A glass and marble conference room with a view out over the docklands landscape. Jamie T walks through the door, glancing back at the PA who didn’t offer him a coffee. A suit sits at the long oval table that fills most of the room, and Jamie reaches out to shake hands with him. The suit remains frozen. Jamie hesitantly withdraws his hand, then sits down awkwardly.
The suit raises an eyebrow. Jamie looks confused. The suit steeples his fingers and sends his eyebrow even further towards his weave. Jamie mouths a silent “oh!” and jerks up from the chair.
“Jamie!” ejaculates the suit. “You’ll be glad to clear we have assigned you the mechanically reclaimed musical style that you’ll be promoting for your brief stint in content.”
“Don’t you mean music?” asks Jamie.
The suit gives him a Look. Jamie shifts his weight to the other foot nervously.
“You know how Lily Allen is an unironic rehash of some of the most insipid dross of the 1970s?”
Jamie shrugs and nods at the same time. A shrod? A nug?
“Well, even the kids’ parents don’t remember the original. So we think the time is ripe for a male Lily Allen.”
Jamie’s face drops. “No! Please!”
The suit holds up a contract. Jamie recognises his signature. It’s as if the compressor has been yanked from his spigot.
“Good lad.” grins the suit.
(If anyone has a better explanation of how the current crop of pathetic untransformative strip-mined debasements of popular music history get the idea that their pitious aping of people with an idea, even a bad one, is something there is actually a demand for, do let me know. I like a laugh.)