Chapter Four: Tunes, Tones, and Ties
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The Rudolph Museum
New York, New York
Three Weeks and One Day to Deadline
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“Mr. Murray, a Miss Bourne here to see you,” the secretary said.
The museum director nodded and frowned. “Another donor?” He had so much work to do for the new exhibit, but time still meant money and money had to come from somewhere.
“I think so, sir,” said the secretary, leaning in conspiringly, “She looks rich. I’ll send her right in, sir.”
If Nathaniel Murray had been expecting some old heiress with a fondness for art and a bag of money, he was wrong. The moment this Miss Bourne walked in, his eyes widened in surprise.
She didn't belong in a museum, that was for certain, with her black skinny jeans, leather boots, and a nose piercing. Her hair had been gelled and styled into a sleek punk-rock type look with pink streaks.
Generally not the type of person that normally walked into Mr. Murray’s office.
Miss Bourne smiled beamingly and shook the museum director’s hand. “Hello, Mr. Murray. Thank you for taking time to see me.”
“It’s no problem at all, Miss Bourne,” said the director, not quite able to keep from gaping.
“Please, call me Mel,” she said, sitting and crossing her legs. “I came to talk with you about your new exhibition. What was it? ‘New Art for a New Age?’”
“Yes, that’s correct,” said Mr. Murray. “If you’ll excuse me Miss Bourne…”
“Mel,” she interrupted.
The director looked slightly ruffled. “Yes, Mel. But who exactly are you?”
Mel raised her eyebrows as if slightly surprised. “I’m the former bass guitarist for Last Chance Living. Now I’m a music exec at X Studios. Does that ring a bell?”
“You were the ones we hired to find entertainment,” realized Mr. Murray.
“Yes,” said Mel, “And I’m here to discuss that. You’re trying to appeal to a younger generation, right?”
“That would be the general idea, yes,” said Mr. Murray, slightly pacified.
“We were thinking a little more hardcore.” She laughed at Mr. Murray’s expression. “There’s not going to be any heavy metal, don’t worry. Just a little more…rock and roll. Ditch the classical violins and the servers circling around with trays of champagne.”
Mr. Murray looked as if he might die at the mere thought of it. “What are you suggesting, then?” he asked warily.
Mel slapped a folder on his desk. He opened it to find some still shots of four scruffy looking young men with guitars and drumsticks. “The Beatles?” he asked. He was rather alarmed at this point. “I don’t know, Miss Bourne…”
Mel leaned forward, her eyes alight. “Think of it as an art revolution, Mr. Murray. You’ll be lauded. All the major papers are picking this up. Art is about originality, and newness. It’s a constant evolution.”
Mr. Murray still looked skeptical.
“They’ve got some clips on YouTube,” said Mel. “Check those out. They’ve played Carnegie Hall.”
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