|
By Kain Vinosec Eric walks into the back room from the stage lights and screaming crowd. With rage he throws his $600 bass guitar onto the sofa that was set aside for the band and turns to wait for the other members to filter through the dimly lit hallway. Zack walks in next, excited and proud of their performance. “Man, can you believe that crowd? It was freaking insane. They bloody loved us...” He notices the pissed off stare that Eric is giving the hallway and starts to calm down. He looks at his friend and sighs deeply. “What did he do this time? I thought the set sounded fine.” Eric looks into Zack's eyes and points at the hallway. “Are you kidding? He was trying to play a solo in Eb (e flat) during an Em (e minor) song. It sounded completely dissonant and retarded. I swear if he doesn't... Oh, there's the guitar god now.” Pete stumbles into the hallway as if running from the frantic crowd. He pushes past Zack and Eric to plop down onto the sofa. He looks up at both of them with amazement in his eyes. “What a show! I can't believe they got so into us. Did you see the mosh pit they had going? This is one for the blog man.” Zack looks down at the eager guitarist and shakes his head. “Careful Pete, Eric is pissed off again.” Zack moves over to lean against the wall and tries to blend in with the background. Preparing himself for what he knows is going to be another massive argument. “You're damn right I'm pissed off. Why don't you learn how to play your fucking instrument you son of a bitch? That's three concerts in a row you've managed to butcher my songs with your out-of-key soloing and shite improvising.” Pete feels kind of crushed but shrugs it off and tries to downplay the situation. He leans back into the sofa and spreads his arms out along the back as if he were confident he would win this time. “Hey man, I keep telling you that I play what I feel. Why do you have to be so strict? The crowd didn't notice if I messed up. Why should you care so much?” Eric starts pacing back and forth in the small room, his eyes find the floor and stick to it but his hands flail about as we walks as if trying to illustrate his points. “Because those are my songs you are ruining and you don't even care! Look, I put a lot of time into those pieces. I even wrote out solos for you to play that actually sound good and you refuse. I just don't get you sometimes.” Pete stands up and walks in front of Eric. Eric stops walking and stares at Pete as if waiting for him to say something. Finally Pete speaks his mind. “Look man, you may be a good musician but I wonder if you even know what music is about. Its about feeling and emotion and shit. Or something. The point is that you don't know how to enjoy music anymore. You're too stiff and your songs are starting to show it. Forgive me if I am trying to keep you from looking bad by adding some life into your shit.” Pete steps back from Eric, but Eric steps back towards Pete and clenches his fist. He is yelling at this point. “You motherless mother fucker. You can't even play music, let alone add life to it. You have no idea what my music is about or what this band is about. I wish we hadn't asked you to join.” Pete decides to play his 'yelling' game, but instead of coming up with a concrete argument he simply says the first thing that comes to mind. “Fuck you!” At this point Zack is starting to get worried and decides that he needs to intervene. He steps forward off the wall and dashes in between them just before they start physically fighting. He holds them both at bay from each other and lays out his opinion. “Hey, not to intervene in your little bitch fit here, but isn't being in a band supposed to be about having fun? You two go at it every night we play and I have to listen to it. Nothing ever gets resolved. I'm fucking tired of it. The band is suspended until you two can work your shit out. I'm gonna cancel our next few shows. You guys need to spend some time away from each other and away from This Array before this band kills you both. If you two don't get your shit together then its gonna be over and I'm going to move on.” In unison Eric and Pete reply: “That's fine with me!” They both charge out of the small bar, eager to get away from one another. Zack remains staring blankly at a wall. “I... I have no idea what I've just done.” He looks around the empty room for a minute and blinks. The bar owner walks in to give them their cut for the night and sees only Zack. Zack feels confused and looks to the bar owner. “Where's our drummer?” After storming out of the bar he decided to keep walking before he got behind the wheel in the hopes that it would calm him down some. He was in the middle of a crowded downtown night life with no friends, very little money, tired from the show, and dressed in ripped up blue jeans and a black baggy t-shirt that said “The End.” in large white text. He had shoulder length brown hair and was approximately five-foot-nine. He had been playing guitar for about three years. Even though he practiced a lot he didn't like to learn the mechanics of music for fear that it would ruin the experience. Clearly that was starting to cause problems with his other band members because they all knew what they were doing at least. He was thinking hard about what Eric had said to him and how his solos really didn't sound very good. “The guitar is lively though. The crowd didn't mind it anyway...” Whenever he was trying to sort out a problem, he would hold entire conversations in his mind. It gave him someone to talk to always and he never felt alone because of it. Though sometimes he did feel like he was losing it when the conversations starting running themselves. “Yeah, but you know it didn't sound that good. Honestly Er, you should consider learning how to play that thing if you're going to make a living with it.” “Isn't music about being impulsive, feeding off the crowd and having fun though?” “Sure, but that's not all that its about. Its also about representing oneself and speaking your mind. It's about presenting a form of art to the public for opinion, discussion, enjoyment, criticism... “Maybe I should think about this somewhere off the streets. Its getting kind of cold.” “I know just the place...” In front of him and a little bit above was a dark blue neon sign on the side of a wall with an arrow pointing down. It read “Where's The Blues?”. “I've heard of this club. They only let certain people in and all the music is improvised. Maybe I should go check it out?” “I think that is a grand idea.” He walked down the stairs and through an old wooden door that was at least five different colors of chipped paint and faded wood. The door had led him to a small room that was lit pink and was very plain. Aside from the loveseat whose color was indiscernible from the awkward lighting there stood a very large black man dressed in a suit that reminded Pete of a funeral. Next to the man was a lectern that had a stereotypical velvet rope hanging from it. The rope stretched to another lectern that appeared to be a different color. Behind the rope was a door with padded brown leather and a small window. Through the window, Pete could make out a couple of figures on a stage underneath some bright lights. He stepped up to the man and nervously spoke. “What does it cost to get in?” The man looked down at him, standing a good foot and a half above Pete. He spoke with a deep, rich voice that held no echo in the small room. “It doesn't cost anything.” “So what does it take to get in?” The man chuckled a bit in a throaty sort of laugh. Awkwardly enough, the laugh echoed in the room. “You have to have a good reason to come here.” “That's it?” “And there is a two-drink minimum.” “Fair enough... Good reason huh? Well, I had a fight with the bassist in our band. See I'm a guitarist and...” “You play the strings son? Hey, that's all you need. Get in there and learn something.” The man unhooked the rope to let Pete through. He smiled eagerly and nearly pushed him through the door. Once inside Pete saw that they were still setting up for the musicians to play. It was already 11pm. Petethought to himself “Kind of late to start a set.” He walked through the large room and found a table that was reasonably close to the stage. There weren't very many people there; about ten or so. A young brunette waitress walked over to his table and unenthusiastically asked him what he wanted to drink. He handed her his last seven dollars and asked for two of anything. She smiled, took the money and walked away. His attention was then grabbed by the musicians walking onto the stage. An announcer casually spoke over the P.A. “Ladies and gentlemen, give a warm welcome to Jack... What's his last name? Oh. Sorry. Jack Marius.” As Jack heard the announcement he laughed heartily and sat down in a plain metal folding chair. There was a microphone in front of him and a beautiful red sunburst Les Paul guitar next to him sitting on a stand. Jack was an older kind of guy. Probably in his mid sixties. The rest of his band looked a lot younger though and consisted of another guitarist, an upright bass player and a drummer wearing cheap black sunglasses. They were all dressed casually and Jack would've won the contest for best dressed by far. He had short black hair and was wearing a dark gray suit with no tie and the slickest black shoes Pete had ever seen. He picked up the guitar and slid the guitar strap over his head even though he was sitting down. He spoke heartily into the mic and captured the attention of the people in the room. “Now, I'm gonna play some music and you all gonna listen to it. Here we go.” As he started to say the word “here” he started out playing a Gm (g minor) pentatonic lead riff for three bars before the rest of the band kicked in. Without even working out what they were going to play, they sounded like they had been playing the song for years. And every song in their set sounded that good. Jack even managed to improvise some lyrics over some of the songs. His solos and lead lines were mesmerizing and his voice was commanding. With lyrics like; “The time has come for the ones that know the life in music is gonna fade out. But I'm still here to keep it alive and I ain't going nowhere son.” He sounded as if he were singing the songs specifically for Pete. Other songs were a little more vague, for instance; “And I don't wanna hear you cryin' 'cause you ain't got nothing to say. And I don't wanna hear you sighing while you listen to me play. You're just takin' it out every time you don't listen you make me hate the life I'm leadin' every time you don't listen.” The set lasted for a full two hours straight of purely improvised music and Pete listened intently to every minute of it. After it was over, Jack and the band found a table on the floor and ordered a round of drinks. Pete had to thank him for the amazing performance and walked over to their table as they were talking amongst each other. “... Yeah but that ho won't be bothering you any... Hey, who's this?” “Um. Hi. I'm Pete.” “Well of course you are son. What can I do for you Pete?” Jack looked intently into Pete's eyes as if he was reading his soul like an email. “I just wanted to thank you for the show. Your playing is amazing. How do you all improvise your songs and make them sound so solid?” Jack looked at his band and laughed a reserved sort of laugh. “Pete was it? Listen boy, we don't give lessons for free. But I will give you some advice. First you gotta know your band. If one of us didn't know the other one, the music would sound fucked up. Second you gotta know your style. If you're a blues player and you're trying to play jazz then you're gonna fuck it up. And lastly, you have to know yourself. You gotta know where your limits are as a player. If you try to do something you know you can't do right, then you're gonna fuck it up. In other words, just don't fuck it up. Now why don't you run home son? Its a bit late for you to be out isn't it?” “Yeah, thanks.” Pete walked away from their table a bit embarrassed but also lost in thought. His own improvising always sounded horrible because he didn't know what he was doing and he was well aware of it. He solemnly walked out of the club and past the bouncer again. The bouncer glanced at him and smiled. “You learn something son?” “Yeah... I think I did.” Pete walked out into the street. It was colder than it was before and there wasn't anyone out this late. He started walking back towards his car which he'd left parked a block away from the bar they'd played at earlier. Halfway there he found himself stuck in a conversation with himself again. “Don't let what the guy said get you down. You're a pretty good guitarist. You can play anything you want to.” “Yeah, if someone shows me or I figure it out before hand.” “So? Plenty of musicians can't improvise. Its kind of a special talent. It doesn't make or break you.” “But its what I feel. I want to express myself better with the guitar like Jack was doing. I want people to hear what I hear when I play.” “Then maybe you should work on it some? You can't be good overnight.” “Yeah... But how do I learn? I don't even know where to begin.” “Why don't you ask Eric? He'd help you if you were sincere.” “I dunno, after tonight he may not want to speak with me again.” “Pshh. He's your friend. Give it a shot. At least its a start.” “Yeah, but...” “Oh shush. Just ask him. They're his songs anyway. Don't you think he wants them to sound good?” “Yeah. I suppose.” “Plus you already know how to play the basics. Might as well learn the rest.” “It makes sense. Okay. I'll apologize to Eric tomorrow and see what he says.” “Great! Now that that's settled... I've been wondering something all night long.” “Yeah?” “Where was our drummer after the show?” Eric was speeding off in his '95 Dodge after the argument. He had the radio blasting and was trying to scream out his anger by listening to his favorite band; De Sent. The lyrics and the heavy riffs always made him feel better. He drove cautiously but a good ten or fifteen miles over the speed limit screaming along with the radio to songs like “The Dutchess” and “Falling All The Way”. “You soul stealing whore! Why do you rule my life? I've got no time to fuck with you! Go to hell!” “And though the world is crumbling around me I will fall with the pieces of my mind. But I won't stop for what you say I'm falling all the way.” After about an hour of driving his cell phone rang. If he hadn't noticed it lighting up he never would've heard it. He turned the radio down and flipped open the phone with an enthusiastic “Yo.” “Hey man. It's Zack. Where you at?” “I'm driving down highway 255 towards my apartment. What's up?” “I'm sorry about that shit earlier man. I just get tired of you two fighting all the damn time.” “Hey, don't worry about it. Pete and I will work it out tomorrow like always. Just relax some.” “Yeah, I guess. Anyway, have you heard from our so-called drummer?” “No, why?” “I can't find him. I was gonna give him his cut but he took off after the set or something.” “He'll probably call you later this week when he needs the cash. You know how impulsive he can be.” “Yeah, I just wish he fit in with us a bit more. He's always been kind of the outcast.” “Some people are like that. They'd rather play the music and leave it at that. Not everyone thinks a band should be a family.” “Unfortunately... Hey I gotta run. Sheryl is calling me and you know how bitchy she can get.” “Alright man, good luck with that.” “Thanks. Later.” Eric closed the cell phone and threw it back into the cup holder. He glanced around his surroundings and quickly recognized that he was only a few minutes away from his apartment complex. “Just enough time for one more song.” He turned the radio back up and found his favorite track on the CD he had in the player; “A Promised Goodbye”. The song began playing and of course he started to sing along with it. On a CD filled with heavy metal and crushing rock you'd never expect to hear a song by The Dis Stressed. It was a softer song and very emotional. The guitars rang out in a bitter twang of unease and the singer sounded like he had been stabbed through the chest. “You said that you would never leave but you always broke your promises. You never said goodbye yet I knew I'd be alone again. I swore our hearts would not run dry that you would never need. It all falls down in times like these but you didn't even try.” As the song wound down, Eric pulled into the small parking lot outside of his apartment. He saw someone standing there staring at him from in front of his car. His headlights shown brightly onto someone wearing a huge dark gray cloak. His face couldn't be made out from the hood but Eric knew who it was. The radio had gone completely silent as he pushed the shifter into park. He reached up slowly to turn the engine off and pulled his key out. He simply laid it in the passengers seat and continued to stare at the person before him, still illuminated by the headlights of the truck. In one hand he held a .44 Magnum which he aimed directly at Eric's head. Eric closed his eyes and recited to himself; “I guess I expected it of you. What with all the times you lied but I still never saw the use of A Promised Goodbye.” In the other hand the cloaked figure clutched a broken drum stick. |