As the evening sun painted Brighton's Head South Café with hues of gold, the air was filled with an electric buzz of anticipation. The scouts from the label were stationed at a table, pints in hand, immersing themselves in the eclectic mix of sounds emanating from the stage.The usual chatter of clients was drowned out by the subtle hum of excitement, for tonight, the stage belonged to a newcomer - a young artist named Sigrún, hailing from the distant shores of Iceland.

As she stepped into the spotlight, a slender figure with cascading locks of blonde hair framed her face, giving her an ethereal aura. She wears a white dress with symbols looking like scandinavian runes. Sigrún stood poised before a synthesizer. Beside it, an 8-track mixer, ready to capture the essence of her music. Despite the cheers and exuberant cries from the audience, she exuded an air of serene focus.

The scouts, seated at their table, observed with intrigue. There was an undeniable magnetism to Sigrún, an enigmatic charm that held them in rapt attention. In the shadows, a drummer poised, sticks at the ready, and a guitarist, fingers poised on strings, awaited their cue.

With a voice like a gentle breeze over an icy fjord, Sigrún introduced herself, her accent carrying the essence of her homeland. "Hej, my name is Sigrún, we're happy to be here. This song is called 'The Border of the Icy Forest'." And with that, the room plunged into her world.

The crowd emitted a mix of cheers and screams, but Sigrún remained unfazed, her focus entirely on the upcoming performance.

With deft fingers, She began to strum her synthesizer, producing a basic yet entrancing piano rhythm. With one hand, she played, while the other operated the 8-track recorder. In a seamless dance of creation, she recorded the piano rhythm, weaving it into a loop that resonated through the air. The piano now danced on its own, guided by her previous touch.

Sigrún's voice, tender yet rich, repeated the words "Icy Forest," each note a brushstroke in an audio painting. She captured her vocals, layering them with the piano loop, creating a cascade of sound that enveloped the room. The scouts watched in awe, captivated by her unorthodox approach.

The composition unfolded a crescendo of emotion and intensity. The drums and electric guitar joined the symphony, their beats and chords merging with Sigrún's melodies. The room pulsed with the raw energy of her performance. Sigrún then moved with a mesmerizing grace, her body an extension of the music, executing a dance that seemed to channel the very essence of the Icy Forest.



Her song, a tale of escape and communion with nature, resonated deeply. A young girl's journey from urban confines to the solace of the cold woods, a narrative woven through notes and lyrics. The climax approached, and Sigrún's movements took on a convulsive energy, a raw expression of her connection to the music. The crowd, once silent witnesses, erupted in jubilant cheers, swept up in the unexpected spectacle.

The moment came when Sigrún released the loops from her 8-track, signaling the finale. The room erupted in applause, a chorus of approval that echoed off the walls.

Quentin MacEwen, Head of the Scouting Dept., approached with a smile that held genuine admiration. "Well done, dear, what instruments do you play?" he inquired, eager to delve into the artist's world.



"Guitar, 8-track, piano, mostly," Sigrún replied, her eyes sparkling with a love for her craft. "But I have a fondness for traditional instruments. I'm always eager to learn something new."

Curiosity sparked, the scout continued, "And that voice of yours, where did you find it?"

"I was in a choir, back in a little church in Iceland," Sigrún shared, a nostalgic warmth in her voice. "My mother always said I had a beautiful voice."

The scout adressed as smile. "Aye, I can well believe it. There's a certain magic in a mother's words, isn't there?"

As the conversation unfolded, the crowd's enthusiasm swelled, a collective plea echoing through the room. "Sign her! Sign her!" they chanted, a testament to the impact Sigrún had made.

With a gracious smile, Sigrún acknowledged the crowd, a newfound star in the Brighton scene. Her performance was more than a song; it was an experience, an invitation into a world where music transcended borders and touched souls. And on this night, Head South had borne witness to the birth of a new musical talent

Edited by user 14 October 2023 01:43:26(UTC)  | Reason: Not specified

The stage at the Head South Café was alive with a pulsating energy. The crowd, a sea of eager faces, leaned in, their eyes fixed on Jack Dunn, striding confidently towards the microphone.

Quentin McEwen, the Head of Scouting, perched at a corner table, his eyes twinkling with a mix of wisdom and mischief. He raised his pint of lager in silent salute, a knowing smile gracing his lips.



Jack's voice cut through the chatter, commanding the room's attention. "Now, they said I’m only supposed to perform one original song as part of the audition. But it’s a bit of a piss take for you to all come down here at short notice just for one song." The crowd roared in agreement. "And well, I’ve never really been one for rules. Even if it means fucking up this one shot at a record deal with this label. But fuck it, they never said anything about cover songs. Are you lads and lasses ready to fucking go!" Quentin turned to his colleagues, an air of bafflement cloaking his usually composed demeanor. "Does anyone else know about this 'one song' rule?" he inquired, his voice dripping with a touch of incredulity.

The scouts exchanged puzzled glances, each shaking their heads in tandem. It seemed this peculiar stipulation had eluded even their eagle-eyed attention. A ripple of bemusement spread through the group, the Head of Scouting's bemused expression mirrored on the faces of his confounded compatriots. With a theatrical flourish, Quentin raised his glass once more, a glint of mischief dancing in his eye. "Oh anyway... fuck the rules, that's the essence of rock n'roll" he declared, his voice carrying a weight of authority that belied the playful twinkle in his eye.

With that, the first chords reverberated, filling the room with a raw sound. Jack Dunn started with Neil Young's "The Needle and the Damage Done" with a fervor that practically crackled in the air. His rendition was a visceral onslaught of sound, a fierce reimagining of a classic. The crowd, could hardly contain their enthusiasm.

But Quentin MacEwen, ever the discerning critic, watched with a furrowed brow. When the first notes echoed, he turned to his colleagues with a wry twist of his lips. "Oh, Neil Young... Bad point for him," he mused, his tone measured and cool.

"Come on, Q! You can't shit on Neil Young, it's fuckin' Classic!" Dave interjected, a note of protest in his voice. The reverence for the legendary artist was evident in his defense.

"Pure classic shit, in my humble opinion, Dave... but the kid is great," Quentin replied, his words laced with a hint of grudging admiration. It was a compliment to Jack's undeniable talent, even if the choice of cover had raised an eyebrow or two. The debate raged on, each member of the scouting team offering their own take on Neil Young. Bruce, another colleague chimed in, praising Young's timeless ballad, "Heart of Gold."

"Ah, 'Heart of Gold,'" Quentin sighed, a sly smile playing at the corners of his lips. "That ranks five on my top five list of the most annoying songs ever... right after four by Adele... oh, and by the way, I hate harmonica." Dave, undeterred, leaned forward with a glint of mischief in his eye. "What about 'Harvest Moon'?" he proposed, a touch of mischief in his tone. Quentin, however, was nearing the limits of his patience. He cast a pointed glance at Dave, a subtle plea for the conversation to veer back towards the night's main attraction. "Ok, are we here for Jack Dunn? Or this f... Neil Young?" he sighed, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. "

Jack Dunn, approached the microphone, his hands gently grazing its metallic surface. "Fuckin’ hell, it’s canny warm in here like," he remarked, a grin playing on his lips as he surveyed the animated crowd. "How you lot doing? Are you’s having fun, so far?"



The room erupted into cheers and applause, the fervor of the audience matched only by the fire in Jack's eyes. At the scout table, Dave couldn't contain his enthusiasm. He surged upward, standing atop his chair like a zealot on a pulpit, and bellowed, "YEAAAAAH! Everybody loves Neil Young!!!" His declaration reverberated through the room. Meanwhile, Quentin's head bowed into his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. He whispered to himself, "Dave .... you're embarrassing yourself..." The contrast between the unbridled fervor of Dave and Quentin's composed restraint was a real comedy scene.

On the stage, Jack Dunn announced a second song.
Quentin's usually composed demeanor seemed frayed at the edges. He couldn't contain himself any longer. "Okay, the one song rule is officially dead now," he declared, his voice edged with a hint of exasperation.

Bruce (another member of the Scouting team), ever the voice of reason, shook his head vehemently. "There's no such rule!!!" he protested, adamant in his disbelief. "Who knows!?!?" Quentin retorted, his patience wearing thin. Then, a spark of recognition flickered in Quentin's eyes. "What did he say? The Clash? Wooooh! The Clash!!!" he exclaimed, his voice rising with excitement. The sheer mention of the legendary band seemed to reignite a dormant fire within him.



In a swift, theatrical motion, Quentin rose from his seat, standing tall. He cheered for Jack Dunn with unbridled enthusiasm, his exuberance infectious. His colleagues watched with amusement, their own smiles mirroring the uncontainable zeal of the Head of Scouting. It was a pure moment of joy, and rebellion shared with the audience.

As the song drew to a close, Quentin settled back into his seat, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Reminds me of my childhood," he mused, his eyes distant with memories of a time when rebellion reigned over his teenage years. Bruce, never one to miss an opportunity for a jest, couldn't resist needling Quentin. "Have you ever been punk, Q? How old were you in 1979? 40 years old?" he teased, a playful glint in his eye. A shadow passed over Quentin's features, a hint of mock-offense. He shot Bruce a dark glance, the edge of his mouth quirking in a wry smile. It was a familiar dance, this banter between colleagues, a camaraderie built on years of shared passion for music. "Fuck off, Bruce...".



An obvious consensus settled over the scouting team. There was no denying Jack Dunn's magnetic presence, his raw talent and boundless energy. It was unanimous: the label would be wise to sign this young artist. They also found common ground in their assessment of the impromptu rebellion against the potential "one song rule." It was quintessentially Clash-like, an audacious act that resonated with the spirit of punk rock. The shared opinion was that Jack Dunn was the kind of artist who can definitely defy convention.

Jack Dunn, sweat-drenched and fueled by the energy of the moment, took a moment to catch his breath. The cacophony of applause gradually subsided, leaving a charged silence in its wake. He leaned into the microphone, his voice steady and unassuming.

"This is an original song," he announced, his words carrying a quiet confidence. "It’s called 'Lowlife.' Let’s go!" The anticipation in the room surged like a wave, a palpable electricity that pulsed through the scouting team. They leaned forward, their eyes fixed on the stage, eager to witness the unveiling of Jack's own creation. This was the moment they had been waiting for, the true test of his talent and potential.

As the first chords of "Lowlife" reverberated through the venue, the crowd swayed subtly to the music, allowing themselves to be swept away by the emotional currents of the song. The scouting team listened intently, their expressions a mix of concentration and appreciation. They recognized that in this song, Jack Dunn had bared a piece of himself, laying his vulnerabilities and truths bare for all to see. Despite the miles that stretched between the venue and Jack's hometown, there was a universality to the song's message. Its sentiments seemed to transcend geographic boundaries, touching the hearts of those in the South of the country just as profoundly. They were drawn into the vivid imagery that Jack painted with his words, finding echoes of their own experiences. It was a powerful moment, and Quentin, Bruce and Dave distinguished the potential that pulsed within him.

The scouting team exchanged knowing glances. It was clear that Jack Dunn was a rare find, a diamond in the rough, and the Head South label would be fortunate to have him as part of their roster.

But it was in the final crescendo of the track that Jack truly seized the moment. His words were a defiant roar against a system that had forsaken his corner of the world. He laid bare the injustices, the neglect, and the systemic failures that had long plagued his community. The cheers and applause that erupted were a thunderous declaration of solidarity. It didn't matter that many in the audience might come from different backgrounds and experiences. The sentiment, the underlying frustration at a system that too often overlooked the voices of the marginalized, struck a resonant chord with them all.

Quentin, Dave, and Bruce couldn't help themselves; they stood on their seats, swept up in the fervor of the moment. The crowd's collective plea rang out: "Sign him! Sign him!". The three scouts exchanged a few knowing glances, their shared enthusiasm unspoken but palpable. Quentin's voice cut through the din, his conviction unwavering. "He's good! We should get him," he declared, a hint of excitement tingling in his words. "Absolutely," Dave affirmed, his eyes alight with the same fervor. They were in unanimous agreement.

After the show, Quentin made his way to the stage, the crowd parting to make way for him. There was a palpable tension and anticipation in the air. On one side, there were those who watched from a distance, trying to discern the outcome of this pivotal moment. On the other, a crowd had already made a beeline for the bar.

Quentin ascended the stage with a dignified stride, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. He approached Jack with a warm smile, extending his hand in greeting. "Good job, son. I'm Quentin, Head of the Scouting Department," he introduced himself, his voice carrying a reassuring warmth.

He could sense the weight of the moment on Jack's shoulders, the anticipation that hung in the air. Quentin sought to put him at ease, to let him know that this was a moment of celebration, not just for Jack, but for Head South as well. "I wanted to let you know that our legal department has confirmed that there was no 'one song rule'," he reassured, his words carrying the weight of official confirmation.



As Jack absorbed this news, Quentin continued, his tone filled with genuine admiration. "I must say, I thoroughly enjoyed the show. The punk energy, the stage presence, the anger... especially the anger palpable in your own composition....your authenticity. It's something special, something that resonated deeply with everyone here tonight."

Quentin's next words carried a weight of significance, a proclamation that held the potential to alter the course of Jack's career. "I would be delighted to offer you a contract, Jack. Head South would be proud to stand by your side throughout your career. We believe in your talent, in the fire that burns within you. "

In that moment, Jack Dunn from North East England, stood at the edge of a new chapter in his musical journey. And Quentin, with his eccentric attire and discerning eye, was poised to welcome him into the fold of Head South.

Edited by user 30 October 2023 02:24:40(UTC)  | Reason: Not specified

Again, the Head South Café stage was crowded that friday, as the spotlight focused on Dany Sheen, an English "troubadour" from Yorkshire. The crowd was excited with the promise of a buzzing, emerging talent, and tonight, Dany was set to unveil one of his songs to the discerning ears of Head South label scouts.

Dany, with an acoustic guitar in hand, confidently took center stage and addressed the crowd, his voice laced with gratitude. "Hi, my name is Dany Sheen, and I can't believe I'm here, in front of the coolest audience ever." The crowd erupted in cheers, a wave of enthusiasm washing over the venue. Meanwhile, at the label scouts' table, Quentin McEwen, the Head of Scouting, couldn't help but squirm in his eccentric English style.



Quentin leaned over to his colleagues with a disapproving frown. "I hate when artists use superlatives," he muttered to Dave and Bruce, his trusty sidekicks, as they sipped pints of lager. They both nodded in approval.

As Dany continued to engage the audience, he revealed the origins of his composition. "I composed this one when I was singing in the streets... maybe you heard it on YouTube?" The mention of self-promotion on the stage seemed to rub Quentin the wrong way. He leaned back, a look of disbelief etched across his face. "And before I continue, don't forget to smash that like button and subscribe to my YouTube channel for more exclusive content!"

Quentin: (muttering to his colleagues) "Good heavens, what sacrilege is this? A musical performance turned into a shameless plug for a YouTube channel! Such an absurdity."

Bruce: (raising an eyebrow) "Seems like everyone's a marketer these days, even on the stage."

Quentin: "The stage is sacred ground, not a marketplace for self-promotion. It's as if Mozart paused during a concerto to hand out business cards for his piano lessons. Utterly crass."

The crowd seemed unfazed, captivated by Dany and his song, blissfully unaware of the brewing storm at the label scouts' table. His fingers skillfuly danced on the strings. However, Quentin's fixation on the artist intensified, overshadowing the brilliance of Dany's guitar technique.

As the enchanting melody filled the air, Bruce leaned in, observing Quentin's scowl. "I know this look," Bruce remarked, a hint of concern in his voice. Quentin, caught off guard, replied, "What? Which look?" Bruce, with a knowing smile, said, "You don't like him, do you?"

The trio at the scouts' table engaged in a subtle exchange. Dave, nonchalantly finishing his pint, cut to the chase. "It's because of YouTube, innit?" Quentin replied: "Ah, dear Dave, I'm not entirely oblivious to the digital Era and all this...cybernetic cacophony .... it seems every sprightly minstrels employ it in their grand quest for notoriety!"

Dave, feigning surprise, chuckled, "Ah, ok... it's just... I wasn't sure you knew what YouTube was." Bruce joked : " it's a bit like youporn, Q.... but without porn and many tutorials....".

Quentin: "You....what?"

Then, Quentin, unyielding in his disapproval, labeled Dany as arrogant. Dave argued for authenticity, emphasizing Dany's solitary presence on stage with his guitar. "That's bullshit!!!" Quentin retorted, claiming that arrogance hid behind Dany's facade of authenticity. The conversation took a turn when Dave brought up Jack Dunn, another lone guitarist. Quentin, already on edge, exploded, highlighting the perceived difference between Jack's rage-fueled artistry and what he deemed as Dany's self-promotion.

Bruce attempted to calm the storm, reminding Quentin of his role as the head of the Scouting Department. Tensions escalated as Dany crooned, "You and meeeee dancing in the daaaark." Quentin, unable to contain himself any longer, stood up violently, causing Bruce's pint to topple. In a fit of rage, he bellowed, "Get off!!! You're insulting music!!!!" Dany, still onstage, couldn't identify the source of the outburst but pressed on until the end of his song.

Bruce, apologetically, declared that he would personally inform Dany that the label had no interest in signing him. Quentin, determined to make his point, insisted on confronting Dany himself. Dave and Bruce, concerned about Quentin's volatile demeanor, reluctantly allowed him to approach the stage, urging him to remain composed.

Quentin, strided onto the stage as Dany was concluding his performance.

Quentin: (With a dramatic tone) Ah, Dany Sheen, you're a maestro, I must admit. (Pauses and adjusts his bowtie) However, my dear lad, I'm afraid Head South won't find room for your particular talent.



Dany: (Looking puzzled) What do you mean?

Quentin: (Waving a hand theatrically) Oh, my boy, it's not about your nimble fingers on those frets, or the lyrical poetry you've spun. No, no, no. It's the essence, the aura, the elusive melody that dances in the air.

Dany: (Baffled) I thought you enjoyed the performance.

Quentin: (With a wistful sigh) Enjoyed, indeed. But, you see, Head South seeks a different dance partner. A tango with rebellion, a waltz with authenticity, and your serenade, while charming, sways to a different rhythm.

Dany: (In disbelief) You can't be serious.

Quentin: (Dramatically placing a hand on his heart) Dead serious, my dear Dany. The label, you see, is like a demanding lover, and tonight, our hearts did not syncopate.



Dany: (Frowning) What's wrong with my music?

Quentin: (Pacing with flair) Nothing, my dear chap, nothing at all. But Head South craves the tempest, the thunderstorm that rattles the windows and leaves you breathless. Your melody, while a gentle rain, doesn't stir the soul in quite the desired manner.

Dany: (Deflated) So, that's it then?

Quentin: (Bowing dramatically) Alas, the final curtain descends. Fear not, Dany Sheen, for the world is vast, and there are stages yet to conquer. Your ballad may find its symphony elsewhere...

Quentin exits the stage, leaving Dany standing alone, grappling with the crescendo of disappointment that echoes through the Head South Café.

Edited by user 14 December 2023 17:02:29(UTC)  | Reason: Not specified

Erica: um...are we breaking the fourth wall? I'm not sure if these were televised.

Nina:no clue,love . In any case,maybe it'll be found charming.

Erica:*nods* right. Anyway,i love that Quentin guy. He's so...... British. Like. You just know he drives an old Jaguar and calls it a "motor car".

Nina: and you can't even bag on him for it, because somehow he pulls it off.

Chloe: but...you drive an old Jaguar,Nina.

Nina: shut.the.fuck.up,,chloe. I drive it ironically.

Erica: shoo. You can't break the fourth wall with us.

Erica: how do we do fourth wall breaks? It's super easy. With the march towards more and more deregulation these walls are barely able to handle a strong fart.

Nina: just gotta believe in yourself,love. Stiff upper lip and all that.

Erica: fucking feel for you guys though. We held auditions for a new bassist and it was awful. I hate rejecting people..but wow.

Lydia:*shrugs* I think most people just assumed that the harlots don't really do much and sort of coast by on name recognition alone.

Erica:*narrows eyes at Lydia* you're still the new girl, tread carefully.

Nina: right, Quentin old bean. I'd totally challenge you to a race,I've got an old 70s xj but...... jaguar races are one of the most unpunk things ever.