In the dancing dark of a candlelit room he scribbles furiously into the massive leather bound tome. His ultimate design was nearly complete. It had taken him more than a century of unwavering willpower and meticulous planning, but with just a few more songs everything would come together.
He paused for a moment. It saddened him that he’d never been able to make Crowley and the rest of that lot understand the mythical nature of what he was doing. They were only interested in the flashy stuff and had no time for the slow and deliberate nature of the grandest magics.
With a snort of disdain, he returned to his scribbling. It was the songs that made his plan possible. They were the perfect confluence of aether resonance and power invocation. Songs were perfect three and a half minute spells.
He’d spent the entirety of the twentieth century seeding an ancient word into the minds of songwriters across the globe. The word is a name, a name of a place. Each time that word is used in a song, magical ley lines shift toward that place.
And soon enough, Memphis would be the crossroads of all magic in the world.
Memphis is the most named checked city in music. Seriously. Now imagine if some one was doing that on purpose.