Chapters

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The glow of the Paradiso triumph still lingered when Dirk gathered the band in their warehouse rehearsal space. "Good news, and... well, different news," he began, a familiar managerial caution in his voice. "EMI is ecstatic with the live recordings. They agree, this is the album. They want to rush release it. And," he paused, "they think we should start the tour in the UK. They've got all the connections in place—established venues, promotion networks, the works."

A thoughtful silence fell over the room. Then, Django caught Dave's eye, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Dave," he said, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgic amusement. "Remember Billy? From the commune days?" Dave grinned. "Billy? Oh yeah. The American guy. The roadie." "Exactly," Django nodded. "He was always going on about his perfect plan for a tour. It was a bit mad, but... it spoke to my Romani heart. I think it's time we revisited it. Dave, can you explain Billy's big idea?"

Dave leaned forward, happy to oblige. "Right. Billy used to say that back in the 1930s and '40s, every decent-sized city in America had at least one major film theatre. You know, those grand old places—plush, maybe a bit weathered by now, but with great acoustics and tons of seating." He continued, warming to the topic, "Then, in the '50s and '60s, everyone started moving out to the suburbs. These magnificent old downtown theatres began to die a slow death, showing movies to a handful of people instead of packed houses." Bobbi and Marc listened intently, intrigued. "Billy said," Dave went on, "then in a few big cities, some sharp hustlers had already bought up these old palaces for pennies on the dollar and were turning them into rock concert venues. This started in the mid-'60s, bands often play for next to nothing just for the exposure, and people in those cities might see three popular bands on the same bill." "Here's the kicker," Dave said, his eyes scanning the group. "Billy claimed there was this vast network of middle-sized cities all across America that weren't on any of the big promoters' circuits. But the people there? They were yearning for good live music. His idea was to tap into that."

"So, how would it work?" Bobbi asked, already picturing it. "You'd have an advance team," Dave explained. "They'd go into a region, scout it out, identify these old theatres. First, lock down a potential venue. Then, they hit the local radio station—offer some free tickets as giveaway prizes, get some on-air promotion, maybe an interview with the band when they arrive. The station could even have their DJ act as master of ceremonies and introduce the band." "Smart," Leo, the bassist, chimed in. "Next," Dave continued, "you approach the local law enforcement—the sheriff's department or the city police. Offer a contribution to their 'benevolent fund' or whatever they call it, in exchange for them providing a couple of off-duty cops for security. And crucial, Billy always said: cash only for tickets at the door. Next day, go to the bank, get a cashier's check for the takings. Simple."

"And here's Django's addition to Billy's plan," Dave said, grinning at his friend. "The Romani angle." "An equipment truck, of course," Django winked. "And then, for us... three or four of those big American camper vans. Winnebagos, I think they're called. Or maybe small buses. We travel together, live together, like a true... " He searched for the word. "What's the word, Django?" Dave prompted. "Kumpania," Django said, the word resonating with a deep cultural significance for him. "We become a kumpania. A travelling family." "Billy always thought you'd build a real, long-term fan base this way," Dave concluded. "Not just lukewarm fans, but people who felt a connection because you came to them."

Django looked around at the band, then at Dirk. "Sure," he said, his voice earnest. "There is risk. Many chances for things to go wrong. It's a lot of extra work, not like a pre-booked tour. But there could be big rewards too. I'd like to see the America I would never encounter on a regular, big-city tour. I want to meet these people, understand them. And," a genuine smile broke through, "I bet we could have a blast doing it." He paused. "Maybe we could try it somewhere like New England to start? It would give us a chance to do some initial touring, get our sea legs, out of the intense spotlight. Then, after that, we can do a more regular circuit tour, say for six weeks, when we're really on top of our game."

Dirk had listened with a mixture of astonishment and apprehension. He ran a hand through his hair. "I... I have to be honest," he said slowly. "This is so far beyond my experience. I wouldn't even know how to begin assembling an advance team for something like this. It sounds logical, in its own way, but... why aren't other people doing it already if it's such a good idea? I just don't know." He looked from Django to Dave. "This Billy... is he still around? Still in Amsterdam?"

Dave shook his head. "No, last I heard, he went back to the States. But the good news is, I think he's in college now, somewhere near Boston. I still have his parents' home phone number. I could try and reach him."

Dirk, visibly wrestling with the audacity of the plan but not wanting to extinguish the clear passion in Django's eyes, let out a long sigh. It was a sigh that contained a world of managerial headaches, but also a sliver of adventurous curiosity. "Alright," he said, a reluctant smile touching his lips. "Why not? Give him a call, Dave. See if he's free this summer. And find out if Mr. Billy is ready to put his grand plan into action."

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Story by Alan Bryson, edited and assisted by AI.

Disclaimer: This is a fictional account exploring what might have happened if a temporal quantum event had occurred. While real musicians and historical figures appear within these pages, they exist here in an alternate timeline—a reality that quantum theory suggests was possible, but that never came to pass. All interactions, conversations, and events involving these individuals are entirely fictional, products of a world that exists only in the space between what was and what might have been.

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