" data-original-title="" title="">Pink Floyd, EMI's rapidly ascending psychedelic behemoth, right there at the Paradiso. The forty-five minutes they played before the headliners took the stage had set Amsterdam's music scene alight. In its wake, the city buzzed. Scrawled reviews in underground papers and word-of-mouth on the Leidseplein circuit all echoed the same sentiment: a new guitar god had been unveiled. "Django Phralipen: Hendrix meets Reinhardt?" one headline dared to ask. The Brotherhood themselves were walking on air.

What they didn't fully grasp, amidst their euphoria, was that their set had been witnessed by a particularly crucial pair of ears. Geoff Litchman, a sharp-suited A&R man from EMI's prestigious Columbia UK label—Pink Floyd's label—had naturally been in attendance. He'd been backstage, perhaps half-distractedly going over notes while Pink Floyd were still in their dressing room, when the support band began. Then Django's guitar had cut through the usual pre-show murmur, sharp and brilliant as a diamond. Litchman, a man whose career depended on recognizing the subtle frequency of nascent stardom, found himself drawn to the side of the stage. He watched, rooted to the spot, as this impossibly young guitarist played with a fire and finesse that was simply otherworldly, miles above almost anyone on Columbia's current rock roster. The main act could wait; this was something else entirely.

Dirk Bakker, with his own quiet history as a touring musician, had naturally fallen into the role of the Brotherhood's de facto manager—booking gigs, offering advice, and acting as a buffer against the more predatory elements of the scene. The day after the Paradiso triumph, the bell above his record shop door chimed, and in walked Geoff Litchman.

Litchman, all British cool and understated confidence, introduced himself. He praised the band, then quickly zeroed in. "Your guitarist, Django Phralipen," he said, browsing a rack of jazz LPs as if his interest were casual. "Quite extraordinary. We at Columbia are always looking for exceptional talent. I'd be interested in getting them into a studio in London, lay down a few tracks. An audition, if you will."

Dirk, tamping tobacco into his pipe, listened with a placid expression that hid a keen, analytical mind. He'd seen men like Litchman before. "The whole band, you mean?" he asked, his tone mild. Litchman gave a noncommittal shrug. "Of course, the band. But it's the guitarist... he's the one with that... spark." Dirk nodded slowly. Coy, but the message was clear. Litchman was sniffing around Django, specifically. "Django is the heart of the group, true," Dirk agreed. "Let me speak with him. Perhaps you could return tomorrow? Say, lunchtime?" Litchman agreed, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.

Later that afternoon, Django burst into the shop, still radiating the electric charge of the Paradiso performance. "Dirk! You should have heard them! They loved us!" Dirk smiled. "I heard, son. I was there, remember? And it seems you made quite an impression on more than just the audience." He relayed Litchman's visit, the interest from EMI/Columbia, the offer of a London audition. Django, still high on adrenaline, was momentarily stunned into silence. Then, his face split into a wide grin. "London? A studio? EMI?" His eyes then fixed on Dirk. "This is big, Dirk! We need a manager.

You! You'll be our manager, right?"

Dirk chuckled, a self-deprecating sound. "Django, I'm just an old record shop owner. This EMI is big league. You need someone who knows the ropes, a professional." Django's expression turned serious. "Dirk, you are officially my uncle, the only family I have in this world. You're the only person I truly trust. You know music, you know the business from your own days, and most importantly, you know me. Why in the world would I let some stranger I've never met be my manager? It's you, or no one."

Dirk felt a warmth spread through his chest. The boy's loyalty was a fierce, unwavering thing. "Alright, Django," he said softly. "If you insist. I'll do my best for you, for the Brotherhood." He paused, then added, "There's something you should know, though. Litchman... he was polite about it, but I got the distinct impression he's really interested in you. Not necessarily the whole group."

Django's elation visibly ebbed, the bright light in his eyes dimming. He turned away, staring unseeingly at a poster of