel is different."

Song Ya shifted in the comfortable leather seat, thinking to himself, "If we make it big, I'll get a Volvo too, and support domestic brands. Wait, something doesn't seem right..."

"Do you have a manager?" The manager in the back seat got straight to the point.

"No, uh... I don't have experience in that area." Song Ya answered truthfully.

"Really?"

The manager seemed a bit skeptical. "Who taught you about registering your works and stuff?"

"I consulted a lawyer, and that's the advice he gave me." Song Ya observed the manager more closely. He seemed to be about fifty, with a slight Mexican look, decisive and efficient in his actions, with a strong presence. From the car and his economic power, he seemed quite well off, but his demeanor was domineering and controlling.

But as long as the manager could help with his income and career, the personality stuff was secondary. Plus, he was Little Lowry's manager, and seemed to know Al as well—at least he wasn't some random outsider. Without a manager or a way in, it might just be better to...

"Uh... you..." Song Ya thought things through and then spoke decisively.

"Pablo."

"Okay, Mr. Pablo, would you consider being my manager?" he asked.

They exchanged a glance in the rearview mirror.

"Principally, no problem. But before I become your manager, there's one thing we need to make clear: the copyright issue." Pablo said. "The music, sure, that belongs to you, but the lyrics, you should probably give to Little Lowry."

"Why?" Song Ya was greatly surprised.

"Your lawyer doesn't quite understand the rap world. Whether it's old-school or modern political or gangsta rap, the rapper isn't just expressing themselves; they're commenting on various issues. Early rappers came from the lower class, they couldn't afford proper backing tracks, so they often just made do or sampled others' music. So the music is fine for you, but think about it—if the content of the rap isn't the artist's own, then it could be sung by anyone, right? Honestly, this genre doesn't require high vocals or excellent voice technique. The bar is low. And if you're not singing what you want to say, then what makes you different from those idol singers the big record companies push? Such rappers will get rejected and laughed at by the whole community."

Pablo continued, "Also, the lyrics of your song need to be changed."

"Uh... uh..." 

Song Ya nervously rubbed his lips together, hesitating. He hadn't thought about this problem before, but now it was clear—if he lost the rights to the lyrics, he'd lose the portion of royalties that came with them.

"Think it over carefully."

Pablo didn't press further. Instead, he grabbed his Motorola brick phone and started making a call. "Hey, old man! I need your saxophone... right now... this is a big deal... okay, we're good? ...Alright, I'll be downstairs in ten minutes."

"Go to Old Morgan's place." After hanging up, he told AK.

Ten minutes later, they picked up an elderly Black man carrying a saxophone case, dressed in a flashy 60s-70s style.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, dressing like that, old man, where are you going?" Pablo teased, tugging at the bright pocket square on the man's chest.

"It's not... didn't you say you had a big deal?" The old man's eyes widened. "Don't mess with me, kid! If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be out this late."

"We're going to Old Joe's place. What did you think, I was going to book you a restaurant gig? Do you think your old bones can handle that?"

"I get plenty of gigs! Every venue is looking for sax players."

"I know, I know, you should thank Kelly King. Look, even kids today are composing with tons of saxophone in the mix."

"To hell with Kelly King, I don't owe him anything. My skills are a thousand times better."

"Really? I heard you playing his tracks. I almost thought you were going to pass out right then and there."

"Go screw yourself, I'm talking about skill!"

Pablo and Old Morgan exchanged insults, and in front of an old friend, he was a completely different person.

Soon they arrived at the destination. AK parked the car, and Song Ya got out, looking up at the tall sign that read "Old Joe Music Company." The neon lights were dim, and a few letters had already gone dark.