The Punk Composer (prog/punk fanfiction)

Career Opportunities

Eleanor's knees trembled in emotion and her head started spinning numbly, as her all time greatest music hero stood right a few feet apart from her: Keith Emerson.
She was about to fall down in overwhelming, but one of her musicians was right beside her and held her by the arm just in time.
Her heart raced so fast that she could feel her own ears pumping.
That'd been as magnificent as much as unexpected.
She'd daydreamt for long years about meeting him, and now that she was there, it felt atleast ten times as mesmerizing as it'd always been in her head. But unlike it happened in her imagination, right there, she couldn't find the words to say.
"Tell me I'm not dreaming… please…" she gasped, pinching her skin to make sure that was all real.
The blonde keyboardist chuckled in a friendly smile and took a few steps closer to her. He didn't look as fresh and slim as he was back when she saw him the first time, in 1970, although his blue, big eyes still were as youthful as ever. And so his smile.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you… do I look that frightening?" he joked, trying to make her feel at ease.
"N-no no Keith, I mean Mr Emerson, it's just… I..." she stammered in embarassment, still processing all what was happening right there.
"Please, call me Keith… I've still got the brain of a child" he laughed, patting her shoulder.
Eleanor remained quiet for one moment, to spot Henry smirking from the other side of the room. 
"H-hey Henry! You didn't warn me... about…" she rised her voice, to catch the manager's attention.
"How could I? You see what your reaction's been, better not have you faint before a performance, right?" he giggled, teasing her.
Before she could hazard one more reply, the short keyboardist extended his hand at her.
"Anyway: beautiful performance… It's a pleasure to finally get to meet you in person, Eleanor…" 
His voice got so calming all of a sudden, enough to cool her down a bit.
She looked at that thick hand, which was unusually big to belong to someone his size, and held it in a formal way, whilst looking into those sea-blue eyes that could immediately pierce her soul… just like his music had been doing for one decade now.
"The honour is mine, Eme - Keith… you, you mean so much to me, and you changed my life, I want you to know this, you…" she let out all of a sudden, releasing that tension at once… even in her eyes, which were slowly getting watery in emotion.
"Oh, Eleanor…" he smiled compassionately, before pulling her in for a hug.
A hug. From Keith Emerson. A hug from the most influential person in her life, from her music hero - her hero, from the person thanks whom she was where she wanted to be, now.
She sank in his embrace and felt a kind of warmth she'd never felt before; that warmth wasn't wrapping her heart, her feelings…
… this time, it was a matter of soul: that warmth was wrapping her spirit.
It was embracing Eleanor O'Connor as the person she'd always been, as if it was about an energy that'd always been part of her, and that couldn't be otherwise.
It wasn't like hugging a relative, not even a boyfriend; in that moment, it felt like she was embracing her own self… Because yes, in a way, Keith'd always been a part of her.
Keith had always indirectly rapresented her passion, her dedication, her fierceness, her genuine love for music, her hopes… her purpose in life. 
In that moment, she was hugging all those qualities, embodied in that blonde keyboardist who'd always been a guidance for her.
She let a teardrop fall on his leather clad shoulder. This time, a tear of happiness.
It'd been too long since she'd last cried of pure happiness… maybe because it'd been years since she last felt that genuinely happy. 
The same sensation she had when, not by chance, she walked out of the Lyceum after seeing Emerson live for the second time: that fatal day of december 1970, when she finally realised what she wanted to do from then on - what she wanted from life. 
Certainly not being misused, like it'd happened with many other men; she wanted that sparkle of hope and strength that only music'd ever been able to give her - and consequentially, Emerson too.
"Thank you" she whispered in his ear, as her mouth was still stuck against his perfecto. 
"No..." he shook his head in a smile, detaching from that hug to look at her in the eyes "... it's me to have to thank you, Miss O'Connor"
"Eleanor, please, I'm just twenty-two, and..." she blushed.
"Yes, twenty-two... but much wiser than that. Surely, way more than I was at your age..." he chuckled.
"Don't say that, you conceived incredible things..."
"Didn't you too?" he contested in a frown.
"Not without you... without you I'd not be here and I mean it, Keith..."
The blonde man took a seat and sighed.
"I reckon not. So many people - musicians have grown up with ELP's music, but not all of them turnt out to be like you, can't prove me wrong here" he pointed out, taking an half burnt cigar from a paper box. 
"To be like me... which means?"
"Passionate. Authentic. Thought. Meaningful. Dedicated. Creative... but most of all: free spirited. Should I continue?" he said in a proud smirk, taking a drag from his cigar.
Eleanor simply smiled peacefully, hearing such words coming straight from her greatest music hero. 
"I don't know what to say, really..." she chuckled, flattered.
"Nothing at all, your music says enough. It speaks for me too, I understand that feeling... not many have this power" and as he said this, his hand reached hers in a reassuring grip. 
It was like an entire eerie and intimate atmosphere had surrounded the two keyboardists - composers, as a dimension of their own.
There was an unbreakable chemistry, even if only a bunch of minutes had past; although, it felt like their souls had already met and known eachother, as if that was just a warm meeting between two friends who meet after a long, long time. 
"Well, maybe I've already been told this a few times… but hearing it from you…" 
"Oh Eleanor, I'm just a normal person, just like you" he sighed in a reassuring tone.
"Not for me. I wouldn't have had that reaction if it was otherwise… yes; I can't change the fact that seeing you in 1970 put a turning point to my life - gave it a purpose" she remarked, nodding and looking straight into his eyes… this time with a resolute expression on her face, for she was simply expressing things she'd always felt inside - and that were undeniable in any circumstance.
"Oh, you must've been so young… in 1970, a long time ago... a decade ago, now…" he replied in dreamy eyes… nostalgic, even. 
"Indeed... although… it feels like Yesterday: I can remember vividly all of it… all your moves… it's scenes that I'll carry in my memory forever"
"Hope those scenes of me stabbing and surfing my Hammond won't hunt you as much!" he giggled, taking another drag from his cigar, before coming more serious again "... but seriously, Eleanor… knowing that my music managed to change even one single person… it's worth all the effort, all the work done… especially if that one single person is someone like you" 
That strong consideration unavoidably made her think of Joe… 
… Because those were the same words she'd heard from the Clash's guitarist too.
That was what music was about: changing lives, having an impact and it'd taken her to explore the entire punk scene to realise that one quality wasn't to give for certain… and how oportunistic and hypocrite some musicians could turn out to be.
Maybe Steven Morrissey, the journalist who'd praised her, had not been too euphemistic: perhaps, he really meant it when he said that she was one of the only true artists remaining in the country. Perhaps, music wasn't just about the music itself.
There were some more strings that some artists were able to pluck, whereas others simply couldn't. 
And, apparently, she had this power too.
"It's not the wildest thing I've witnessed…" she shook her head in amusement.
"Bet so, Northern Ireland and Brixton must be tough environments… and you've managed to become a self-made musician out of there. You've got balls, girl" he nodded.
"Your music helped me to overcome lots of bad shit… anyway, out of topic, but… why - how did you end up here in Manchester?" she frowned, suddenly remembering the weird circumstance of meeting Keith Emerson in Manchester… a symbolic person in a symbolic place, to her.
"Oh..." he laughed "I come from the Yorkshire area, El… so yes, I did see your performance in Leeds, last week. You rocked, but I guess it's useless to specify that, as of now…"
She gasped on the spot; she had no clue of the keyboardist's presence there.
Maybe, it was better so: knowing about his presence might've overwhelmed her… especially before getting to know him in person.
It felt weird Indeed: before even meeting Keith, he appeared as some sort of unreacheable deity to her, but now… he was right there, next to her: a total, authentic human being. If she put his incredible skill aside for one moment, he could mirror her own self in his shimmering, blue eyes; but also each member of the Clash, or Glen… they were all people, highly devoted to music. Just the genres and the skills (and the generational gap) separated them through mist of prejudices that prog and punk costantly threw at eachother - a barrier that Eleanor'd always wanted to cross. 
Perhaps, she was slowly managing to do that even to the others people's - musicians' - eyes. It was her aim. Her way to go.
"That is… curious to know" she chuckled in embarassment… "But I'm honoured, thought you'd moved to the States… and, most of all, what brought you there? I mean… God, it's too much stuff to process at once…" she sighed in confusion and awe.
Keith smiled in sympathy and patted her shoulder.
"It's true, I found a nice house there, but I'd come around my relatives for the holidays and as soon as I got to know about your tour… well, I decided to stay a bit longer eventually"
"Wait, you are saying th-…"