Soul Music

you really sing hole .
    “She’s watching us,” whispered Buddy.
    “The invisible girl?” said Glod, staring at the empty grass.
    “Yes.”
    “Ah, yes. I can definitely not see her. Good. And now, if you don’t play Music With Rocks In this time, we’re dead.”
    Buddy picked up the guitar. The strings trembled under his fingers. He felt elated. He’d been allowed to play it in front of them. Everything else was unimportant now. Whatever happened next didn’t matter.
    “You ain’t heard nothing yet,” he said.
    He stamped his foot.
    “One, two, one two three four—”
    Glod had time to recognize the tune before the music took him. He’d heard it only a few seconds before. But now it swung .

    Ponder peered into his box.
    “I think we’re trapping this, Archchancellor,” he said, “But I don’t know what it is.”
    Ridcully nodded, and scanned the audience. They were listening with their mouths open. The harp had scoured their souls, and now the guitar was hot-wiring their spines.
    And there was an empty patch near the stage.
    Ridcully put a hand over one eye and focused until the other eye watered. Then he smiled.
    He turned to look at the Musicians’ Guild and saw, to his horror, that Satchelmouth was raising a crossbow. He seemed to be doing it with reluctance; Mr. Clete was prodding him.
    Ridcully raised a finger and appeared to scratch his nose.
    Even above the sound of the playing he heard the twang as the crossbow’s string broke and, to his secret delight, a yelp from Mr. Clete as a loose end caught his ear. He hadn’t even thought of that.
    “I’m just an old softy, that’s my trouble,” Ridcully said to himself. “Hat. Hat. Hat.”

    “You know, this was an extremely good idea,” said the Bursar, as the tiny images moved in the crystal ball. “What an excellent way to see things. Could we perhaps have a look at the Opera House?”
    “How about the Skunk Club in Brewer Street?” said the Senior Wrangler.
    “Why?” said the Bursar.
    “Just a thought,” said the Senior Wrangler quickly. “I’ve never been in there at all in any way, you understand.”
    “We really shouldn’t be doing this,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “It’s really not a proper use of a magic crystal—”
    “I can’t think of a better use of a magic crystal,” said the Dean, “than to see people playing Music With Rocks In.”

    Mr. Scrub, The Duck Man, Coffin Henry, Arnold Sideways, Foul Ole Ron and Foul Ole Ron’s Smell and Foul Ole Ron’s dog ambled around the edges of the crowd. Pickings had been particularly good. They always were when Dibbler’s hot dogs were on sale. There were some things people wouldn’t eat even under the influence of Music With Rocks In. There were some things even mustard couldn’t disguise.
    Arnold gathered up the scraps and put them in a basket on his trolley. There was going to be the prince of a primal soup under the bridge tonight.
    The music had poured over them. They ignored it. Music With Rocks In was the stuff of dreams, and there were no dreams under the bridge.
    Then they’d stopped, and listened, as new music poured out over the park and took every man and woman and thing by the hand and showed him or her or it the way home.
    The beggars stood and listened, mouths open. Someone looking from face to face, if anyone did look at the invisible beggars, would have had to turn away…
    Except from Mr. Scrub. You couldn’t turn away there.
    When the band were playing Music With Rocks In again the beggars got back down to earth.
    Except for Mr. Scrub. He just stood and stared.

    The last note rang out.
    Then, as the tsunami of applause began to roll, The Band ran off the stage.
    Dibbler watched happily from the wings at the other side of the stage. He’d been a bit worried for a while there, but it all seemed back on course now.
    Someone tugged at his sleeve.
    “What’re they doing, Mr. Dibbler?”
    Dibbler turned.
    “Scum, isn’t it?” he said.
    “It’s Crash, Mr. Dibbler.”
    “What they’re doing, Scum, is not giving the audience what they want,” said Dibbler. “Superb business practice. Wait till they’re screaming for it, and then take it away. You wait. By the time the crowd is stamping its feet they’ll come prancing back on again. Superb timing. When you learn that sort of trick, Scum—”
    “It’s Crash, Mr. Dibbler.”
    “— then maybe you’ll know how to play Music With Rocks In. Music With Rocks In,