"Oh god, here we go. 'Bluhbluhbluh, classically trained at places fulla dudes so old they fart dust,' like that stuff even matters in the days of Youtube and autotune."

Tavros tosses the horns aside and peels off the wig. Messy blonde curls. Messy blonde curls everywhere.

"Face it, you couldn't hack it at Cambridge or whatever and crawled into the first studio that'd crack the door. And you," looking at Ron now, "should try dealing with my 'agent' before making suggestions like that. I'd like to see my eighteenth birthday, okay."