Billy looked like he had just crossed a battlefield, as if his body had completely drained itself of energy. He ate chunks of steak alongside a large salad. He was utterly dazed. The party buzzed off to one side—Christopher Nolan was speaking intensely with Thom Yorke and the band's producer, the so-called philosophers in essence, a band that had shaped itself on its own terms.
-—I don't think tonight's party is for me.— Billy said with a faint smile.
-—But it's always like this, isn't it?— asked Emma Thomas.
-—Yes, almost always. But when I want to give a real performance, I have to pour my soul into the songs.— Billy replied, taking another bite of the lean meat that melted in his mouth. He breathed deeply.
-—And why is that? I'm curious—why does it exhaust you so much? How do you end up this drained?— Emma sighed.
-—Everyone's exhausted. Tonight, my fans will sleep like babies. As for me, it's because I give everything. Doing things right isn't easy. I call it singing from the heart.— Billy said, taking another forkful of salad—tomatoes, lettuce, corn, olives, dressing, and little toasted croutons, with strips of chicken, almonds, and thin slices of carrot.
-—I think even thirty years from now, when people talk about my concerts, they'll say they were worth it. That's why I always try to keep tickets at a price anyone can afford with a week's work.— Billy added—tickets were $50 across the stadium, VIP was $300, the upper tiers went for $3000, and a private box for five cost $500 per person.
His tickets were the cheapest among all the bands, and that was Jerry's strategy. He insisted prices should never rise, so they did two shows in each city to cover costs, handled by the company—and fortunately, everything sold out. It wasn't surprising: cities ranged from one to three million people, including surrounding towns.
-—That's his philosophy.— said Scarlett Johansson. —He always does what feels right to him—he follows his heart to the extreme. He can make you tremble, because when he decides to do something, he does it.—
She spoke softly, understanding Billy completely—at least that side of him where he revealed himself as a complete hedonist in Emma Thomas's eyes, a man driven by raw emotion, someone who lived every moment intensely, turning even stoicism into something poetic in his words—ancient and proud. It was a powerful way to draw people into the gravity of his music.
-—It's nearly a hundred days.— Emma replied. —And you live like this all the time, with that kind of angry sadness that might seem wrong to others. But it only works for you—and that makes me admire it.—
Billy lifted his eyes, too tired to deny it.
-—Life is lived the way it comes to you. If it seems wrong, it's probably because I've never been good at planning ahead.— he said.
***
Malvin, our accountant, took a seat. He tried not to be bothered by anything, but that was just how he lived—doing the bare minimum, wanting nothing more from life, even when others tried to do everything possible. He simply wanted less.
-—My eyes hurt.— Malvin muttered.
-—Thanks, Dad.— murmured Jennifer, his daughter—clever, persuasive, always making sure he couldn't get away with doing the minimum.
-—Well, I hope you're happy.— Malvin said with his usual stern expression. They had a four-hour drive ahead, but he had already driven eight just to please his mother—and even that was considered the bare minimum by his family.
-—Yes.— the girl said, staring out the window. She was too young to go alone, and the concert in Portsmouth—the closer one—was out of the question, being at night during school days. No one would allow it.
-—I can go to another one of his concerts next year.— she said.
-—Another one?—
-—If it's in London, it'll be a festival.—
-—You can go, but I'll have to come with you. You're not going alone with your friends—that's madness. He's still a rock star.— Malvin replied, though part of him wanted to go—if only to feel the music again, to relive those days riding motorcycles with old friends, all of them older now, worn down, but once happy men who had lived their moments.
...
Times were difficult, and so was the story. When Billy finished eating, he stepped out onto the balcony, breathing in the night air, grounding himself in the moment.
-—I think everyone deserves to dance at least once in their life, every week—and I've been saving that moment for two months.— Scarlett said, trying not to smile too much. What is difficult, what is complicated, when you are truly happy—what can a person even say in response?
-—I want to dance to slow songs as if they were fast.— Billy said.
-—I actually do that.—
-—And you, how are you? How did that shoot go? London, right? Must've been cold.— Billy asked.
-—Just let me tell you…—