Once upon a time there was a famous British musician. He lived with a drummer, a bassist and a guitarist.
They all lived in a 2-up-2-down-semi-detached house which the famous British musician liked to keep clean and tidy. The famous British musician worked hard at his music all day. The others helped in their ways. Although they said they meant to and wanted to do more, they seemed to be too busy with other mod things. The drummer liked to drink at the pub, the bassist preferred to ride his Vespa scooter all day, and the guitarist enjoyed many romantic encounters and also liked dressing as a pirate and thinking about aliens.
One day the famous British musician was working in the semi when he found a half-written song on a piece of tattered old paper.
"Who will help me finish writing this song?" he asked.
"Not I," grunted the drummer from his barstool at the pub.
"Not I," quacked the bassist as he whizzed by on his Vespa.
"Not I," purred the guitarist, with a dollybird on his lap.
So the famous British musician went to look for a nice tablet to write on and a piano to sit at, scratched at the tablet with his pencil, played some ascending chords on the piano, and finished writing the song.
During the summer the song’s popularity grew. First it grew into a regional hit, then it ripened on the pop radio stations until it became a worldwide smash. The famous British musician saw that more new songs were needed to keep his band going.
"Who will help me write more songs for us all?" asked the famous British musician.
"Not I," grunted the drummer from his barstool at the pub, in a new Ossie Clark suit.
"Not I," quacked the bassist as he whizzed by on his Vespa, with a cute girl now on the back.
"Not I," purred the guitarist, with a dollybird on his lap and a dapper retired Army Major massaging his shoulders.
"Very well then, I will write them myself," said the famous British musician. Over the next few years, he wrote many, many, many new songs, and began producing them by himself as well.
"Who will invest their money with me in a fine recording studio, so that we may always have a place to work, and that shall also generate further income for us all?" asked the famous British musician.
"Not I," grunted the drummer from his barstool in the pub, in his new new Ossie Clark suit, smoking a Cuban cigar.
"Not I," quacked the bassist whizzing by on his Vespa, with a cute girl on the back, holding a key to a chic London private club.
"Not I," purred the guitarist with a dollybird on his lap, a dapper retired Army Major massaging his shoulders, all three wearing frilly swashbuckler outfits with thigh high patent leather boots.
So the famous British musician bought the studio himself, and asked his business managers if he would be so kind as to give small shares in the studio to the others, in return for some occasional filing work and publishing rights.
In time the business managers sent a little bag of money down to the 2-up-2-down-semi-detached house where the famous British musician lived with the drummer and the bassist and the guitarist.
"Who will help me to make this money into more bread?" asked the famous British musician.
"Not I," grunted the pig from his barstool in the pub, in an alpaca overcoat, smoking a Cuban cigar, and wiping some residual blood stains off of his cymbals.
"Not I," quacked the bassist, whizzing by on his Vespa, crashing, and emigrating to Canada.
"Not I," purred the guitarist, with several children in his lap and Marvin the Martian massaging his shoulders.
"Very well," said the famous British musician. "I shall make the bread myself." He went into his neat little studio. He mixed the tracks into dough. He invested the dough and put it into the bank to multiply.
Years later there was a lovely smell of hot fresh money. It filled all the corners of the studio and wafted out into the Lane. The drummer came into the studio from his pub, the bassist came in from his Vespa tours of Canada and Denmark and the guitarist momentarily parked his astral plane. When the famous British musician opened his bank statement the dough had risen up and had turned into the nicest, most delicious looking financial portfolio any of them had seen.
"Who is going help me cash the hefty royalty and studio rental checks and enjoy all the fawning attention and admiration of the public?" asked the famous British musician.
"I will," grunted the drummer.
"I will," quacked the bassist.
"I will," purred the guitarist.
"Oh no, you won't," said the famous British musician. "I wrote the songs, I produced the songs, I bought and maintained the studio, and I made the bread, all by myself. I shall now cash the checks all by myself."
The drummer, the bassist and the guitarist all stood and watched as the famous British musician made a large bank deposit, all by himself. It was delicious and he enjoyed it, right to the very last crumb.
(*sense of humor required for reading)
© Copyright 2008- Marianne Spellman