ACT 7: The Meeting That Changed Music. And Business.
When the music stops, the money talks—and sometimes, that’s when the healing begins.
Start at ACT 1 to begin the journey.
I’m in the Bored Room at the Songa Mansion—a Victorian estate where chandeliers hang heavy with history and no idea is too wild if it means bringing families closer together. The room, despite its name, is anything but dull tonight. It buzzes with tension, and the stakes are higher than ever.
If the license deal with May Dove and Harper doesn’t go through we pitched back in ACT 6, Songa.fm might fold. The studio, the scholarships, the app—it all hangs in the balance.
Emerson paces like a man trying to outrun a deadline. Sage leans against the fireplace mantle, guitar in hand, flanked by Lewis Blues and two other musicians from A Band Called US — Songa’s house band.
They’re here to negotiate. To protect what they’ve built. To finally be seen.
The artists want clarity. They’ve mentored kids, donated time to family retreats, and kept the sound alive even when the pay didn’t show up. Now they want to know: Was this just a passion project—or a real future?
“It’s time,” Sage says. “We’ve lived the mission. But belief alone doesn’t pay rent. We need more than hope. We need something real.”
Emerson stops. He looks wrecked—not from lack of sleep, but from the weight of what he’s trying to hold together.
“You’re right,” he says. “And I’m not here to gaslight you with good intentions. You’ve shown up every night with more trust than I deserved.”
He swallows.
“I know you’ve been burned. By labels. By producers. By execs who promised equity and delivered exposure. I’m not here to sell you dreams—I’m asking for one more act of faith. This license from May and Harper, it’s close. If it goes through, we have runway. We get to build something lasting. I just need more time.”
Sage steps forward.
“You say we’ve been burned. Emerson—we still are. I’ve played fifteen years in a system that knew how to profit off my pain but not honor it. My mom tore apart my first solo at eight. My father said if I chose art, I’d lose everything. And I did.”
She lifts her chin.
“But here? I’ve seen families sing their stories. I’ve seen my songs help others find theirs. But I’ve also seen you hesitate. I need to know this isn’t another top-down deal. I need to know Songa sees artists as co-authors—not contractors.”
“I want that too,” Emerson says. “You deserve safety. And co-ownership.”
He turns to the room. “You want to know what you get? Here’s what you get:
You get a check. Every month. Guaranteed.
You get stock—$1 in, $1 in ownership.
Your healthcare’s covered—including your family.
Your kids get access to a social radio station built for them.
You get studio time, mentorship stipends, gear budgets, and transparency.
And when your song makes money? You get paid. Instantly.”
There’s a pause.
“And what if it doesn’t work?” someone asks.
Sage nods. “Then we build something else. Together. Because the alternative is more of the same: art as labor, pain as product. And I’m done surviving. I want to live.”
Lewis steps forward.
“And creative control?”
“No more brunch playlists,” Emerson says. “This is narrative music. Art that heals. You call the story.”
“And mental health?”
“Therapists on-call. Coaches too. You’re not just musicians. You’re people.”
Sage presses again. “We’re not looking to be revered. Just respected.”
Emerson picks up the marker and writes one word on the whiteboard:
Respect.
He looks around. “Whatever we build—it only works if it works for you.”
“You gave me something tonight I can’t repay,” Emerson says. “It was… everything.”
Lewis shakes his head. “We don’t want repayment. We want partnership.”
“Then let’s build one,” Emerson says. “Let’s make a pact. If this ever makes money, the money goes back to the people who gave it soul. I’m not doing this to get rich. I’m doing it to get my family back.”
He pauses. “We’ll call it The Patron’s Pledge.”
No lawyers. No handshakes. Just a room of artists, parents, and the faint smell of sweat and sage.
“WHEREAS, all investors in the Songa Public Benefit Corporation will be required to sign a legally-binding pledge.
WHEREAS, our mutual intention is to gradually transfer the wealth created by Songa to the people who created the wealth—the members of Songa.”
“In English, Emerson,” Lewis Blues chirps.
He turns to the musicians: okay, then.
“You want to know what true wealth is?” Emerson says, continuing:
True wealth is when you are surrounded
by rich relationships with family and friends
who actively seek opportunities
to bring your dreams into their lives.
Emerson chokes up. “That’s what we’ve been missing. Not just support. Shared dreams…
When you share your dreams with loved ones,
and allow them the space to help realize them,
your life becomes everything you hoped for—
and like nothing you could have ever dreamed.
He continues:
“So, let me speak to you in that other language again, for a second. And then I’ll go back to English…
This is my promise to you:
WHEREAS, we understand that The Songa Pledge is intended to align investor interests with those of the members of Songa. The greater Songa grows, the larger the tax benefit to Patron Investors, and the more wealth is transferred to the members of Songa.
WHEREAS…. the resulting wealth will create 100% artist’s owned record label…”
The band looks around in disbelief. Speechless.
Sage struggles to find the words. To find a hole in his promise. But Emerson interrupts her before can and says, “Wyoming once told me that some offers aren’t too good to be true. They’re just true.”
Emerson smiles, then put his own skin in the game, like every part of him wasn’t already in it:
He pledges 100%. Well, 100% of his gains that is (if there ever are any).
Not because he’s a saint.
But because he wants to belong to something again.
He stands, looks at us and with more conviction than I’ve ever seen in him, declares:
“What if we invested less in companies,
And more in the company we keep?”
We all look around the room. At the company we’ve invested in over the last few weeks.
All of us pooling our time, talent and treasure together toward one shared dream.
Emerson continues, “I spent years giving my kids every opportunity—except the one they needed most: to create something real with me. And what’s realer than a relationship? What’s more valuable than giving them the gift of community?”
The Bored Room quiets, except the fire’s crackling embers. There’s nothing to say. Why would there be?
No truer words have been spoken
The meeting disperses. I see Emerson pulling Sage aside.
“Tomorrow’s meeting with May Dove and Harper—”
“We’ll need more than a pitch to win them,” she says.
“They didn’t want to come back to the mansion. We’re meeting off-site.”
“Where?”
“City Museum. After hours. Harper said if we could sell them a dream in a building made of salvaged scrap, we might be the real thing.”
Sage smirks. “Fitting. The future of social radio decided in a maze of slides, bones, and broken glass.”
“Broken places are where new stories begin,” I mutter.
It’ll be a test. Not just of Emerson. Of all of us.
If this fragile negotiation between art and business can hold…
Maybe the next story I write won’t just be a script. Maybe it’ll be a life.
The next verse is unwritten. And May Dove holds the pen.
Before continuing onto ACT 8 consider…
Taking the Patron’s Pledge.
“They didn’t need more wealth.
They needed more family.'“
Do you?
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ACT 8: City of Dreams
You can build a company. You can even build a movement. But can you build a dream big enough to hold other people’s hope?
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