Rock is believed to be dead—that's what people say. They claim it's been silenced, and no one can deny that in recent months it has felt trapped in a kind of misery that brings nothing but a pounding headache. The reason being that rock is fading, that it no longer has the coverage it once did—perhaps because it no longer appeals to people the way it used to.
Jerry skimmed through the statistics. He was selling twice as much as any new pop singer, male or female, filling stadiums effortlessly. Yet why did his music receive so little media coverage on television? He only appeared in major headlines when he threw everything to hell—when he acted like a rebellious giant, giving everything of himself in a frenzied way that unsettled people. That was the problem: they only knew his madness, not his music. Everything felt like a staged spectacle, yet year after year his fanbase grew so massively that it became undeniable—this was exactly what people wanted. Still, it was a headache.
--The media wants to shut us down. —Jerry Wrelex said, pointing toward the rising trend of rappers and pop singers. Or at least, those were the words forming in his mind—the kind that were whispered more than spoken.
--The media? You sound like one of those conspiracy theorists who show up on late-night radio channels. What nonsense. They're not that heartless—they just see that those kids sell more now. None of the new generation has emerged like the ones before. —Alan Parsons replied.
--In fact, they're paying attention to Billy now. Give them bread and circuses and they won't care about anything else. It's almost a paradox that someone who captivates so many young people is himself young—and that's promotion. In short, concerts don't make someone profitable in the twenty-first century, and yet Billy does. That's why he's gradually gaining ground in the press. Besides, there's the fact that rockers don't do what they're told—they don't follow orders. —George Martin added, fully aware of why record labels were hesitant about the traditional "rock star" image. They wanted a polished star—disciplined, respectable, someone who could blend into society with charm and obedience.
—You might be too cynical. —Jerry replied, clearly surprised by the stance.
--You were a communist, and I was a capitalist. I grew up believing nothing should take away what's mine. —George answered calmly, unmoved. The ideals born in the fifties had once swept through minds like loose sheets of paper, seducing the careless with promises. Yet, to him, communism had been the greatest deception in history—a system that extinguished countless lives under its illusion.
—You're still as unpleasant as ever. —Jerry shot back. Life had been different back then—information wasn't everywhere like it is now. When he was young, ideals floated freely, shaping people in simple, almost naive ways.
--Stop being so naive. —George Martin laughed.
***
Billy examined the tension behind his eyes—it was always there. How difficult it was to confront mistakes, how unsettling it could be to take someone else's song and make it entirely his own. When he began, it took him two, maybe four songs to find his footing.
In front of a room filled with veterans—perhaps ten of the most renowned producers, along with other singers—he wielded his voice like a sharpened blade, cutting through each lyric with precision. That was what gave them space to feel it—that Billy's piercing high notes were exactly what was needed. A voice made for singing across rhythms, raw and relentless, filled with the tenacity of '70s rock, where blues, jazz, and country intertwined, echoing figures like Elvis, as the image of the rock icon emerged like a soul coming to life.
"Riders of the Storm" became a deep, dangerous voice that stained the air. It carried that sense of finality, so intrinsic to a time when life was lived under the shadow of conflict—West versus East, the USSR looming. Culture itself moved with the awareness of limited days, and men wondered which part of their lives truly mattered.
🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
Into this house, we're born
Into this world, we're thrown
Like a dog without a bone
An actor out on loan
Riders on the storm
There's a killer on the road
His brain is squirmin' like a toad
Take a long holiday
Let your children play
If you give this man a ride
Sweet family will die
Killer on the road, yeah
🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
…Billy wanted the song to capture that detachment he felt toward life—the irreverence that struck at every edge of existence. It was an ending for anyone who listened. And when that trait was distilled, weighed against sadness and the life he lived, everything dissolved like a quiet photograph—something observed carefully from every angle, as a man contemplated his future.
Billy's intentions existed only in the present moment—to be something, someone, without attachment, without permanence. Pain lingered beneath the realization that he was just a fool with numbered days, trying to do his best while the future remained unknown. His life held no grand significance if the purpose itself was empty.
So he poured all those thoughts into his performance, feeding an admirable desperation. The logic of simplicity, the only thing that lingered behind him—it was indifference. And in that, there was something pure.
—I think that's exactly what they feel. —Jerry commented, noticing the moment when everyone nodded in agreement. The vocalist, now stepping into the role of producer, sought recognition—not just artistic, but financial.
So simple. Or perhaps so effortless.
🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
Girl, you gotta love your man
Girl, you gotta love your man
Take him by the hand
Make him understand
The world on you depends
Our life will never end
Gotta love your man, yeah
Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
Into this house, we're born
Into this world, we're thrown
Like a dog without a bone
An actor out on loan
Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵🎶🎵
—Well, I think we've got it. —Billy exhaled, completely drained. The song struck his heart, filling him with that electric interference of sound. The singer within him demanded strength—and that strength came naturally.
...