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When the doors of the MUSIC STORE professional in Cologne closed on Halloween, only the green emergency light remained. The janitor walked down the aisles: drum floor, guitar walls, synth department. Everything was quiet—until a hi-hat whispered, as if someone were kicking the machine with an invisible foot. In the PA demo room, the power amplifiers flickered, even though the main switch was off. A hum crept through the cables, tonic notes made of dust.
On the service counter lay a returned case without an item number. Inside: a tarnished tuning fork and a well-read receipt that read: “Lend us your hands.” The janitor tapped the fork. A. The sound rolled through the departments; strings stretched, skins tightened, a Fame radio link flashed—without a battery.
The guitar walls began to breathe. Wood creaked in unison until the instruments formed a question: “Are you conducting?” The janitor grabbed a baton from its case—or was it just an old drumstick?—and raised his hand. The store responded. Bass drums beat like heartbeats, Clavinovas whispered scales in canon, tubas in the brass section sighed fog. The janitor set the tempo—faster and faster, and the MUSIC STORE played itself: a requiem of return policies and trial chords, in which every note was a gruesome farewell.
When the first bus braked outside the next morning, the volume dropped to zero. A fresh note lay on the receipt printer: “Performance paid for.”
A little later, the MUSIC STORE's job ads read: “Caretaker wanted.”
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