Come As You Are

 

A Rock ’n Roll Carol: The Redemption of Jonathan “Pop” Penn

(A Rock Fiction Christmas Parody)

Come As You Are — even if you start as a pop fan.

Prologue — The Man Who Thought Rock Was Dead

Jonathan “Pop” Penn had a rule:

If a song didn’t have a glossy hook in the first four seconds, he dismissed it.

He was the head of Pinnacle Pop Media, king of synthetic beats, the man who once proudly said:

“Guitars are noise. Algorithms are the future.”

Behind his desk sat five framed platinum singles by artists he’d created through data patterns, not talent. He hadn’t signed a rock band in twelve years. He didn’t believe in distortion, rebellion, or any song recorded before 2019.

And as December settled over the city—bright lights, winter warmth, crowds humming carols—Jonathan celebrated the season by cancelling his staff’s holiday gig budget and banning anyone from playing “old music” in the office.

That night, in his penthouse suite lined with neon LED strips and framed pop merchandise, the lights flickered. His speakers hissed. His tablet rebooted itself twice.

Then the room temperature dropped.

And from the shadows came the first ghost.

The Ghost of Rock Past — The Rebellion Roots

He appeared as a swirling haze of vinyl dust, cigarette smoke, and amplifier hum.

Hair like a 70s roadie. Jacket torn from a hundred backstage brawls.

“Jonathan Penn,” the ghost said, “we need to talk.”

“Are you… the ghost of Christmas past?”

“Pfft,” the figure said. “I’m the Ghost of Rock Past. Christmas is optional. Rock is eternal.”

With a snap of his fingers, the penthouse dissolved.

Jonathan was dropped into a sweaty, chaotic, glorious 1971 club. Denim jackets, leather boots, hair everywhere, equipment stacked like a fire hazard. Crowds chanting, pushing, living.

A young band was thrashing onstage.

The Who.

Track: “I Don’t Even Know Myself” — a B-side with teeth.

Keith Moon was a hurricane. Pete Townshend sliced the air with windmill chords. The entire room shook with non-algorithmic life.

Jonathan covered his ears.

“This is barbaric,” he protested. “Where’s the choreography? Where are the autotuned harmonies?”

The ghost laughed.

“This, Jonathan, is where it all began. Sweat. Anger. Truth. Music wasn’t meant to be perfect—it was meant to be alive.”

They watched the crowd—factory workers, students, outsiders—united by sound.

“Rock didn’t come from data,” the ghost continued.

“It came from rebellion. From working-class roots. From voices with cracks in them. This B-side? It’s freedom with a drum kit.”

Jonathan swallowed. Something uncomfortable stirred in his chest.

For the first time in years… he felt something real.

The Ghost of Rock Present — The Community

The second ghost arrived in a blast of stage lights and confetti, wearing a modern tour jacket with patches from every festival known to humankind.

“Yo,” the spirit grinned.

“I’m the Ghost of Rock Present. Let’s get you outta the 70s before you inhale a decade’s worth of nicotine.”

They landed in the middle of a modern rock festival. Thousands of people—some young, some old—crowded around a massive stage. The lights flared, the speakers roared, and a familiar guitar tone rang out.

Foo Fighters.

Track: “Win or Lose” — raw, driving, underrated.

Jonathan blinked.

This crowd was nothing like he imagined.

People were laughing, hugging strangers, throwing horns, or just closing their eyes and feeling.

“Impossible,” Jonathan muttered. “I thought rock fans were extinct.”

“Extinct?” the ghost snorted. “Son, this is Thursday. Wait ‘til the weekend.”

A girl next to Jonathan offered him a pair of earplugs and said:

“First time? Don’t worry. You’ll get emotional during the bridge.”

And he did.

As Dave Grohl belted the chorus, Jonathan felt a wave of something heavy and warm—community. Unity. Humanity. Something pop algorithms had never given him.

“This,” the ghost said, gesturing to the crowd,

“is rock today. Not dead. Not dying. Evolving. Inclusive. Alive.”

Jonathan didn’t say a word.

He just listened.

The Ghost of Rock Future — The Warning

The final ghost came shrouded in smoke, robes made of broken guitar strings, and a mask that shimmered like chrome. A presence both haunting and magnetic.

“Ghost of Christmas Future?” Jonathan asked quietly.

The figure shook its head.

“I am the Ghost of Rock Future. And you need to see what your choices create.”

They stepped into a city of neon and silence.

Every billboard displayed AI-generated artists. Every club was closed. No instruments. No live venues. No noise. A world where music had become a sterile stream of identical digital pop loops.

“This,” the ghost’s voice echoed,

“is the future you are building.”

Jonathan felt his chest tighten.

“But… where’s rock?”

The ghost led him to a narrow alley behind a dystopian mega-mall. A small door opened. A faint riff echoed within.

Inside, a handful of outcasts were gathered around a battered turntable. A single record spun:

Ghost — “Zenith”

dark, theatrical, powerful.

The group huddled, listening as if protecting a sacred relic.

“We keep the old ways alive,” one whispered.

“Until someone with power changes the future.”

Jonathan turned to the ghost, trembling.

“Can I change this?”

The spirit nodded once.

Then vanished.

Finale — Born on the B-Side

Jonathan woke up in his penthouse.

It was still December.

The world had not yet turned silent.

He ran to his office—still filled with his pop trophies—and did something no one expected:

He smashed his “Algorithm Award” with a real guitar.

He called his staff together and made a declaration:

“We’re starting a new division.

Pinnacle B-Sides — for real artists, real instruments, real music.

And concerts are back on. Effective immediately.”

People cheered.

A few cried.

A young intern fainted.

That night, he attended his first real rock gig.

He stood in the crowd, leather jacket over his shoulders, singing louder than he ever had before.

Jonathan “Pop” Penn had become, at last…

Born on the B-Side.

Epilogue — Come As You Are

The story ends here, but the message doesn’t.

Whether you grew up on The Who, lost yourself in the Foo Fighters, or fear a future where music loses its soul…

Rock is a place where anyone can show up as they are.

Even a man who once believed guitars were obsolete.

The ghosts still walk, especially in December.

And if you listen closely—you’ll hear them.

Rock is alive.

Rock is waiting.

Rock is calling.