Chapters

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The Monday meeting with Mr. Alistair Finch, the solicitor Ronnie Scott had recommended, was a refreshingly straightforward affair. Finch, a dapper man with a keen eye for contractual nuance, confirmed Dirk's assessment: the EMI offer was not only generous but also remarkably artist-friendly, especially concerning creative control. A few minor clauses were tightened for clarity, but by Tuesday afternoon, Dirk and Django were back at EMI headquarters.

The signing itself was less a grand ceremony and more a quiet, momentous occasion in a wood-paneled office. Geoff Litchman, looking genuinely pleased, presented the finalised contracts. Django, with Dirk by his side, put pen to paper, the scratch of nib on parchment echoing slightly in the room. A handshake, a shared smile. It was done. Django Phralipen was officially an EMI artist.

Before leaving London, there were practicalities. Geoff Litchman, eager to build on the Ronnie Scott's buzz, had quickly arranged an interview for Django with a young, enthusiastic journalist from Rolling Stone magazine's nascent UK bureau. Django, coached by Dirk to be humble yet articulate, considered his words carefully. When asked about future directions, he said, his English careful but heartfelt, "Music is the one language we all understand. Right now I'm looking to work with those who speak it fluently... In my mind I hear a female voice, and in a perfect world she would play flute with soul and great chops, adding another colour to our sound." Then, armed with a significant portion of their advance, Django and Dirk led the Brotherhood on a strategic shopping spree. New amplifiers, a couple of choice effects pedals for Django, sturdier drum hardware for Lars, and even some stylish, understated stage clothes were acquired. They were beginning to look, as well as sound, like a band on the precipice of something big.

Their return to Amsterdam was quiet but charged with a palpable sense of achievement. Dirk's record shop, once just a haven, now felt like the command centre for an exciting new enterprise. One of Dirk's first moves was to hire a reputable accountant and a sharp young business manager to navigate the increasingly complex legal and financial waters. "My job is to help you make music, Django," Dirk had said. "Their job is to make sure you get to keep making it."

The band didn't rush back onto the stage. Instead, they rented a disused warehouse space on the city's outskirts—a large, dusty building that quickly became their sanctuary and laboratory. Django had more ideas. "I hear more rhythm," he declared one afternoon. "More layers." Soon, a nimble conga player named Rico, a fixture in Amsterdam's Latin jazz scene, and a versatile percussionist, Anya, who could coax a symphony from a collection of shakers, bells, and blocks, were invited to jam. The core Brotherhood—Dave, Lars, Leo, and Stefan—watched, listened, and then eagerly joined in, the sound of the band instantly expanding, becoming richer, more polyrhythmic, and undeniably more global.

Meanwhile, Dirk was working the phones. Reaching