Stuart Zender, the bass guitarist from Jamiroquai, claiming to be responsible for co-writing hits like ‘Cosmic girl’ and ‘Virtual insanity’, hadn’t had a break in a long time. A genius in his prime, at forty-two, he was going through some sort of mid-life crisis.
Nobody had sacrificed their lives to him in order to create a hit in a long time. That is, in order to understand how individuals created those points of genius. One must understand what occurs for that moment of transcendence to occur.
In order for a hit to occur. In order for a musical track to ascend the musical charts and gain a prime position. An individual, in their star-struck bliss at meeting another individual, must commit suicide or have their lives taken away from them in order for the soul to be captured by the music and in that the soul ignites the artist and a hit is created.
That sort of thing hadn’t happened to Stuart Zender in a long time. His youth and some part of his energy from that youth had faded. It was magic, it was superstition, it was witchcraft, transcendence, escalation, eclectic super-humanism. But it was what it was. And for a hit single, one must produce a sacrifice through the experience of star-struck awesomeness. It hadn’t happened to Stuart Zender in a long time.
He was wandering around, leaving footprints on the globe. Travelling from place to place. He used to have a place in the world, now he was another lost soul, and just like with all lost souls, he was attempting to recapture that that once was. It was true, he owned a record company and was perhaps even a multi-millionaire.
But as he wandered around the streets of Phuket, Thailand. Drunk and intoxicated, wishing for something to happen, wishing for anything to happen. He stopped off at a mini-mart, convenience store, open all night. They were no longer serving alcohol… An inner rage seethed inside of him. And he was not afraid to show his rage to the peaceful Thai people, “Damn it! Damn all of these things to hell. I, like Shakespeare, like Beethoven, am forced to endure the situation where one is restricted on the permits of getting themselves shit-faced. What foul discretion, that falls upon thee, that I am subjected to this futile existence. Alas. Alas.”
That is when Edward walked in, noticing the man, he went to check on his sentiments, “Are you alright mate?”
“Who are you to ask me if I’m alright?”
“Me, I’m nobody, but are you alright?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
And that is when the two sat down and had a heart to heart. Stuart, quite drunk at that point of time. Went into a tirade about becoming the gardener and no longer being the flower. He knew what he was going through. He didn’t need to be told. Edward listened. Then Stuart, in nonchalance, exposed his fame. Edward did not believe him. But in either case, whether he was famous or wasn’t famous, Edward didn’t really care. Edward had gone through enough things in the world that nothing really shocked him anymore.
Edward told Stuart of his first memory, another boy wiping his arse with a towel. Edward’s life had had these series of events throughout. It was true, he had liked the music that Stuart had helped produce. But he cared little for the ego that it evoked.
But he saw Stuart as another human being and although Edward wasn’t going to sacrifice his life in order to aid his music anytime soon. He wished him well in his own endeavours and journey.