Grimm Truths: He Who Pays the Piper...

No autographs! No photographs! Look, let's just say graphs of any kind are out of the question.

So, which one are you from, then? "Rhythm Wand Weekly"? That a new one?  Yeah, thought so. What segment? You what? Did you just say "Happily Ever After"? Oh, right, I see - you put it as a question. If it was or it wasn't, like. Well, have a seat, put your tape recorder on - I haven't got all day.

The name's Myron. As if you didn't know. A few years ago, I'd be mentioned on the radio at least once every hour. Well, we would be. My group.

"Hamelin", we called ourselves. Just the four of us to start out with. Me on lead vocals, Marky on the drums, Rikki on electric guitar and Luca over on the keyboards. Nothing special, really - just mates from college jamming together and dreaming of the big time.

We liked music in each of its many forms and gave all kinds of style a go. To be perfectly honest, we had to. We didn't get much work in those days. If a gig came our way, then we took it, no questions asked. The guys played whatever the punters wanted - you had to be ready for anything.

It was a rocky start, for sure. I've seen cliffs that were smoother. For the first few years of our career, the four of us lived in an apartment above the local pub, "The Crown and Cobbles." Looking back, I'd have rather played prison gigs and stayed locked up in the cells overnight.

Sleep was a privilege – the noise from downstairs could've drowned out an air raid some nights. That's if we weren't woken up by the bailiffs beating down out of the door every five minutes.

We didn't have enough cash to pay the rent which Joey, the pub's landlord, so desperately needed. So, when the bailiffs came to him, the only way he could explain himself was by sending them on to us. "Gas bill" this, "water rates" that, "pay NOW or we'll break both of your legs" the other. Like vermin, they were. Ugly, unwanted creeps popping up out of the woodwork day and night... a plague sent upon us for daring to live our dreams.

Of course, as the group's founder and frontman, I took care of the financial side of things. I had a hierarchy of actions. I'd start off by politely explaining our lack of funds, and from there it went all the way up to threatening to set the dog on them if they didn't get out. The "dog" was actually Rikki doing a very good impression of a Rottweiler in the next room, but seven-and-a-half times out of ten it worked a treat.

We didn't feel guilty. The prices those scumbags were charging us were practically extortion. A Health Inspector would've closed our flat down, and we'd have had more space if we were living in a cardboard box.

We often played gigs downstairs in the pub. Joey would give us a free meal and some drinks, as well as a bit of cash towards the bills. He admired us for doing what we believed in, even though we were the worst tenants any landlord could have. The regulars would watch the show and give us a few rounds of applause - if they were still sober enough to pay attention, that is. If they'd had one too many, they'd hurl abuse – and sometimes bottles – at us mid-song. "Happy Hour" was clearly a description of events from their perspective, not ours.

Oi, are you listening to this? The exposition's a vital part of all this, you know! Oh, all right, then, I'll cut to the chase. It's obvious that you only came here to talk about one man.

Gabriel Piper.

We met him one night after playing a set at "The Crown and Cobbles". We'd spotted him earlier, looking at us from the back of the room. He'd watched our little show with interest… admiration, some might say. Scrawny fellow, he was. Looked like he was in a worse state than us.

After we'd finished, the guys and I wandered over to the bar for a pint or five. That's when he came up to us, dragging his instrument case behind him.

He said he was a music student up at the local university. Played saxophone, mostly, but knew a bit of clarinet, as well. His room in the accommodation halls sounded worse than our place, which until then didn't seem possible outside of Hell. We all talked for a while, told a few jokes, had a few drinks… and then, he asked the big question.

"So, are you guys looking for a fifth player?"

The laughter stopped dead. This had clearly hit a sore point with the other four. They all told him where he could go and stick his saxophone… and they weren't talking in terms of feng shui, either.  But, at the end of the day, I was the group leader and it was my view that counted the most. I decided to hear the guy out. After all, if he was studying for a music degree, then he must have some skill, right?

"I see you've got your saxophone with you," I said, looking at the instrument case that was currently acting as a fire hazard in the middle of the floor. "Go on, then. Show us what you can do."

So he did. And trust me, that man could play. Everyone in that bar room, regardless of their intoxication level, shut up and listened to him, threatening to punch the lights out of anyone who dared to interrupt. He played some jazzy number, but we couldn't have cared less if it was "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." When Gabriel Piper played, you had to listen. You couldn't have ignored him if your life depended on it.

Once he'd finished, he smiled at us weakly, almost embarrassed by his ability. He cleared his throat, and asked us, quietly:

"So, what do you think?"

We couldn't answer him, since our jaws were still halfway to the floor.

The four of us looked at each other, shocked to the core. No one had to say a word: the song had spoken for itself.

Gabriel – or "Piper", as he preferred to be called – was welcomed into Hamelin with open arms. Due to the lack of space in our humble abode, Piper ended up living out most of his life on our sofa. Yet, if you'd seen how grateful he was, you'd have sworn that he was staying in a suite at the Ritz. We could've fed the man bread and water and he'd have treated it like caviar and champagne.

Piper was different from the rest of us, in many ways. We liked to be loud and let the world know we were here. He was quiet and more withdrawn, and didn't seem interested in taking up too much of the spotlight… which suited me just fine.

We let Piper join in on a few numbers at our next gig. We gave him a little more to do as time went by – we wanted to induct him slowly. After all, Hamelin had been around for years before he came along. Why should he get all the glory straight away? I was probably the kindest to him out of all of us. I'd sing to backing tracks performed by him and him alone. But, as the weeks and the gigs went by, I began to notice something.

It didn't matter how much or how little Piper played: when sound came out of his saxophone, all eyes and ears would be on him. He could be hidden in shadow at the back of the stage while I stood up front in clear view singing my heart out over his tune, but it didn't make a blind bit of difference. The people would look right past me – right through me, almost – and watch Piper, his head timidly bowed as he played. It was him they came to see. Some nights, when I saw the effect that his music had on the crowd, I could've sworn that the man was a sorcerer.

Tales about the band began to spread. More tickets were sold. The venues got bigger… and so did the pay cheques. Contracts were signed. Songs were recorded. We moved up in the world, moved up in the charts, and moved out of our disgraceful apartment. We gave Joey the equivalent of three years' rent as a goodbye present, with a little extra on top as compensation for all the trouble we'd caused him. The bailiffs had been repaid. They let out their squeaks of defeat and crawled back into their holes.

Such was our new-found fame that a following of fans began to form. (Trying saying that ten times fast!) These fans were women of various ages – from ladies in their early twenties all the way up to those in their twilight years. They called themselves the "Hamlettes" and they'd be there at every show, dressed in our official T-shirts, waving hand-made posters and screaming out their affections from the front row.

Hamelin liked the high life. Interviews, photoshoots, merchandise… we felt like we deserved it after so many years of toil. We bought ourselves a private villa at some sunny tropical resort, and stayed there in between tours. Rikki enjoyed the local bar scene, and often found himself in fights with the local paparazzi. Marky and Luca flashed their cash, dressing in the latest designer labels and driving top-of-the-range cars… or else hiring chauffeurs to drive them around for them. As the group's main man and main attraction (come on, let's face it, I was… I am… the best looking of the bunch), I did more than my fair share of the two.

And yet, while we had the time of our lives, Piper still stayed out of the limelight. He spent all of his time rehearsing and planning gigs: basically, doing all of the boring stuff that us four… the original four, I'd like to add… couldn't be bothered doing.

I can still remember the day it all started to go downhill. It turned out Piper wasn't as reserved as I'd thought. He had a voice, and he had a growing urge to use it.

I was lounging around by the pool one morning, a cocktail in one hand, musing upon the wonderful madness the guys and I had caused downtown the previous night. Then I realised a shadow was blocking out the sun, and I heard a voice piping up from out of nowhere.

"Myron?"

I pulled my sunglasses down and looked up, annoyed.

"What? Oh, Piper, it's you. What do you want?"

He paused for a moment, drew in a quick breath, and told all.

"You – you know how we've got that big tour coming up? The "If You Don't See Us Play, You Will Die Unfulfilled" Tour?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"Well, I – I was just wondering if I could, maybe… play the odd solo now and again? Perhaps just once, twice a night?

"You what?! " I shrieked.

"I just thought, that, you know, seeing how my playing got Hamelin noticed in the first place..."

"How dare you!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I sprang to my feet. It was taking all my strength and all my patience just to stop me from beating the man down to the ground. Piper had the common sense to step back as I squared up to him.

"I think you'll find," I hissed, "that I'm the one who let you join Hamelin in the first place. I started the group. I'm the main man. You can't just blag your way into our band, then demand better treatment than the rest of us!"

A wall would've looked less blank than the expression on Piper's face.

"But I've earned it," he replied. His voice was cold and emotionless – it was obvious that he was trying to lay down the law. I could tell he wasn't going to back down on this.

"Look," I told him, trying not to shout with rage, "It's not like you were originally one of us. You may have your fancy music degree, but we've been through all the blood, sweat and tears that real musicians need to go through. Face it - you'd be nothing without us… without me. So either be grateful for what you have or get lost!"

He glared at me, then did a half-turn and stormed off. Straight away, I knew I'd gone a bit too far.

I tried to talk to Piper that night and apologise, but he'd locked himself up in his room. Every time I knocked on his door, he'd yell back that he was busy – talking on the phone. I doubted it. I mean, how anyone could be on the phone five hours straight was a mystery to me.

A few weeks passed. Piper just hung around the villa by himself and wouldn't talk to any of us. Whenever I went up to him, he stared at me with a gaze that made my blood run cold, then pushed straight past me and walked away. I was worried – not about Piper himself, but about our upcoming gigs. If Piper wouldn't play the songs with us, we'd be finished.

The first night of the tour came around: a massive arena in some capital city. 25,000 seats, totally sold out. Piper still hadn't spoken to me since the fight. I spotted him waiting in the wings that night, getting ready to go on. I took a deep breath, smiled as wide as I could, then walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and glared at me angrily, but I kept on smiling.

"Look, Piper," I said, "I'm sorry about what I said all those weeks ago. You're just as much a part of Hamelin as any of us. I've been thinking about what you asked, and, well… I've decided you can play a solo, right after the third song. Is that all right with you?"

At first, he looked back at me, confused, but then he smiled.

"That's just fine," he replied, sounding confident.

I didn't notice it at the time, but his smile had a sinister look to it, almost as if he was gloating about this little victory. Like I said, I didn't realise back then - I was just glad to have made peace with him.

We went on and played our greatest hits to the cheering crowd. It was the best feeling in the world – as if I was living in a dream. I'd never known a rush like it before. I didn't want it to end for a very long time. How wistful that statement sounds now!

Three songs flew by, and as the applause slowly died down, I nodded towards Piper: a signal to tell him that this was his moment. He smiled back, and took centre stage, a spotlight shining down from the rafters.

He began to play. The crowd watched, adoring and spellbound. From the shadows, I looked at Piper. I was glad that I'd done as he'd asked – I supposed he did deserve a little appreciation.

But then things changed.

Two minutes into the solo, Piper jumped down from the stage. Everyone panicked at first, thinking he had fallen, but then we saw him walking away through the crowd, still playing his tune. The guys and I exchanged glances, then as one man, we scowled at Piper.

He was walking out on us. He was going to leave us, a band minus one member, with a crowd of impatient fans which we had to keep entertained.

Or so we thought.

As Piper walked away, the fans all followed. Before my very eyes, 25,000 people left that arena, hypnotised by the saxophone's song. The Hamlettes were at the front of the pack, willing to follow Piper to the ends of the earth.

We stared in shock for a few moments, gazing at the size of the empty arena. Then, once we fully realised what had happened, Rikki, Marky, Luca and myself raced out into the street. We had to get the fans back. Without the fans, there would no fame. No money. There was no way we were going back to our old lives. We didn't want to live like that again.

We saw the crowd – to our eyes, a large group of different-coloured dots – being lead up into the hills. We saw the lights. The makeshift stage. It was an outdoor music festival with only one act. Piper's name was written on top of the stage, in letters taller than most houses.

He'd planned this all along. He had been on the phone that day - finding a new manager, arranging a new contract, planning his first performance. I'd ignored his talent, so he'd set himself up to go solo… and I'd foolishly given him the means to carry out his scheme.

The only fan still close enough for us to talk to was an elderly Hamlette, struggling to hobble along with her walking frame. We rushed up to her, unable to believe what had happened.

"Why are you following Piper?" I asked her. "Don't you want to see the rest of our show?"

"Are you crazy?" she replied. "That young man's a talented musician. Do you know what you four are in comparison with him?"

"What?"

"Awful!"
           
She kept on walking. We let her. We knew it was all over. Piper had won. As the others headed back into the arena, I stayed outside and gazed up at the hillside show.

I'm not an emotional man, but deep down inside, I wanted to cry. This was all my fault. If I given Piper the inch he had asked for, perhaps he wouldn't have taken the mile.

In his new-found solo career, Gabriel Piper thrived. He topped the charts and appeared in every music magazine known to man. Our old fans stayed with him. (They renamed themselves the "Pipettes", would you believe!) The interviews, the photoshoots, the merchandise… they were all his now, and he didn't have to play backing tracks for anybody.

Hamelin tried to carry on, but it didn't work without Piper. Our albums flopped. Our shows – small gigs in bars and pubs – remained half-empty, and most of those who did watch were just in there at the time.

Three months later, we put down our instruments, and left them to gather dust.

So, there's your feature. I expect you'll be going up to Gabriel's mansion now to get his side of the story… the amazing tale of his rise to fame. Well, I hope you mention the man who got him there.

Now, if you excuse me, I have to go. After all, that supermarket won't open itself.