It seemed like a good gig. It really did. It paid handsomely, and the work was fairly easy. But it came at a price.
I play keyboards and sing pop and jazz. I also write my own music. I’m no Elton John, by any stretch of the imagination, but I can certainly hold my own.
Before I go on, I must explain what a tritone is. (Hope y’all ready for a quick music lesson.) There are twelve notes. That’s it. No more, no less. If you play the tonic (the key of the song) and go up six notes (three whole tones), you get the tritone. For example, if your starting note is C, and you go up six notes on a piano, you arrive at F#. Play those notes in sequence – or better yet – simultaneously, you get an eerie sound. Black Sabbath perfected this. In fact, their song with the same name best utilizes the tritone. That’s why it’s so spooky.
In medieval times that pesky note sequence was dubbed Diabolus in Musica (the devil in music). The tritone was deemed extremely dangerous; consequently, it was made illegal. For hundreds of years! Look it up, this is true.
Okay, so now you understand.
Satan (who goes by the name Tony Sith) is a mobster. He owns a strip club called Hotter Than Hell. My jazz quintet performs there weekly. Recently, he overheard me discussing my composing ambitions.
“You looking for another gig?” Tony asked me, while the band was on set break. His voice growled, sending chills down my spine.
I was startled. Tony doesn’t speak to the musicians. We’re beneath him.
“Yes, of course,” I replied.
Tony approached.
“Good. Expect a call.”
He straightened his tie, stood fully erect (he was the tallest person in the room, by far), turned and walked away.
Dave the drummer poked me in the ribs. “You lucky dog,” he said, grinning devilishly.
I shrugged. After finishing my drink, I peed and washed up, then I hustled to the stage for the final set. The band played great; the set was tight; the strippers danced like naughty angels. Easy money.
Tony’s email came two days later:
Peter Starr, you are commissioned to write a 20 second jingle for Ray’s Auto Parts.
TS
The company’s website was provided. I clicked it. Ray’s Auto Parts was nothing fancy, just your typical auto parts store. Then I received a notification from my bank that a large sum of money had been deposited.
“Easy money,” I told Lucifer, my black cat, who was circling my legs, looking for affection. I scratched under his chin. Then I got to work. I’d never written a jingle before, so I turned on the radio and listened to the commercials. I was right: easy money.
My computer startled me. It was downloading a program. I presumed it was an update. It wasn’t. It was PentaScore.
The program finished downloading; I clicked ‘Accept’ to the terms and conditions. Looking back, I wish I’d read through them first. Maybe then those people would still be alive, and I wouldn’t be in this mess. But there was no turning back. I’d seen first-hand what happens when you refuse Tony Sith.
PentaScore opened. A buffet of instruments appeared. The world of music at my fingertips. I frowned. Apparently, Tony Sith and his thugs hijacked my computer. Why was I surprised?
My instrument was beckoning me, so I jumped behind the keyboards and started messing around. Soon, a melody arrived. Three notes, all from the major scale. I applied the appropriate chords and Voila! A twenty-second jingle. Easy money, right? All I needed was the words.
I scribbled down some lyrics:
Ray’s Auto Parts is the place to start;
Ray’s Auto Parts saves you money.
Ray’s Auto Parts;
Ray’s makes everything better.
Ray’s makes everything better.
I was satisfied. It wasn’t Mozart by any stretch of the imagination, but it was good. Good enough for a twenty-second ad. After downing my third cup of coffee, I moseyed towards the desktop computer, ready to record the song. First, I’d start with the keys, then add the bass and drums, finally the vocals.
My computer was busy at work. PentaScore was operating on its own. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There it was: My jingle. Fully composed. Finished. Neat and tidy. Each instrument was notated, including the title, key of the song, tempo and composer.
“Impossible,” I told Damion, who had curled up on my lap.
The playback button was taunting me. Push me! it provoked.
I pushed play.
I wish I hadn’t.
My jingle came soaring through the speakers, lasting exactly twenty-seconds. My voice was pitched an octave lower, barely recognizable. That’s not what troubled me. The chords were all wrong. Something foul was afoot.
“There must be an explanation,” I told Damion.
The melody was correct. It was exactly how I’d imagined it. The problem was with the harmony.
The tritones.
Those creepy intervals had teeth. They made the jingle sound like horror movie music. Something Tim Burton would create. Yes, the melody was intact, but the chords were gruesome.
I panicked.
There was no way I could submit this to Tony Sith. He’d have me killed. Or worse. Having spent time at his club after-hours, I’ve seen things. Bad things. People disappear at Hotter Than Hell. Like the guy who was shoved into the walk-in fridge, tied up, bloodied and shackled. Or the dancers who get called into Tony’s office, never to be seen again.
Frantically, I tried correcting the mistakes. Unfortunately, every time I made a correction, it wouldn’t save. I tried again and again. At some point, panic turned to despair. I started swearing. Every cuss word I knew, and then some. It was sad. There’s nothing more desperate than a person throwing a tantrum at their computer.
Then the unthinkable happened: Tony Sith sent me a text (something he’d never done before). Two words: Got it.
For the entire night, I sat by my computer, listening to that damned jingle. It was super creepy. The polar opposite of what it should be.
What exactly is PentaScore? I did some research. According to Google, PentaScore does not exist. Not this version, anyway.
I started questioning my own sanity.
“I must’ve slipped in those notes by accident,” I told myself.
Sometimes, when the creative process is intense, songs come pouring out of me. Sometimes, fully formed. I’m a receiver. It’s what I do. I’ve never questioned the process. As long as the songs keep coming, I’m happy.
This was different, and I knew it.
How did PentaScore appear on my computer? Where did it come from? How did it compose and arrange my score? It even notated what I didn’t play. It composed my thoughts. This was hard to handle. And why did my song sound evil? That was the worst part. The sound was pure horror.
All week, my stomach was in knots. At any moment, Tony Sith would send a message, saying my services are no longer required. This was the best-case scenario. The alternative being a visit from Tony’s goons. Or a trip to his office.
Needless to say, I spent the entire week looking over my shoulder. Then came Saturday night; my quintet was scheduled for our weekly stint at Hotter Than Hell.
I arrived early. Cautiously, (like this would help) I loaded my gear into the club. The floors creaked like a pistol. Every sound was a shotgun blast to the brain.
Tony ignored me. He poked his head from his office from time to time, giving Rex, the working manager, instructions. Not once did he acknowledge my existence.
The show went off with the grace of a first-time stripper dancing on Amateur Night. I sweated profusely all night, missing cues, falling flat on my solos. The band was livid. Especially Mary, the alto saxophonist.
“What’s wrong?” she asked with folded arms, during set break.
I told her I was fine. She didn’t believe me. Nor should she. It was all I could do not to glance over my shoulder. I went the entire night refusing food or drinks. I was at my wits-end.
“Well,” Dave said, sipping his beer. “I’ve played worse gigs. But I can’t remember when.”
He patted my shoulder, downed his drink, loaded his drums, then split.
I followed him outside, carrying the last of my gear.
Tony called my name.
My heart sank. This is it, I thought. The end of my life.
Tony Sith was standing outside his office, dressed to the nines. His face was chiselled. His voice as rusty as a nail. He didn’t mince his words.
“More work is coming. Check your email.”
Those words barely fell from his face, before he was greeted by a gorgeous redhead. The door slammed shut as she disappeared into his office.
I gulped.
Apparently, Tony liked the jingle.
…
My next assignment was for Daisy’s Hairdressers. A twenty-second spot. I jumped behind the keys, and promptly got to work, setting out pictures of women’s hairstyles to set the mood. It worked. Soon I had a melody. It was catchy. I played around with my idea until it settled into something workable. Then came the words:
No one does it like Daisy’s; Daisy’s does hair right. No one does it like Daisy’s; Daisy’s makes you a beautiful sight. Better than the rest; Daisy’s Hairdressers; You deserve the best.
I pictured this song sung by Mary, who’s an incredible vocalist. She would be backed by a choir. I was searching my phone, looking for her digits, when my score came blasting through my computer speakers.
I cringed. The purpose of a jingle is to keep the listener engaged. To memorize the business’ name. Get it stuck in your head. The best jingles will stay with you all your life. That’s why we remember commercials from our childhood.
This jingle sounded evil. My voice was pitched an active up, making it sound like Mary. But it was me. With a choir singing underneath me. This freaked me out.
I started questioning Tony Sith’s validity. Who exactly was he? Or better yet: What was he? And what the hell was PentaScore?
No answers arrived. Self-pity took over. How did I end up in this mess? Why me? When will this nightmare end?
The score was proudly displayed, exactly how I’d imagined it. Except, my version was light and breezy. Cute, like a children’s cereal commercial. This one belonged on an episode of the Twilight Zone.
PentaScore proudly displayed my song. The screen flashed busily. Just looking at those dark intervals gave me the creeps. Those tritones were vomit-inducing. They didn’t belong. The mouse hovered over the playback button. Only, this time I refused to press it. There’s no way in hell I could listen to that wretched jingle again.
I didn’t need to press play. The song played on its own.
The song was abhorrent. Just hearing it made me want to crawl into a hole and die. Pirate music, that’s what it was.
I powered off my computer, and relished in the silence. Maybe if I keep my computer turned off, my problems would disappear.
My phone beeped. A text arrived. From Tony. Two words:
Got it.
My phone dinged again as a pile of cash was deposited into my account. A few more jingles, and I could buy myself a new car. An electric car, perhaps. I was conflicted.
I shrugged, then sipped my coffee, while listening to the local news.
The radio announcer was going ballistic. Something bad happened, and the announcer was quite emotional in telling the story. Apparently, Ray’s Auto Parts was being investigated in a rash of murders throughout the city. Brakes seizing; tires falling off. Cars exploding. These unfortunate events were linked to Ray’s.
“Impossible,” I told Damion.
My computer powered up, suddenly. My phone dinged. An email arrived. It was from Tony:
Next assignment:
The City Zoo. 45 second spot.
TS
My hands were trembling. This was all wrong. I was in over my heard. I resisted the urge to Google Tony Sith, since he was was most certainly spying on me.
“Maybe, this will be the final assignment,” I told Damion, who was face-first in his food dish.
I slumped behind my instrument. I didn’t need to research the City Zoo. I worked there back in high school. There were amphibians, birds, fish, reptiles, mammals; you name it. The giraffes were my favorite.
A jungle groove was required. I would build off that, starting with the percussion. Having access to unlimited drum samples, it wasn’t long before I found a killer groove. I added a bass line. Soon, the bass and drums were locked in. Next, I would create a guitar part, and pepper it with keys. Then I’d add the horns. They’d be extra-spicy.
I spent all night on this one, drawing influence from Duke Ellington’s Afrique. The music was so enthralling it wouldn’t require singing. Spoken word should suffice. I scribbled down a few lines, thus completing the song. It was well after dark by this point.
Come visit the City Zoo; There’s something for the whole family. Come see our latest attractions; Fun for you and me! The City Zoo; There’s so much to see. Open seven days a week. The City Zoo; See you soon!
The moment my pencil left the page, and the final word was written, my computer started making noises. I looked up. The song was fully-composed.
Grudgingly, I pressed play.
I gasped. It was unlike anything I’d ever heard. The groove was fantastic, exactly like I’d imagined it. My voice was announcer-like, speaking each word with razor-sharp precision. The guitar part, on the other hand, was repulsive. The heavily-distorted notes sounded as wicked as Cannibal Corpse. Think: Doom metal meets afro-jazz.
Not for the faint of hearing.
The song played perpetually; nothing I did would stop it. PentaScore was operating without me. I tried lowering the volume, and failed. I was desperate. The tritones were grating on me. Each note was a bullet to the brain. This was inexcusable. I knew I was in deep trouble.
Ding! My phone beeped. I leapt to the ceiling.
Tony’s text arrived like a mafia hit:
Got it.
The next day I made plans with Dave. He was the only person I could turn to. Maybe he’d believe me. Maybe he’d know what to do. It was a long-shot, but I had to try. We met at a local dive bar. A blues band was playing. Dave started eyeballing a woman with spiky blue hair and a sleeve of tattoos. It took all my strength to keep his attention.
“Something happened last week,” I said, having rehearsed what I would say to him.
Dave leaned in.
“Tony Sith, from the club – Um, I think he’s the devil.”
Dave spurted his beer, soaking me in the process.
“Gross!” I complained, wiping the suds from my shirt and pants.
The look on Dave’s face was not encouraging. He thought I was either nuts, or yanking his chain. This crushed my soul. To me, it was blatantly obvious Tony wasn’t human. Nor was he to be trusted. The realization that I couldn’t tell a single soul made me want to drink myself into oblivion.
I ordered the next round, but kept quiet. Dave, on the other hand, found himself arm-in-arm with the spiky-haired woman, leaving me all alone. I was depressed beyond description. Even if I showed him PentaScore, and the songs I’d composed, he would rationalize it. This was all too obvious. I was saddened, but certainly not surprised.
I downed my beer, then ordered an Uber. Dave stayed. He spent the night with his latest friend.
The driver was listening to the local news station, who were discussing the gory details of the latest tragedy. A gruesome murder spree had taken place earlier that day. At a hair salon: Daisy’s Hairdressers.
According to the report, sometime after 6pm, three hairdressers went on a rampage. One patron had her wrists slashed; another had her eyes gouged out. The woman with her eyes removed had brought her six-year-old daughter with her. This little girl was also dead. She was decapitated.
Sleep came quick, but it came with a price: An endless cycle of nightmares.
The following Saturday, my band avoided me like the plague. This was fine by me. I could be cut up, killed, or worse, at any given moment. I was walking on eggshells.
We played a typical show, full of hoots and hollers from the audience, and flips and flops from the dancers. At the end of the night, Tony called me into his office.
This is it, I told myself. I hope it’s quick.
All eyes followed me. The air seemed to be sucked from the room. The door creaked as it closed.
Tony Sith was sitting behind his executive desk, which was littered with receipts and folded papers. The room smelled of stale cigarettes.
“Have a seat.”
The office was impossibly spacious. Boxes of booze lined the adjacent wall. A lavender couch kissed the corner furthest from me. Gargoyles and random creatures were displayed around the office, each uglier than the last. My mind was processing this when he made his offer.
“Your next assignment is a doozy.” His large hands folded neatly on his desk. “Hotter Than Hell has been garnishing unwelcoming attention from various organizations. That’s all you need to know. So, I thought you could write us a jingle. Sixty seconds. Have it done by tomorrow, and I’ll throw in a bonus.”
He sat with impeccable posture. His jet-black hair was slicked back. His bushy eyebrows formed a V. His deadpan eyes stared deeply into mine.
“Do we have ourselves a deal, Mr. Starr?”
I nodded nervously.
“Excellent. I’m expecting your best work.”
He stood up, towering over me, then nodded to the door.
I left.
Mary came rushing over. “You okay?”
I nodded, trying to avoid further questioning. I wanted to go home.
Dave piped in. “Jeez, you look like you’ve seen the devil.” He winked.
I couldn’t get home soon enough.
On the drive home, the local news was reporting yet another catastrophe. Apparently, a fire devastated the City Zoo, killing most of the animals. Pandemonium ensued, as protesters barricaded the premises, demanding animal rights.
Desperation doomed my heart. I cried the entire trip.
Morning arrived like an uninvited in-law. As I was sipping my coffee, set to throw my laundry into the machine, my computer started up. My heart spilled onto the floor. So did my coffee.
A text arrived:
Send score ASAP.
TS
…
Before I complete this assignment, I’ve decided to tell this story – as quickly as humanly possible – just in case something bad happens. Which it most certainly will.
Ugh. I couldn’t even finish this story. Something compelled me to write that damned jingle. So, I did. I laid down a sleazy, funk groove, similar to Herbie Hancock’s Head Hunters album. It didn’t require lyrics. Instead, I chose to recite the name of the club, over and over, making it unforgettable.
PentaScore scooped up my song, then added its special sauce.
Upon playback, my heart stopped. I fell from my chair, smashing my head on the desk in the process. I saw stars. Wearily, I dragged myself back up. You’d think I’d be used to this by now. But you’d be wrong.
My composition was as creepy as a Dickens’ story. Every note rubbed the wrong way. It sounded like Murder Music.
Another message arrived:
Got it!
Followed by another:
Your group is set to perform tonight. Same time. Special function. C U soon.
…
If something happens to Hotter Than Hell (which would please many residents, who’ve spent years trying to shut it down) please forgive me, it wasn’t my fault. Yes, Tony Sith is the devil. But he’s also my boss.
How do you say no to the devil?
My greatest fear is that something will happen to me and my bandmates tonight. We’ve never been asked to play a private party for Tony Sith. I don’t like this. I smell a rat.
I’ve just loaded my gear into the car. Certainly, this will be my final day on earth. So, I wish y’all well. May this be a lesson to you: Never work for the devil. No matter what it pays.
Because, let’s face it: Nothing is hotter than hell.