Zoe Ibarra lets the guitar strap fall into her lap and drape over the contours of her prized instrument. She allows herself a second’s pause to sigh contentedly. Long brown curls frame her olive face as she stares into the webcam and smiles with such genuine appreciation it’s felt across the world.
‘It’s been great guys,’ she says, dark eyes flitting across the screen, reading the outpouring of love. ‘Hope to see you all next time and don’t forget, if you’re within travelling distance of Helmsman in a fortnight please, please, please consider getting a ticket for the show.’ Her smile widens at the thought of finally performing in person. ‘Bye for now!’
With a wink at the camera, she clicks it off. Her shoulders sag and she slouches forward, her ribs creaking against the guitar’s body. It always surprises her how exhausting a few hours of playing, taking suggestions and chatting is but she wouldn’t have it any other way.
She reads the chat for some time. It can be lonely in her room as the hours tick by, even with the sounds of her parents and brother doing their own thing around the house. But seeing the influx of affection and praise makes it worthwhile. There are people who have followed her since her teen years, people who have discovered her today, and even those she never thought would be interested in a nobody from nowhere. Members of bands like Helena’s Fall, Düüm, Coastal, and The Adversary are in her chat, mixing it up with everyone else and talking about her skill, her passion, but most of all how it made them feel.
Zoe would be performing nightly even if she didn’t make a penny. The knowledge of others feeling better about themselves, about life in general, through her playing is the elixir of the gods.
Then there is Makaila Tanti. In Zoe’s eyes she is the most talented guitarist in the world. She loves every album Makaila has released and in fact she, along with Iron Hook and Luminant, are the reasons Zoe first picked up a guitar. There was some intangible quality, some ethereal othernessto her work that lifted teenaged Zoe higher than any other song, story or show had ever managed. All she wanted was to be like Makaila, to even come close.
And here she was. In her chat. Raving about her rendition of Joaquín Rodrigo’s Toccata.
‘Always trips me up,’ Makaila writes. ‘ALWAYS. But here you are doing it on an electric? What the hell woman?’
Zoe puts a hand over her mouth as she laughs. With a nudge of her leg, she repositions the guitar so she can brace it against her elbow as she rushes to type out effusive thanks and praise in return.
Time moves ever onward until Zoe has to admit she needs sleep. With a last joyful emoji she logs off, puts the computer to standby and slowly rises from the chair. Joints pop and vertebrae crack in a series of not-unpleasant sensations. She places her guitar in its stand and falls into bed, never taking her eyes off the treasured instrument.
The Fender Player II is her pride and joy. She loves every centimetre of it. Guitars have always been a thing of beauty to her from the curves of the body, the sensation of the nickel-plated strings under her fingers, the smell of new and old. To her they are magical things but none so much as her cherished Stratocaster with its rosewood body adorned with a deep, warming sunburst. Although not her first guitar—that would be the chipped and faded Squire Sonic Mustang hung reverentially on the wall across from the bed—it is the most meaningful. Because she chose it.
After making enough money to upgrade her gear she decided to work top down and get a new guitar before any pedals. She had researched for weeks, talked to every musician she knew and made a list of top picks. But when she finally hit the shops nothing on her list sounded right. Every guitar had a hollowness she couldn’t quantify much to the annoyance of a plethora of shop assistants.
Then she saw the sunburst. She saw the gleam. It took all of three notes to know it was the one. Nothing felt as good, nothing sounded as good. She can’t remember buying it as she never took her eyes off her beloved. She strummed and plucked, studied every nanometre and did her best to tune by ear in the car on the way home, sat in the back whilst her dad muttered mild obscenities at the lackadaisical approach other road users took to the highway code.
Once home and happily ensconced in her room she put the beauty through its paces. From crisply clean single note picking to arena rock power chords the Player II kept up with her, did precisely what she wanted of it and threw in the odd surprise as she learnt its personal quirks.
Together they have been making music that’s turned a couple hundred listeners into thousands, brought the admiration of peers and sent out good vibes to a world much in need.
But it isn’t enough
Helmsman is an old pub that successfully pivoted to a venue when bankruptcy loomed. A remodel turned the claustrophobic multi-room drinking hole into an open performance space that kept all the original charm from the old-world stonework to the richly varnished wood flooring smoothed by millions of steps.
From stage side Zoe watches family, friends and fans trickle in, most with drinks in hand. There is plenty of seating on reupholstered chairs left with enough knicks and scuffs to keep their history present and dotted about are sturdy but unobtrusive round tables with no more space than to hold a party’s worth of beverages.
The venue owners had gently argued against the chairs as it would mean less money, but Zoe insisted. Her music needed to be experienced in a relaxed state, not on tired feet.
Her parents are in the front row, along with her brother Mateo, an auntie she hasn’t seen in so long she can’t remember the name of, and Ash Hoglan. The bald yet gloriously bearded man who once was a mountain shuffles to his seat and with some help from the unknown auntie, gets comfortable.
Zoe loves Ash dearly for when she was having the same problem finding an acoustic as had happened with the electric, he popped up in her chat to offer a look around his shop before he retired, proclaiming second-hand might be what she’s after as “they have more character for the life they’ve lived”. Much like the Fender, the moment she laid her hands on the scuffed Yamaha she knew it was the one. And so did Ash.
‘Match made in heaven Miss Ibarra,’ he had said in his gravelly rumble.
The man was a true believer in the power of music and wanted nothing more than for her to have it. So much so, he refused her money. Zoe felt awful at the idea but nothing she said could make him accept even a penny. All he asked was to be able to hear her use it.
From then on to her and all her fans it became known as Ash’s guitar.
She watches intently as her father’s eyes dart this way and that. He swallows hard. He chews at the skin around his thumb. It’s been a long time since Ramon has been anywhere near a crowd; the strain on his nerves is clear. When Eleanor gently pulls her husband’s hand away and pats it Zoe realises she’s doing the same. Her cheeks flush in embarrassment. She hopes no one saw.
Before long, every seat is filled. A hair over a hundred. Staff sit along the far wall on stools; their jobs paused until the performance is done.
She breathes. Her skin is riddled with gooseflesh, rubbing against the fabric of her t-shirt and jeans causing it to raise more in a maddening, anxiety laden feedback loop as she takes to the slight stage. People clap and cheer and she tries to smile but her jaw is clenched. As she runs a hand over the Yamaha then the Fender, she feels a calm settling in, but her heart is still thumping like a jazz drummer.
Strap over her head, checks done for the umpteenth time. It’s in tune, she knows it is. She positions herself on the stool, ensuring she can reach every pedal and stomp box on her board, then looks out at the crowd. Her breath catches in her throat. She wants to say something, but she doesn’t know what. She wants to tell those that took the time to be with her how happy it has made her. She wants to let them know how hard she has worked on the new material and how much she hopes they enjoy it. But the words catch as she quakes.
She looks down at the front row. Her dad is laser focused on her. His hands are still; his posture is relaxed. He’s waiting with a smile plastered across his face.
‘Thank you for being here,’ she says, more to Ramon than anyone else.
The room fills with cheers, hoots, and applause. Zoe waits for it to die down. She takes another breath, this one steady. Unshakeable. Her fingers find their starting position, her pick hovers. With the lightest touch of her worn trainer, she triggers the backing track she spent an evening programming.
Zoe Ibarra begins to play.
Within six notes the crowd is enraptured. No one moves as the most heavenly music washes over them. From delicate and soft to rip roaring and bombastic, the music is crafted to connect with the body and spirit on such a level as to be otherworldly. With masterful precision Zoe strums and plucks, slides and taps. Her feet dance across pedals and boxes, altering the sound in ways minute and massive, recording and triggering loops, cutting out frequencies for a single bar to be brought back louder than before. She incorporates her newest addition, a harmoniser with a rocker pedal that allows her to fade in additional layers of her guitar, turning her into a one-woman string section. Throughout the hour long show she blends and deconstructs genres, inventing new ones on the fly. She changes to the acoustic, delivering softness and harshness in equal measure. At one point she strums openly on one guitar whilst tapping the frets of the other in a manoeuvre that from anyone else would seem pointless flash, but from within the bounds of Zoe’s piece is absolutely necessary.
Then, with a final joyful note ringing out she is done. Her head hangs over her guitar, long curls obscuring her face as she pants in the following silence. A part of her doesn’t want to look up. There is a fear she’s never experienced on stream. But she knows she must face her crowd.
Zoe lifts her head. The crowd erupts in rapturous applause. Everyone who can is standing, their hands thundering. The room fills with shouts of joy, piercing whistles, elated laughs. Fans and staff become as close as family in the minutes that follow. There is a connection none thought possible, a sensation unlike any other. Tears run down Ramon’s face as he rushes to the steps and offers his daughter a hand. She takes it, stepping into the celebration of her talent with her free hand over her mouth as she tries to stop from sobbing at the reception. She fails happily.
She embraces her father and cries with her mother. Mateo grins endlessly, unable to vocalise his feelings. As the celebration gets underway with drinks aplenty, questions unending and joy unbridled Zoe melts away under the guise of checking her equipment.
In reality, she watches.
Since she first plucked a string, she had exercised modesty to the point of imposter syndrome. But when crafting this new music, she knew without a single doubt it was something special. She had poured her heart into it, agonised over every note, every movement, every flick of a pedal. She knew what was forming would affect people, but she never envisioned what she is seeing.
Her father is not only able but positively willing to talk to people beyond the familial inner circle. He is currently deep in conversation with a complete stranger, his arm wrapped around the man’s shoulders as both nod, gesture, and expound upon whatever point is being made. Ash stands straight for the first time since Zoe met him and there is no limp in his walk. Many people she can only identify when they mention their username say they felt a phenomenal sense of wellbeing as she played and since the music stopped it has lingered like a warming core.
Zoe isn’t sure what she has done. Not exactly. But she always knew this is what music could be.
A week later Zoe Ibarra takes to another small stage, this one on the other side of town. Amongst the seated are her family again and some friends but the majority are new faces. Word has spread online. Fans much farther afield make the trip for a chance to experience her performance, to be bathed in a paradisical splendour that alleviates stresses, heals minds, but most of all makes the listener believe in their heart that everything will be OK.
‘Thank you for being here.’
Zoe is an hour’s drive from home and only recognises one face in the crowd. Ramon Iberra is sat front and off-centre as always, beaming beatifically at his daughter before she takes to the stage.
The space is bigger, the crowd is more varied, but they all take their seats with conversational murmur. She sees people in pain both physical and mental.
Before she walks on, she fears she is seeing what she wants; her own reality as some modern-day musical faith healer. Worries of being a charlatan high on her own ego plague her thoughts. But then begins to play. She can feel the pain emanating from the slightest twitch of an eye, curl of a lip, shuffle in a seat. With every not played she feels it all melting away, if only for a while.
‘Thank you for being here.’
A year of intermittent shows across the UK has garnered Zoe a huge following. The venue has a seated capacity of a thousand, a number that boggles her mind. A hairy-knuckled hand closes over her shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. She turns around to be enveloped by long, thick arms.
‘You got this baby girl.’ Ramon squeezes as hard as he dares. She looks up and up into his dark eyes, sparkling on the verge of tears. ‘Your heart is going nearly as fast as mine.’
She laughs into his chest. ‘It’s a lot of people.’
‘It sure is.’ He breaks the hug. Holds her at arm’s length and bends to eye level. ‘But you got this. You know you do. You’re going to go out there and give them what you’ve given everyone. And when you do, that suit is going to make you an offer because no one in her position could possibly hear a single minute and not.’
Zoe thanks him, takes a stabilising breath and lets it out slowly as she watches him appear in the audience and take his seat. Nearby is the woman he mentioned. A prospective manager who has made it known through the online grapevine of her close ties to Inline Entertainment, a label with such considerable resources Zoe’s music could reach the entire planet.
The stage beckons. Spotlights pick out her board in stunningly bright detail.
‘Thank you for being here.’
The past six months have been a blur of shows, meetings, signings, and recordings. Zoe has watched as thousands of people have sat enraptured as she performs. In the scant downtime she gets she works on the music, adding more until the show stretches to a hair under three hours. Magazines have been raving, online has been nothing but praise in a time when division is de rigueur, people approach her in the street to thank her.
As soon as Inline snapped her up she bought a house. Nothing crazy, a bit of a fixer-upper, but she appreciates how lucky she is to own her home each time she puts the key in the door. Her pride and joy is her performance room; a dedicated space to play, tinker, stream and ponder. It’s decorated with band posters from her old bedroom, each now encased in a glorious frame with art glass that dampens unwanted reflections to near zero.
She has gone so far is so short a span. But tonight feels off.
Sat on her stool she looks out at the concert hall and can barely breathe. The International boasts a capacity of four thousand and Zoe can feel every one of them. It’s an immense pressure at the front of the stage, but one she was willing to bear if not for the two thirds of attendees having to stand.
Ringing the performance space are wide balconies filled with spacious chairs boasting plenty of legroom, each seat taken by someone who no doubt had to pay a pretty penny. Zoe is happy for them, at least she believes she is. They will experience the music as it’s intended. But she frets for those that stand. Was her insistence on all being seated ego or surety?
She glances left. Behind the stage curtain stands Alina, her manager. The woman responsible for taking her from being known to being famous, from being comfortable to never having to worry about money again. It was her that booked this show and it was her that insisted bringing in seating for the entire space would be too costly. Zoe tried to push back but Alina is a force of nature.
The woman in the cream trouser suit smiles widely displaying perfect teeth and gives her both professionally manicured thumbs up. Zoe tries to smile back but just about manages a nod. She holds her guitar with hope that everything will be all right. A quick scan of the crowd reveals her dad in the front row, just off-centre. His smile feels warmer than Alina’s because of course it does but even he has a hollowness that no one but Zoe can see.
She clears her throat. ‘Thank.’ The words catch. She clears her throat again. ‘Thank you for being here.’
‘Amazing baby girl, absolutely flipping amazing as always.’
Ramon walks behind his daughter flashing his access pass to any looming security personnel they pass. Zoe’s heart is aflutter from the overwhelming explosion of applause, one that can still be heard in the distance. The force of it was nothing she has experienced before. Such force. She doesn’t know why she didn’t like it.
As the pair are guided into a small but well-furnished dressing room Ramon carries on gushing about how great she played but of course she always plays perfectly; about how good the sound was, her guitar filling such a huge space; about how much the people around him wanted to enjoy it so much; about how he couldn’t believe his little girl was playing The International.
‘It felt a little different from your other shows though you know.’ Ramon picks up a sausage roll from the buffet table laid out against a wall. ‘Thinking out loud though that’s probably just me. It was a big crowd.’
Zoe places her Player II in its stand and eases into a chair. She studies her father as he happily scoffs, wondering what he meant but knowing full well. His eyes are darting to the door, to the corners. Whenever he catches her looking, he smiles or chuckles or makes a face, but she sees him underneath it all. He never would have cared about the crowd if she had played right. If he had experienced it properly.
The Grand Theatre is one of the more ironically named venues in the country. No doubt when it was first constructed centuries ago it was a fitting appellation but in the modern day it seems almost quaint.
After months on the road performing in increasingly larger spaces with less and less seating at the behest of Inline, Zoe had managed to extract a win. Here in the Theatre she was going to play to a fully seated audience, in cosy old-world surroundings that exude the energy of countless performances past.
But it is all wrong.
She looks out at the crowd from the deep red velvet curtain, phone in hand. There is a never-ending scroll of fans claiming they couldn’t get a ticket because of how expensive it is even in the nosebleeds. They call her a liar for saying it would be a show for them. There is talk that four competition winners have been shoved as far away as possible in some corner way up high on the second-floor balconies.
She shakes her head, turns from the crowd, and begins to walk.
‘How’s my superstar?’ says a honeyed voice.
Alina stands in front of Zoe, her arms wide, her smile wider. Zoe thinks to push past but it’s not in her nature. Instead, she looks Alina in the eye and slumps.
‘I can’t do it Ali.’ It hurts to think it let alone say it. ‘My music is meant to help.’
Alina scrunches up her face in what in her mind might pass for sympathy. ‘My dearest Zoe whatever do you mean? There’s not a soul out there who won’t be helped by your performance.’
There it is. Every time she talks about the power of music. Condescension.
Zoe looks back at the crowd although she can only see a sliver. ‘Anyone who can afford the tickets doesn’t need my help.’
Threaded eyebrows raise disparagingly. ‘Am I hearing this correctly? Are you the final arbiter on who does and does not get help? Are these people less deserving for having made something of themselves?’
The shot hits dead centre. Zoe’s hands spring to her chest, covering her heart. She shakes her head, looking to the crowd again. ‘No. Of course not,’ she whispers. ‘But my music is meant to be accessible to all.’
‘There’s always Spotify.’ Alina waves her hand and laughs before jerking her head stageward.
Zoe wants to say more. She wants to make it clear that streaming her music is not the same. A CD or vinyl is not the same. She wants to make Alina understand but, in the year and a half since they met, she has never been sure that Alina felt anything about her music other than how much money it could make.
And so, Zoe Ibarra takes to the stage yet again. She gets as comfortable as she can. She clears her throat and leans to the microphone.
She nods at the crowd and begins to play.
In one hand Zoe has a fistful of her hair, in the other her phone. She’s not sure how much longer she can hold off tearing out a clump—scalp and all—as she reads one message after another calling her a sellout. Calling her a slur. The competition winners reported back mid-show that not only could they only just see the stage from way up where, but they could barely hear anything thanks to a loud air conditioning unit directly above their heads.
‘Marvellous show lady! Marvellous. A true dialogue betwixt artist and patron.’
Zoe spins around to face Alina, her eyes red and puffy. She thrusts the phone in her manager’s face and seethes. ‘They hate me. They all hate me. Fans couldn’t go because of the price and the people who could afford didn’t want to be there.’
‘Now how could you say a thing like that?’ Alina’s flawless skin doesn’t twitch one iota as the screen hovers a whisker from her nose.
‘People in the front row were on their phones.’ Zoe can’t comprehend what she has seen. ‘The front row!’
‘Well, I can see why—’
‘The front fucking row Ali!’
Silence falls. Zoe wishes she could take back the outburst but is also glad to let loose some of the hurt. Alina couldn’t care less. She has made an extremely lucrative career from massaging the fragile sensibilities of the creative set.
A knock at the door doesn’t so much break the tension as distract it. Ramon puts his head through the slimmest of cracks and does his best to smile.
‘Hey baby girl.’ There is a quaver his daughter knows all too well. ‘Great show as always. I’m uh, I’m not feeling too hot. So, I think I’m gonna make tracks OK? See you soon. Love you lots.’
And just like that he’s gone.
Heat rises behind Zoe’s eyes, fills her chest, scorches up her back. She glares at Alina who smiles her plastic smile.
‘What is the point of doing this?’ she says in a threatening growl. ‘I made this music to help. I listened to you to get it in front of as many people as possible and look where it got me. Playing in front of crowds who don’t give a shit, who talk throughout, who can’t look away from their fucking phones.’ She takes a step towards Alina, her volume rising with righteous fury. ‘There are people out there who would’ve loved to be in that room. People who would’ve listened. Connected. Healed. But instead, it’s an atmosphere so toxic my music can’t even connect with my most devoted champion.’ She takes another step. Points a calloused fingertip at her manager. ‘You were meant to look after me! Look after my music. How. Could. You?’
Alina’s smile evaporates, replaced by a sneering, hateful visage. Her back straightens, her shoulders square.
‘Grow up you stupid, snivelling, naïve little girl.’ She bats Zoe’s finger out of her face and advances. ‘I have tried and I have tried with you, but I guess it’s time for adult talk. You want full control of where you play, how you play and who comes? Then you should have stuck with shithole pubs and village halls in the arse crack of nowhere. But you didn’t because just like every other creative who gets a shot at the big time you took it.
‘You know what you should have done darling? You should have read the contract properly. Or better yet employed an actual lawyer. But you didn’t because you’re the special kind of stupid who thinks businesses just want to help precious little girls spread the love.
‘I mean really. Have you never read a single story about the music industry? Never watched a documentary on one band or another being screwed over?’ Alina pauses to laugh incredulously. ‘Let me tell you something. When you signed without a second of negotiation the boys at Inline could not believe their luck. No one signs that thing! It’s full of the worst terms imaginable so there’s plenty of wriggle room. But you went for it! After lots of champagne we all thought we would play it safe and ease you into things, you know to not shock your system, but I’m done with the babysitting.’
Alina walks around her weeping star and pulls the door wide open.
‘You are going to learn precisely how much you fucked up. I’m not holding the wolves back any longer. You will do what you are contractually obliged to do and honey, that’s a whole lot.’
And just like that she is gone.
Weeks become months become years. The venues get larger still. Zoe Ibarra becomes a global phenomenon, a household name. She always plays to the disinterested rich in their plush seats bedecked with footrests and cupholders and massaging vibrations. The average concert goer can only afford to stand and even that has become a major expenditure.
Depression grips. The mere act of crawling from under the bedsheets becomes a herculean task. Only the threat of legal consequences of such extreme proportions it would decimate her entire family’s wellbeing keeps her going.
She is hollow. Puppet and puppeteer. The music sounds the same but those who feel deeply can sense it. The wrongness.
It does not go unnoticed by those who care that her precious Player II is nowhere to be seen. It has been replaced by an outrageously expensive PRS Studio that exudes the money spent on it from the shining blue and black striated body to the gold accents to the pearlescent bird inlays.
Friendships falter and relationships are a distant thought as the unending schedule of shows, appearances, talks, signings, photo ops, and branding events consumes every free moment.
She barely makes it to Mateo’s wedding in time and must forgo her position standing at his side whilst he says his vows. Instead, she is relegated to a red-faced run to a seat at the back of the exquisitely decorated lakeside lodge. The remainder of the evening is filled with conversation, laughter, drinks and embraces but she is always looking at the clock. When the car arrives before the evening meal she makes another blushing dash, mouthing her apologies to her brother who can only watch with concern as she’s whisked off to who knows what.
On what should be another momentous occasion Zoe manages to get herself a couple of hours free in the same city as Makaila Tanti. The pair have continued talking online all these years, something Zoe credits as an important anchor during such times.
They meet over coffee, speak of music, and shows, of ideas and techniques. In a life made up of the fake and venomous it is a welcome reprieve. As close to normality as she can hope. But even there, her phone continues to buzz. With each vibration she glares daggers until the stress becomes too much. After a quick scroll she says she must go.
‘A full rehearsal of a new show with all its flash and pomp.’ The disgust is palpable.
As the pair part ways Makaila grabs her wrist. A nod is shared. ‘I know you can’t say anything,’ the veteran says as she rubs a thumb against Zoe’s arm. ‘But I can.’
She misses birthdays. She misses anniversaries. She is struck dumb for a day when she is told her request to attend Ash Hoglan’s funeral has been denied.
After much haggling and debasement, she manages to carve out a single afternoon to do a free show. She acquires all permits and agreements necessary to have a couple hundred people sit in a field and listen. But no sooner has she begun to spread the word, she is told that Hudson Culpepper, Australia’s richest man, has bought a majority stake of Inline and wants her to perform at an event celebrating his ownership.
It does not take a clairvoyant to know on what day the event falls.
This became the rare occasion Zoe fought back as she was not technically obliged to do such a show. Alina shrugged and said she was right but maybe, just maybe, aggravating the new billionaire boss was not the best idea. Who knows what he might do. Maybe ticket prices would soar even higher.
Zoe performs in a sun-baked patio garden where the ultra-rich mill about under opulently furnished gazebos and barely acknowledge her existence. When she finishes her piece and begins to pack away her board the shadow of Hudson Culpepper falls over her. The man is tall and broad, and accustomed to intimidating with his size as much as his money. His hair is dyed too dark and when he grins at her it’s clear a facelift has pulled the skin too tight around his mouth.
With barely an introduction he propositions her, indicating there are at least ten bedrooms in the mansion beyond the garden which would give them plenty of privacy. Zoe doesn’t hide her revulsion and quickly turns him down. The man who can have almost anything laughs coldly, tilts his head in a resigned shrug, and walks on.
‘You’re such a gem Miss Ibarra,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘So talented and in such high demand. It’s downright criminal how littlea ticket costs.’
Zoe cries herself to sleep for weeks. Every night she tortures herself by reading what is being said about her. She is not allowed to complain about her treatment nor lament the ever-rising prices. All she can do is apologise and spew bullshit about the increasing costs of putting on shows and how the label isn’t a charity and expects her to make at least some sort of profit.
She watches her name turn to mud. What was once a small, vocal group has become a loud majority. Makaila fights the good fight as best she can, as do members of Coastal and Luminant. They ask the hateful if they really believe it’s Zoe doing what’s being done but it’s pointless. The tide will not be stemmed.
Every night Zoe Ibarra drops her phone when the battery dies, shoves the heels of her palms into her eyes and cries until she passes out from exhaustion.
Zoe is sat in her parent’s living room, with her family gathered around and celebrating Mateo’s birthday. She doesn’t know if it’s a miracle or if Alina advised Inline they might lose their cash cow if they didn’t let up for a second. Either way she doesn’t care.
The day had been perfection from the start. She arrived early, helped set up with her mum whilst her dad looked through old photo albums, showing her funny shots from when her memories are hazy. She got to surprise Mateo and his wife Faye when they arrived. The look on his face when she opened the front door is an image she will cherish until her final breath.
She is absentmindedly plucking away at Ash’s guitar from a weathered wooden chair. At her feet is Tessie, a two-year-old Labradoodle that didn’t quite manage to pass her final guide dog exam so now lives with her trainer and his wife. The dog has taken to Zoe, following her everywhere she goes, nudging her for attention, curling up next to her and sighing in content. The musician who has been surrounded by the worst of the industry couldn’t be happier.
Zoe’s eyes are closed and she is thinking of nothing but the feel of the strings, the comforting pressure of the body against her chest. Each note sounds how it should, how she expects, how she wants. She is lost in the very best way. So lost she doesn’t notice how quiet the bustling room has become.
She opens her eyes and very nearly loses her place. Her family have stopped in their tracks. They’ve taken to seats, closed their eyes and sport blissful expressions. She watches them as she continues to play. Each note sings, every vibration of air pulses goodness into the world. It takes monumental willpower to continue. All she wants to do is cry at how right she feels.
When the song tells her it’s over she mutes the strings, breathes for what feels like the first time in years and scritches Tessie’s head with her toes.
Ramon takes a deep breath. Lets it out slow. ‘Oh Zoe, I’d forgotten how that felt.’
‘Yes,’ Eleanor says, nodding profusely, teary-eyed, unable to get out the words she wants.
‘It’s been too long Zed.’ Mateo’s eyes are locked on her. There is a foreign intensity in those dark pools. ‘Too long.’
‘By all the saints and stars that was beautiful.’ Faye only now opens her eyes. Tears roll down sharp cheekbones. She weaves her fingers between her husband’s and smiles. She tries to speak but the words catch. She tries to wave away the attention, turning away from the looks as she dabs at her face. ‘In all the years I’ve been listening to your albums I never knew it was meant to be like that.’ Faye manages to meet Zoe’s gaze. ‘I get now why Matt talks about you the way he does.’
Ramon leaps to his feet, claps his hands together and with a mighty grin declares it’s time for drinks with a bit more bite. The perfection of the day leads into an even more joyous evening. Stories are told, children are embarrassed, parents learn of sneaky events from years past. Zoe laughs like she remembers she used to; heartfelt and genuine. There is a lightness to her movements, a freedom of soul.
But. For all the good there is an underlying rage. A rage that has been there for years but can no longer be kept at bay. She knows she cannot go back to the way things were. Her life needs to change and change now.
As she watches her dad crack wise in good cheer an idea forms.
The smell of the upper floors of Inline Entertainment is one of opulence: luxuriously varnished wood, soft leather, the tang of tobacco. Zoe marches from the lift and along the plush carpet of the hallway with forceful steps.
‘I’m telling you, this is not the best idea.’ Alina is trying to keep pace, but her heels are not made for such a stride. She has been trying to talk Zoe out of addressing the board all morning to no avail. ‘Seriously what do you think will happen? Do you think they will listen? I thought we were done with this pointless complaining.’
Zoe doesn’t stop. The most she gives her manager is a sideways glance that could wither a soul. Alina could talk until she was blue in the face; it wouldn’t make a difference. She was going to talk to her jailers, and they were going to listen.
The glass door with its platinum plated handle swings open before she reaches it. A young man in a suit so crisp it could be considered a bladed weapon holds it wide, beckoning her inside with a perverse smile too full of teeth with lips peeled back too far.
‘Miss Ibarra, to what do we owe the pleasure?’
She has never hated a voice more than Hudson Culpepper’s. It drips with intentionally unmasked condescension. She comes to a halt at the perimeter of a collection of leather sofas and armchairs each filled with aging, overweight men that look all but identical. Palette swaps of the same template. The sun shines bright and stark through a bank of floor to ceiling windows, picking out poorly blended dye jobs, manicures ruined with nicotine stains, and cosmetic surgeries poorly covering the passage of time. Zoe cannot believe how such people have held so much sway over her life.
‘I have a proposition.’ She lets the statement linger as she casts her eyes about the interchangeable before locking her gaze on Hudson. ‘I know how much you like that sort of thing.’
A bawdy chuckle ripples through the room. Alina stands behind her difficult star, using her body as a shield. Lecherous eyes and bushy brows exchange glances as the men revel in their thoughts.
‘What is it?’ Hudson isn’t laughing. He is studying her with cold analytical thought. Zoe realises he’s not like the others.
She takes a stabilising breath. ‘I want out of my contract.’
The sentiment isn’t new. What trapped artist doesn’t yearn for freedom? But there’s something in her demeanour that stops Hudson from immediately shooting her down. He waits and because he does so too do the others.
‘I am writing something new.’ Zoe takes care with every word knowing she only has one chance. ‘It is the next level of my work. I am willing to do a single show in a month’s time for you and anyone you choose to invite. Charge whatever you want. The obscenest amount you can imagine. I’ll give you the very best I have, something truly transcendental.’ She takes a small breath in preparation for the clincher. ‘Then I’ll never perform it again.’
Zoe feels the change in the air.
Predatory joviality becomes avarice. For those who can afford everything rarity is the truest attraction.
‘State your terms.’ A sheen has appeared on Hudson’s forehead. His chest rises and falls quickly for a seated man.
‘After the show I will come to you,’ Zoe says. ‘If you agree it was perfection, that it touched your soul and altered your mind then I am free. Of everything. Should you ever try to exert control over me again it will be grounds for a lawsuit.’
Behind her Alina makes a strange wheezing sound before hissing, ‘What are you doing?’
Zoe ignores her. She intends to never again acknowledge the woman’s existence.
A template in a grey suit begins to sputter throat clearing noises but Hudson puts up a silencing hand. He licks sweat from his upper lip. ‘What if it’s not perfection Miss Ibarra?’
‘It will be.’ A steel surety grips her.
‘That’s not how deals work little miss.’ Hudson’s voice is regaining some of its predatory edge. ‘There must be terms.’
‘I.’ She knows it won’t come to pass but detailing a failure curdles the blood in her veins. ‘I will do whatever you want. More tours, more events, more signings. I’ll agree to the collaborations you keep pushing and the AI rights. I’ll be at your disposal every day, every night for as long as I can play. I’ll even take the blame for the decisions that don’t pan out. I don’t care because if you listen to me and don’t feel anything then my music is worthless.’
‘Well. I—’ Hudson mutters, stunned for the first time in decades.
‘You accept.’ Zoe spins around in a whirlwind of dark curls, clipping Alina with her shoulder as she marches out of the room.
In the quiet she leaves in her wake devious sets of eyes exchange glances. None of the board can believe their luck. None want to be the first to speak, to break the spell and find out it was all a dream. For some the prospect of a once in a lifetime performance is nothing to sniff at, but what makes them all salivate is the goldmine presented before them. For the only thing better than owning a once in a generation talent is owning a broken one.
It would not matter how well Zoe Ibarra played, none would say it was perfect. She could perform with such vigour, clarity, and heart to make a tyrant weep; they would still find fault.
The world’s obscenely rich pour into the faux Victorian opera house built on the grounds of the Culpepper estate. The billionaire himself has been sat in the acoustic sweet spot for the better part of a half hour, his eyes fixed on the stage, shining with anticipation. Around him sit board members, an infamous wrestling promoter, and the leader of a war-torn country who kills any who would dare call her dictator.
From her usual stage side hangout Zoe watches people with more money than she can fathom squeeze into a venue of a mere three hundred seats. Attendants and hangers on mill about, fussing and questioning until they are sent away with aggravated gestures. No one who has not paid the eye watering ticket price will be in the room when she plays. Zoe had to explain to her dad this would be one he would have to miss. He wasn’t happy of course. He did his best to negotiate but she was adamant.
The terms were exact, she told him. If she didn’t follow them to the letter Hudson could class it as a failure and her life would be over. Ramon said he understood and Zoe knew he did, but neither was happy in the moment.
‘One more show pops,’ she whispers to herself, watching the sociopathic progeny of an oil magnate take his seat with the swagger of the unemployed rich.
A hand claps on her shoulder. ‘Knock ‘em dead hon,’ Alina says in an exasperated sigh.
Zoe doesn’t turn, doesn’t so much as grunt. She just watches as the soon-to-be ex-manager walks up the aisle to the back row, flashing her plastic smile at a gaggle of women wearing more makeup than you would find at the beauty counter in Boots.
The lights dim and the last of the poors are sent out. A hush falls upon the room. For all their lack of empathy the gathered crowd are nervous. Many have experienced her shows before; some have even enjoyed it. But this has been talked up by the billionaire set, not just Culpepper but his peers also in attendance. This has been touted as that manner of rarity they all covet: something truly unique.
Zoe takes a breath. Lets it out. She thinks about the weeks of practice in absolute secrecy, about how sure she is this will work. She envisions her life from tomorrow onwards. A life of freedom.
She walks onstage to muted applause and bows, making sure to lock eyes with Hudson one last time before she begins. Once situated on the stool with PRS at the ready she hovers her foot over her board and gives it a final check. The harmoniser is gone, as is the overdrive, to be replaced with more exotic fare like a Fuzz box and one known by the abrasive name Bit Crusher.
Zoe smiles at the layout. Everything is ready. She leans to the microphone and with the sweetest smile says, ‘Thank you for choosing this.’
With a light kick she triggers a backing track of big, industrialised drums that stab at the ears with harsh cymbal crashes and sharp snare hits. The time signature is far from standard resulting in an awkward sensation that puts the crowd on edge.
Zoe scans the faces one last time. She plucks the first note.
The music that flows forth is the inverse of everything she has ever done. It is sheer hell. A sawing, gnawing, burrowing onslaught that ravages the mind and harrows the soul.
The screams soon begin.
There are those of abject terror and those of blinding fury. The rich and famous screech and roar and bawl and holler with such ferocity their throats bleed and their lips tear. Their rage is demonic yet unfocused.
A tech mogul holds her husbands’ forearm over her knee and brings her elbow down repeatedly until bones break and flesh tears. She wrenches the limp limb backwards to stab out his eyes, her face a screeching mask of fury. She only stops when a body falls from the balcony headfirst. Skull meets skull and neither are whole once they fall to the blood-soaked carpet.
A minor European royal with a rumoured penchant for deviant acts against the drugged and trafficked sits in the centre aisle, biting off his fingers one by one; crying, laughing, howling in agony. His teeth saw back and forth at the knuckles, spraying blood in his mouth, over his face and across a suit no doubt worth more than all of Zoe’s equipment combined.
Fights break out that devolve into the mauling ferality of rabid animals. Hudson Culpepper rages against attacks from all sides, his huge fists pummelling faces into viscera-leaking lumps of cartilage and bone as he bellows mighty battle cries, but he soon falls against a tide of punches and kicks from his own board members and the dictator he had been so cosy with minutes prior. When he is nothing but an oozing, squirting mess of snapped bones and ruptured organs his attackers turn on each other and lash out with torn fists; blood-slick knuckle bones shining a grisly off-white in the twilight.
Over and over, Zoe loops the hellish noise, anxiety inducing tremolos, fret runs that set nerve endings alight, intense frequency sweeps that incense the remaining few begging for clemency, hiding under chairs, or desperately clawing at the doors until their fingernails peel away. No matter how horrific it gets she plays on. Consequences be damned she is going to remove the stain of them all.
Something flies through the air following an inhuman shriek. It lands on the stage with a wet thump, flinging crimson droplets far enough to dapple her board. Through the intensity of her playing, through constant movement of her feet, through the wild whipping of her curls before her eyes, she sees a head. Half a head. Ripped off at the upper jaw with inhuman strength, most of the teeth missing and with a glistening meaty mass embedded in one obliterated socket. The remaining eye stares across the stage at her, glassy and empty.
With a final deathly cold note the piece is finished and all that remains is carnage. Panting and shaking from exertion Zoe surveys what she has wrought. Moans and groans and declarations of hate exude weakly from all directions. Boy band maker extraordinaire Trick Dubbins rolls down an aisle, his considerable stomach ruptured, bile covered jewellery and broken glass spilling out with each tumble. Ill-defined but unmistakably human pieces slide down walls and spill over balconies to land on the mangled remains below with nauseating slops.
Movement catches her eye. She grabs the PRS by the neck and hoists it onto her shoulder before jumping off the stage. A smile creeps across her face as she picks her way through the offal. Her eyes are fixed on the pathetic shuffling thing.
Alina is on her knees next to an exit. She is gibbering madly and holding clumps of her own scalp, tufts of hair dripping blood onto her lacerated thighs. As she spots her difficult star and begins shuffling her way Zoe thinks that maybe, just maybe, her manager deserves to be acknowledged one last time.
As Alina holds her torn clumps out in a manner that only makes sense to her broken mind, Zoe holds her guitar like a bat. She glares hate as she winds it back. Then, with all her might she brings it crashing into Alina’s face, breaking bone, shattering teeth, and sending her head back hard enough to snap her neck. The guitar body explodes from the force; wooden splinters fly in all directions. A stake embeds in Zoe’s cheek hard enough to touch bone. She cries out, dropping the remains of the hated instrument and pulls the splinter out with a roar of battlefield euphoria.
Without another look at her victims, she steps to the door and knocks a specific pattern. There is a pause. Something heavy scrapes along the other side until with a thump the door opens. A crowd stands before Zoe dressed in black with masks, hoods, and rubber gloves. One takes their mask off. Makaila Tanti looks over her long-suffering friend’s shoulder. Her eyes widen; her hand covers her mouth. Zoe nods grimly and walks away.
Behind her the doors are shut. Should anyone be left alive they will soon perish. The attendants and entourage that refused to join Makaila and her mob would be released from the side room soon enough. They could say whatever they wanted, no one could be identified except Zoe. And really, what court is going to charge a musician for playing a song?
A gloved hand squeezes her shoulder as it’s masked owner brushes past her to open the exit. ‘Nice one Zed.’
The Player II is off by a quarter note. Not much but enough for her to notice. The tuner on her board says it’s fine, but Zoe knows it’s not and it’s driving her up the wall. She plucks the string, turns the machine head, plucks again. Another turn, another pluck. Again. Again. Again. She gives the guitar a strum.
Beauty. Perfection.
She looks up to be met by what she has been told at last count is just shy of thirty thousand faces. All are sat comfortably on sun warmed grass, or camping chairs, deck chairs, wheelchairs. There is a hush such a number of people are not usually capable of.
She sits on a small stool in front of her old effects board. To her side glistening in all its lived-in glory is Ash’s guitar, ready and waiting. Behind is a simple stack of amplifiers ensuring all gathered will hear every detail of her performance.
She looks at her family and feels a smile form the way it should. It reaches far enough to wrinkle the scar on her cheek. They’re gathered on a picnic blanket with drinks in hand and nibbles to share, joined by Makaila, her back arrow straight, her focus locked on the stage.
Zoe Ibarra closes her eyes. Takes a breath. Opens them.
‘Thank you for being here.’