May 4.
When a forty-year-old band comes together to record their songs, they only need a single take; when Billy joins them, it's simply to give them rhythm across three tracks, each one a light, a simple memory unfolding with the force of a hurricane.
Eight days—that's all the veterans needed to produce a reasonably strong album, far less time than his own band, which usually took anywhere from a month to two months per record. It stung a little, but the riffs The Doors carried were pure poetry—so skilled at bending everything into their blues-rock essence that it only took as long as a producer needed to polish the mix. Billy found the old guard astonishing.
-So when I play the guitar, I move through A – C – D – Eb – E – G, repeating the Eb with a pause in the lower notes.- Billy explained.
-—In essence, kid, treat the blues like a night of love; first you kiss the girl, then you whisper the love you carry in your chest, then you fall silent and keep kissing her—- said Krieger, a master at finding those unusual rhythms. He had learned by meeting all kinds of people and practicing relentlessly. When everything else faded away, it was about discovering rhythms no one else had.
-Well, I think I've got it. But show me how you do that thing with the amplifier.- Billy added.
-Save my tricks for later; you've got talent on the guitar, and that's already a challenge.- Krieger replied, now fully aware of Billy's ability. He was good—more than good—and exceptional as a vocalist. Like a breathing ode, Billy was everything George Martin had promised: a gifted young musician, a star, and twenty million for each of them by the end of the run. If they reached even half of that, they would be satisfied, since the band only took a thirty percent split among four. This was their final push, a last breath to secure their families far beyond what they already had. Many of them had relatives who depended on whatever remained. At the same time, Billy still kept a couple of his own songs and continued generating money for everyone, even beyond the band's end in 2008, the so-called end of times.
While the two of them practiced, a beautiful blonde woman with long hair walked in—an embodiment of charm for that era. It was clear Scarlett had arrived six days before the premiere of The Island, flying in just to see him perform and spend as much time as possible with him. Billy leaned his face against her neck; it was warm, effortless—resting his head against her chest, absorbing her heat, knowing she made him forget everything else he had been doing.
-—Did you miss me?- Scarlett asked, watching him closely, almost reverently, as he embraced her.
-—Of course I did.- Billy replied. —It's been terrible not having you.-
-Liar, you've been throwing parties nonstop. I follow the papers—you look like you live surrounded by models.- Scarlett shot back, stamping her foot lightly. Sometimes she wanted answers; other times she chose to ignore things, as always, avoiding uncomfortable conversations. The situation with Adriana Lima lingered—something more than friendship—and it bothered her deeply. She knew there was something there, something inappropriate… but she stayed silent, because any answer might break her heart. And when she was with him, she simply chose not to ask. Out of sight, out of mind.
-But in every one of those parties, I missed you—like a mandarin.- Billy replied, making her laugh again, intimacy flickering behind his words.
-Those are oranges, idiot.- She laughed.
-—What a shame that it's still true.- Billy replied.
-So many projects, and now the film world, mister. I'm honestly surprised you're managing to do movies—you're not even sleeping.- Scarlett accused, pointing at him with her slender, perfectly manicured fingers. The room seemed to fall into silence, while the older men stopped thinking, stopped weighing time, as if everything had narrowed into a single suspended moment.
Very inappropriate. Very indifferent.
-Soon you'll see rock—rock that will do something extraordinary.- Billy replied.
-And what about that film you said you wanted to make?- she asked simply, watching him closely.
-—Next semester. I've got a few pending matters with charming blondes.- he replied casually. She bit her lip, fully aware of the implication—what a disadvantage, what a frustrating truth. Her body ached, yet it was something she still wanted.
-I'll go, redhead.- she whispered.
-—They say redheads are crazy.- Billy replied, certain, leaning in as if expecting her agreement.
…
Billy had time to get ready. Everything was beginning to move through a massive promotional machine, thousands of threads pulling at once, and the operation ahead was anything but pleasant. Work piled up endlessly, demanding his attention at every turn.
-—So I just show up, walk in, and do whatever I can, as well as I can.- Billy said, putting on his shirt while she adjusted his collar, picked up a tie, and placed it around his neck, smoothing his hair before kissing him. He returned the gesture, kissing the yellow-gold dress streaked with black tones. It highlighted her figure—she looked beautiful that way.
Whenever they wanted, they moved closer.
They were staying in a small hotel just a few blocks from the cinema, but they would still head out to handle that simple task. Time passed quickly—brilliant or disorienting—now that the premiere was about to begin.
-—You're about to do a rather unpleasant job.- Scarlett said.
-What job?- he asked, genuinely surprised.
-Dealing with the media. Talking about a film no one really wants to see, but everyone is eager to criticize. It has to be the next masterpiece, or they'll try to use you as a target. No matter how you handle it, they'll be ruthless.- Scarlett explained.
-Does that happen often?- he asked, studying her calm expression.
-—Always. It's practically a rule.- Scarlett replied, recalling unpleasant moments—not just for her, but for colleagues, directors, no one was spared from the tabloid press. In the end, that kind of press only lasted as long as it was meant to—brief, fleeting. What remained were the real stories, while the sensational ones only survived if they were outrageous enough to be questioned.
-Then we'll act like the world doesn't matter. I'll do what I have to do.- Billy said, assuming not many people would show up.
They walked down the stairs—two floors they took slowly—until they reached the entrance where the limousine waited. Billy felt slightly dizzy from the accumulated workload, the kind that wears you down completely.
-I heard you're coming back to London in a week for a concert.- she said as they were guided toward their vehicle. Nothing too glamorous—just flashes of cameras here and there.
-—That's exactly what's happening.- he replied quietly.
-Then maybe we can make a film together. Another one. Work as much as we can.- Scarlett said, hoping he would go along with it. She had ideas—clear intentions—and nothing else seemed to matter.