Rich and Famous by James Lincoln Collier Page B

wasn’t a deal. I figured I could easily work up some excuse about how Uncle Ned was taking us to Danbury to the fair or something.
    They were finally beginning to worry about my songs. They’d picked two or three that I thought I might do, and they’d ordered some more from song writers, and after that I started working with Damon Damon on the music. It wasn’t as much fun as sitting around listening to guys make stuff up, but I was glad to do it because at least it was real.
    Besides, I liked Damon Damon. He was kind of flaky, but he was serious about music and he made me work pretty hard. One day in the rehearsal studio he said, “Of course, they won’t use any of these songs—they’ll throw them out and get different ones—but we may as well work on them, it will give us something to do. I consider this whole business one of the more insane episodes in what has admittedly been a reasonably ludicrous life, but at least you will be able to sing properly. What do you think of my waistcoat? It’s super, isn’t it?”
    I wasn’t feeling much like working. “Yeah, it’s nice,” I said.
    â€œOne redeeming feature of the music business is that you can dress as you like.”
    â€œThat’s probably true,” I said. “But you know what worries me is all this phoniness. I mean making up all that stuff about my hometown, and spending all this time trying to figure out what kind of a haircut a boy next door has. It’s pretty phony.”
    He nodded. “Quite true, dear boy,” he said. “You may as well face it, this isn’t art, this is commercial music. You’re a nice boy, George, but let’s be honest, there are thousands of kids your age in the United States who can sing and play the guitar a little. The difference between the ones who get their pictures on album covers and the ones who stay in Swamp Valley, Kentucky is packaging. The people inside the packages are pretty nearly interchangeable. Of course you need somebody with a little musical talent, but basically what Superman looks for is somebody who’s pleasant looking, intelligent enough to understand what’s required of him, and willing to take orders without making too much of a fuss. Oh, he doesn’t want a sheep, of course. He wants somebody with some sort of spark that will communicate to audiences. But he most emphatically doesn’t want some kid arguing with him all the time about his art.”
    Hearing all this made me feel lousy. “You mean I really am a poodle in a dog show?”
    â€œOh, it’s not as bad as that, Georgie. I mean after all, you stand to gain a great deal by going along with Superman. He knows what he’s doing, mind you, dear boy. He is a very shrewd cookie indeed. And just suppose by some miracle you happen to hit big. You sweat out a few years, then you get yourself a high-price lawyer to get you out of your contract with Camelot, and you make a deal for yourself that’ll make you rich for life.”
    â€œIt certainly makes me feel lousy to hear you say this,” I said.
    He shrugged. “Nobody’s forcing you, Georgie. It’s a question of paying the price.”
    â€œWhy do you bother staying in the music business, then?”
    â€œGoodness, dear boy, everybody in the business isn’t like Sup—isn’t a gangster. It may come as a shock, but there are lots of perfectly nice people in it. To be sure, there are absolute flotillas of sharks about, ready to eat you up if they get a chance, but you’d be quite surprised at the number of people in the business who actually care about music. Some of them are quite fond of it, really.”
    â€œDo you like being in the music business, Damon?”
    â€œOne learns to take the bitter with the sweet, dear boy. I know it’s absurd, but I enjoy puttering around with music. After awhile you get to know who the gangsters are and you