|From: Harry Lopez
To: Marshall Morgan
Thanks for lunch, thanks for the green light, and
you want something in writing. Look, this is not a pitch. I don't do
pitches. I want to tell you a story. Have patience if I ramble.
In the beginning there was the crash, (which is my Big Bang, I cannot
know what was before). Over here, our problems were and remain plain
old economic. Anyone over twenty five thinks the price of gas is a crime
against humanity, and poor people try to
club you to death as you scurry from your cab into the airport. In Western
Europe it went into a runaway chain reaction. They had penniless crash
victims, mom and pop types included, hordes of them, turned nomadic,
wandering around like lemmings. They had the anti-capitalist, anti-GM,
pro-Gaia, pro-paganism, magic-murky, Save Our Planet thing growing into
a monster volk movement: shaping up to be the green nazis. They had
lootin' and a shootin' and mad dog migrants from the poisoned lands.
Governments fell. Armed forces and teachers and other useful persons
just upped and quit. That's the bgd.
Then the story begins. It's the story of the man who would be king.
He's called Ax Preston. He was recruited, along with several other rather
amazing people, to what the British government called their Countercultural
Think Tank. He was a guitarist, at the time, with a chipper little band
called the Chosen Few from Taunton, Somerset (=deep in the sticks).
He was twenty six. Next thing you know there was a blood-spattered coup,
a veritable massacre in one of the royal parks, and Ax and his pals
were hostages of the deranged hippie
regime that had taken over England. They were kid rock musicians. One
minute they were dreaming of a record deal, next thing, they were doused
in the blood of revolution. But they were patriots. Ax told them they
could use the music, and turn the awful situation round. And they did
it! The catalogue of disasters that they beat would be unbelievable
except it was all part of the same thing: collapse of the card house.
It took Ax two years. When he was twenty eight he was the ruler of England,
by the will of the people. I want to tell the story of how that happened.
Ax Preston is a phenomenon of our times. I want to show him making hedonism
and free will work, in a tsunami of brutish violence. But what makes
it Fabulous is that it was all done with the music.
Ax would be king: but there's more. There's Fiorinda, the scary-smart
babe-rocker with the abusive megastar dad. There's Sage Pender, aka
Aoxomoxoa, who needs no introduction. (Okay, you twisted my arm: introducing
Sage. He's the demon techno whose very existence irradiated my youth.
He's regarded as the Antichrist, in many parts of the USA. He invented
immersion code. He's God, in my opinion). There's the relationship between
these three, which
is very slippery. Suffice it to say, the guys compete like wolverines
disputing a kill, they share the girl and that's not all they share.
I love it when beautiful guys love each other passionately, but they're
not gay (this is not a proposition, btb). It's very rock and roll, very
glamorous and it gives me an immense Jungian thrill, a masculine romance
with girls in it.
And with guitar!
No, we're not going to go into what happened to them last summer. Nor
what's happening in England now. I want to end on a note of valedictory
glory, a triumph that foreknows its fall, a sense that great deeds are
evanescent as a dream, and that's the way greatness should be. The Japanese
have a word for it, Bushido. Ax's England blossomed and died, it was
brief and perfect.
I'm sending you Unmasked,
and Yellow Girl, and Sweet
Track, Ax's only solo album, and not easy to get, even
tho' the fucking data quarantine has supposedly given up trying to isolate
us from European
Revolutionary Culture. (I've sent them, they're on this letter, just
press and play). You also have to hear the Aoxomoxoa and the Heads mix
of 'Little Wing', which came
about because one day Sage said to Ax, the reason why Jimi Hendrix is
not revered like Beethoven, is because the mass market has to be turned
on to something or it doesn't survive, and you can't dance to 'Little
Wing'. It is BLAZING. It explains our whole global culture.
Please Marsh, let me make this movie in style, no scrimping, c'mon,
c'mon. It's surefire, fantastically good looking, and the best idea
I ever had.
Yours, most respectfully and sincerely,
Enrico Ernesto Fortunato Curtis-Lopez de la Concha
From: Harry Lopez
To: Marshall Morgan
It's not a problem. I know he hasn't returned a call since he resigned.
I'm onto it. I can get hold of him. Don't ask me how, because I can't
tell you, just trust me. Mr Preston is coming to Hollywood. It can be
done, it will be done. I have an offer he can't refuse, right here in