The Party Was A Disaster

March 2041.

Maida Vale, West London.

It was about 30 minutes before her alarm went off when Gemma’s phone rang. “Not a good sign” was what she tried to say, but what she managed sounded more like “unnggg.”

“I know, I know, but wake up fast, okay?” It was her assistant Tom on the other end, with his crisp American accent, and he had all the spunk and vigour of a man who was somewhere that it was very much not 6:30am.

“Tom, you are one of two people able to break through my do-not-disturb. And I divorced the other one. Please tell me nothing bad happened to Taylor Swift.”

“Ma’am, you know we have not had Taylor in years. Listen. Something’s up. I’m still at the office, we all are. You’re about to get an email.” She squinted her eyes together a few more times and looked at the phone. Sure enough, an email dropped in. It just said “[Please Attend Virtually] UK Town Hall – Today at 8 a.m. Link to follow.” She grimaced, annoyed.

“Well, shit Tom. That’s, what? Someone’s stepping down? Look, you probably know, can you just tell me?” She rubbed her eyes. Tom let out a sharp exhale which just came out as a crackle for Gemma.

“Ma’am, I’m honestly not sure. But they asked a lot of the admins to stay around. And it’s me, and looking around, it’s just people who support people in the UK office.”

Gemma glanced up and saw herself in the mirror, a full-length standing mirror across from a king bed in an otherwise extremely sparse bedroom. She let out a groan, put the phone on speaker and dropped it on the bed. She dragged her hands across her face and let out a longer, more guttural groan. “Tom, talk me through this. What are you hearing? Forgive me if I drift in and out of consciousness.” She lifted the duvet off of her and winced as she saw her sequinned blouse and leather skirt from the night before.

As she pulled herself together, Tom ran through what he’d heard: all the gossip from the Los Angeles office, as it were. Essentially, he knew nothing, but he did his best to fill the time and keep Gemma company while she brushed her teeth, put her hair into a slightly better state, and maybe, no judgement, had the tiniest sip of vodka from a glass on her nightstand.

She’d been staring at her crow’s feet in the mirror for what felt like a year before realising Tom had gone silent. “Tom? Still there?”

“I am! So how was it last night by the way? I missed everything, classic Tom. Did you go to the party after?”

“Christ, Tom, it was the Brit Awards. It was, I don’t know, it was fine. The party was a disaster. One of our artists tried to pick me up. At least I think he’s one of ours.” She finished the nightstand vodka and set off toward the kitchen.

“Oh no, which one? I’m so sorry that happened!”

“I don’t bloody know his name. I nearly let him, too, until he referred to me as his ‘cool record label executive’ and said it was fucking inspiring to see a woman over 50 still relevant in the fucking industry. Christ. Fucking gorgeous though. A bit dim.” Tom was stifling laughter, which also seemed to come through as a faint crackling sound.

“I think I know who you mean. I’ll see if I can discretely let him know you’re only 47.”

Gemma’s eyes widened, she let out a clipped, high-pitched “Great catching up, Tom” and dropped her finger onto the End Call button. She looked at the clock: 7:04 a.m.

Standing alone in her kitchen, she inhaled deeply, held it, then exhaled. The sun was breaking through the window. She walked through the kitchen into her under-furnished living room and stared out to the street below. The morning light cutting through the treetops of her West London street, same-ish looking joggers filing past the rows of same-ish looking Maida Vale mansion blocks.

About an hour to pull herself together. Her heart was beating oddly fast. She inhaled and exhaled again, and again. She squeezed her hands into fists, then shook them out. She did what she’d seen characters in films do when they need to calm down. But she couldn’t get her head in the right place. She looked back at the counter, a pastel jar with “COFFEE” on it, next to a half-empty handle of Stoli. And she decided to go up the street to the café.

The sun wasn’t as forgiving outside, and Gemma instantly regretted not having her sunglasses. Her sequinned top was catching it particularly well. Though surely she wasn’t the only one in this neighbourhood prowling around for coffee after a Brit Awards afterparty.

She’d never quite settled into the Maida Vale vibe, and had practically been shoved into her current flat by a colleague who dragged her kicking and screaming out of her “Shepherd’s Bush shithole.” Really she’d never quite settled into having a job that paid well. She worked with a singular purpose since she was able, having declared “music is my life” somewhere around age 15, and angrily refused to be dissuaded every day since. Ticket-tearing and bartending at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire, leaning on the stacks at every random indie gig she could find, recording her first album, declaring it shit, helping engineer other people’s less-shit albums, recording her second album, realising it was somehow worse.

Eventually, money was an issue. But she’d mixed enough of other people’s albums that she was able to get an internship at EMI, where they’d groomed her into being a “trends analyst,” and things escalated from there. Finally, years later, she was waking up to the horrifying realisation that she’d been referred to as a “record label executive” at a Brit Awards after-party.

She walked into the café, deciding to just own her vibe, but was immediately struck. Something was off. Her usual barista gave her a wave. “Morning! Bit earlier than usual.”

She cocked her head and looked up. He nodded. “Yeah, I knew you’d notice. You always liked my playlists. Honestly most people won’t notice.”

“It’s the... what is this?” She pointed up at the speaker bolted to the wall. He grimaced performatively.

“I have no idea. Head office has switched us to this new music service. I can’t pick my own music, there’s not even playlists, it’s just buttons. This one’s ‘Coffee Shop Morning.’” Some soothing, inoffensive Spanish guitar came out of the speaker, with occasional whiffs of piano behind it. Gemma groaned and suddenly her head was killing her.

“Mate no, you can’t with this. Just get a record player or something. I will bring you a record player. I can’t start my mornings with this procedural bullshit.”

He pursed his lips and then sighed. “I wish we could. I wish I could let you. You know how it is. The music labels charge us so much now per song. They said we’d have to charge another £2.50 a drink just to pay it.”

“Greedy fucks.” She squinted. He stared back innocently enough. Her secret identity remained intact. “Listen, what if I could guarantee you’d never get caught.” He smiled, though a bit more pained. Someone else had queued behind her now. Pleasant chat was over.

She slid into a booth in the corner. 7:41 a.m. Plenty of time to mindfully drink this latte, clear her head, then get back in time for the meeting. She took a sip, then stared at the wall. Her eyes felt so dry. The Spanish guitar had gotten a bit peppier. It would probably keep doing that as the day went on, until it was a full fucking rave in here by 6 p.m. She rolled her eyes.

This auto-generated AI music (“procedural,” in industry parlance) had been a thing for a while, but the music industry’s initial fear of it had been overblown – it had wound up just capturing the market for ambience. Audio wallpaper for people who aren’t comfortable in silence, or people who are reading the news in a café alone, or people who have tinnitus from leaning on the stacks at every random indie gig they could. Whatever. They didn’t care what it sounded like so long as it was on. Music fans, ultimately, still wanted the real deal. There was one company doing something a bit more ambitious, supposedly, but they knew better than to panic this time. Still plenty of real artists, making real music, for real fans. And yes, commanding higher-than-ever royalties from coffee shops. They had to make up the losses somewhere.

Still, though. It was surprising to see this place fall to the darkness. They’d worked hard to cultivate a certain image. They had vinyl album covers plastered all over the walls as art. Until recently, they still sold CDs. And they were down the street from the legendary BBC Maida Vale studio. Some real heavy hitters had recorded there. And the area was posh as hell. It made no sense to Gemma whatsoever.

She rubbed her temples. Her feet were fucking killing her. Her jaw felt sore for some reason. 7:43 a.m. Christ, still ages away. She took out her phone. Maybe she’d have a little mindful news and weather with her mindful latte. As she went to unlock it, the screen lit up with an Apple News notification:

“EXCLUSIVE: UNIVERSAL MUSIC TO ANNOUNCE ACQUISITION BY MAGENTA AS EARLY AS TODAY; UK SUBSIDARY EMI TO SHUTTER; ALL UK STAFF TO BE LET GO.”

Gemma looked up at the barista. He smiled politely. She rolled her shoulders back until she heard a loud pop. She looked down at her phone, which had become a steady flow of new message notifications. She flipped it upside down, set her latte down on top of it and slid down in her chair, no longer in any particular hurry to get back.