Chapter Four: The Name on the Marquee

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Back in Amsterdam, the crisp Belgian Acte de Naissance for "Willem Bakker" felt like a heavy gold coin in Django's pocket—valuable, but not quite him. He and Dirk celebrated quietly in the back room of the shop with a bottle of decent Genever Dirk had saved. The relief was immense, but as the days passed, a subtle disquiet settled in. Willem Bakker was his shield, his official face to the world, the name that would allow him to open a bank account, sign a lease, get a passport. But it wasn't the name of the musician, the artist.

"Willem Bakker can get a passport, Dirk," Django said one evening, meticulously polishing his Gibson. "He can travel, he can sign contracts. But the man who plays this guitar... he is Django Phralipen."

Dirk, surrounded by stacks of new arrivals—the latest British Invasion records and some obscure Delta blues reissues—nodded in understanding. "A stage name, then. Many great artists have them. It gives you a persona, a story for the public. And it keeps Willem Bakker, the man with the papers, a little more private. Safer, perhaps."

"Django Phralipen," Django repeated, tasting the syllables. "Django—'I awake.' Phralipen—'Brotherhood.' It feels right. It's the story I want my music to tell."

Dirk's eyes lit up. "It's perfect. It has mystery, it has romance. It speaks to your roots, even the ones you've had to... imagine." He grinned. "And it sounds damn good on a record label, or a concert poster."

The beauty of it was its simplicity. Willem Bakker would be the legal entity. Django Phralipen would be the artist. There was no need for complicated legal maneuvers to change his official name; the music world was full of performers known by names that weren't on their birth certificates. Muddy Waters was McKinley Morganfield and Artie Shaw was Arthur Jacob Arshawsky.

With this decided, a new energy coursed through Django. He was no longer just playing for survival or out of a deep-seated need. He was now consciously crafting his future, his legend, under a name of his own choosing, built on the foundation of a life he'd been given a second chance to live. Dirk, ever the practical mentor, started making quiet inquiries. He knew people in the small but vibrant Amsterdam music scene—club owners, agents, other musicians. He began to drop the name: "There's this young guitarist, plays like a Romani angel with his fingers on fire... calls himself Django Phralipen."

The first proper gig came a few weeks later. Not in a park, not in the commune, but in a smoky little jazz club in the Jordaan, a place called "De Pijpelaar" (The Smoker). The owner, a gruff man named Piet who'd heard whispers from Dirk, agreed to a tryout.

"Django Phralipen," Piet grunted, looking at the handwritten name on Dirk's note. "Sounds like a mouthful. Can he play?"

"He can play," Dirk assured him.

That night, the small club was half-full. Django, with Dave on rhythm guitar and Lars on his discreet snare and brushes, took the tiny stage. He was introduced as "Django Phralipen and his Rhythmakers." He plugged in the Gibson, took a breath, and launched into a blistering version of "Minor Swing," a tune that no one in that room, in 1968, should have known with such fiery intimacy.

The effect was electrifying. Jaws dropped. Conversations ceased. The sheer virtuosity, the joyous, melancholic swing, the impossible dexterity of this young man with the intense eyes and the old soul, filled the club. He followed it with his own gypsy-infused takes on current hits, then played an obscure cut from the closing song on the Electric Flag's recent debut album, then back to the hot jazz that was his birthright.

By the end of the set, the club was buzzing. Piet, initially skeptical, was beaming, already talking about a regular Thursday night spot. People crowded around the stage, eager to talk to this "Django Phralipen."

As they packed up, Dirk handed Django a small, crudely printed card he'd had made: DJANGO PHRALIPEN Guitare Extraordinaire

Django grinned, turning the card over in his fingers. It was real. Willem Bakker might be the name on the official documents tucked safely away, the name that would allow him to navigate the mundane world. But Django Phralipen was the name that would be on the marquee. The cosmic hiccup had given him a new stage, and he was more than ready to play his part.

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Story by Alan Bryson, edited and assisted by AI.

Disclaimer: This is a fictional account exploring what might have happened if a temporal quantum event had occurred. While real musicians and historical figures appear within these pages, they exist here in an alternate timeline—a reality that quantum theory suggests was possible, but that never came to pass. All interactions, conversations, and events involving these individuals are entirely fictional, products of a world that exists only in the space between what was and what might have been.

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