Blue Notes and Balloonsby Amerabeat BronyChaptersAlways AwfulInvitationInsomniac DreamsSorryAlways AwfulThe Grand Galloping Gala is always awful. It’s worse for some ponies than others. In the palace in Canterlot, there was a great dance hall. The floor was patterned with huge, purple tinted checkered tile topped with red carpets. The ground shone like the opulent jewelry the aristocrats at the gala wore. Expensive vases housed towering plants, highlighting their innumerable blooms. Windows three stories high looked out upon the purple gradience of night. Others were blocked from view by gold-lined silk hangings. Immense stained glass landscapes of all colors lined the hall. The room was circled by segmented stone pillars, marbled with cloudy white swirls. A grand statue of an alicorn crafted of magically reinforced white gold stood precariously upon a gold and black pedestal. Even the most extravagant of ponies couldn't help but gasp in awe as they entered. In the front of it all, opposite the main entranceway, was a raised stage upon which twenty royal guardsmen could stand comfortably. Behind it, two panes of stained glass portrayed celestial objects in all shades and tints of blue. Curtains as tall as the hall itself were pulled back to show the beautiful architecture, but also to frame the four musicians fortunate enough to earn the chance to perform on the night of the gala. On stage right was the official group leader on the piano, Professor Frederic Horseshoepin. His striking green eyes were the only pair to be open for most of the performance, giving a look of confidence as he embraced the simplicity of the Gala's background music. His confidence extended to his appearance, as his light tan coiffure refused to budge as he swayed side to side with the music. His playing position prominently displayed his cutie mark of white and black eighth notes. Two of the other talented performers carried themselves with a similar self-possession, their eyes closed as they serenaded the audience. They stood as evidence that earth ponies could be successful musicians, although Octavia Philharmonica was the only one to actually stand as she handled her contrabello with little apparent effort. Her cutie mark, a purple treble clef, justified her assured demeanour as she played. Sharing a similar tone of orchestral decorum, Harpo Parish Nadermane's deep purple hooves plucked the golden harp before him, his eyes occasionally opening to reveal a less striking shade of dulled lime green. His mark was a lyre, visible as he sat on a low stool. Every element of the display was meant to inspire thoughts of elegance. Octavia's tail fell all the way to the ground in a ceremonious matter, retaining its perfectly straight form. Nadermane's harp was made of gold etched with decorative nothings and purple silk. Even the stool which Horseshoepin sat on was elegant, the rim of the cushion lined with some indiscernible kind of gem. Octavia's contrabello was beautiful in its simplicity alone, before accounting for its gloriously crafted f-holes and striking tailpiece. Even the colors of the ponies blended with the stained glass to be neutral to the greater tone of the room. Somehow in the midst of this elegance stood Bluenote Brass. The casual observer might not even have noticed Bluenote's presence because she seemed estranged from the other musicians. She stood on all four hooves unlike the rest of the band, a tinny yellow sousaphone (named after the great march composer John Filly Sousa) wrapped rather tightly around her sky blue body. The large brass instrument hid her flank from the audience, leaving her cutie mark wholly indiscernible. She bounced upwards noticeably on each beat she played, her well-combed brown mane jumping along while maintaining its shape. This sort of technique would normally be frowned upon, but it made no difference. Bluenote's tone stayed consistent and underneath the other pieces of the band. Anypony carrying out a casual conversation in the hall would likely hear a piano and a cello, maybe a harp. The low, mellow root notes were nearly invisible in the gala's simple chords which were designed to fade into the background. With neither fame nor applause to gain from this performance, Bluenote simply embraced the opportunity to be a part of everypony's big night at the gala. Further, she welcomed the chance to play mere feet away from the esteemed Octavia, who could surely hear everything Ms. Brass was doing right or wrong. The sousaphonist wished for a chance to have a proper musical discourse with the contrabellist, but strict rules of behavior were enforced with the threat of losing all credibility as a musician. Such conversation would have to wait. The two played facing each other, all eyes closed in musical harmony. *** It was about one hour into the set of orchestral combo standards when a pink pony literally hopped into the room, wearing a costume with elements of exaggerated baker's and confectioner's costumes. She would barely have been able to pass by as a Canterlot pony if she were to keep her hooves still in her childish socks. It became patently obvious that this pony had no idea where she was when she began a jump down the red carpet, singing a filly's folktune. The true musicians in the room would have been content to continue their set of classics and ignore the foalish behavior if the pink one didn't slide onto the stage between Nadermane and Bluenote. The both of them lost their concentration in shock. Nadermane's irises seemed to shrink as he nearly fell off of his stool. Bluenote accidentally expelled the rest of the air from her lungs, causing a sudden, loud, and high-pitched utterance to come from the least expensive instrument in the room. Missing only a beat, she threw herself back into the music's time. Though her eyes were closed as they were before, she could feel the stares of dozens of sophisticated individuals. She had caused an interruption in the so far perfect concert, and she feared that the gala planner might use his influence in the musical world to assure that she would never have a good job again. Bluenote didn't take notice that the pink pony managed to jump into the grand piano and teleport back to the main floor. She did, however, take note of Professor Horseshoepin's subtle musical cues that signaled a grand pause of the music in just a few measures. The group stopped in time to see the entire hall focused on Pinkie’s abomination of song, and a good five seconds of silence followed. Slowly, a murmur of disapproval came from the crowd. Finally, there was a moment when the band was not engrossed in music. Bluenote allowed her embouchure to loosen and took her mouth off of the instrument. Octavia was appalled by the events and slumped with the sad knowledge that tonight’s performance would forever be imperfect. Depression aside, Bluenote took this as the perfect opportunity to begin conversation with her colleague. “So Oc-“ "From rehearsal D, no pick up." The pianist’s frank instructions struck Bluenote like a dagger. Leaving no more time to talk, Frederic played off three ascending notes, and the band was once again in unity. *** Some five minutes later, the group was once again fully composed, ready to finish their last song of the first "act" and then retire for a time into the crowd. Before a coda could be reached, Bluenote heard the piano halt its playing, and the contrabello soon after. She was just taking another breath when she heard whispering to the left of her. She opened her eyes to see the same mischievous pink mare hanging upside down. "Hey, do you guys know how to play the Pony Pokey? 'Cause there's nothing like the Pony Pokey to turn a party into a super-fun-errific party!" The musicians glanced back and forth, incredulous at the intrusion. Bluenote sighed into her instrument, making a series of off-colour notes that punctuated her exasperation. Horseshoepin stared at the ground, obviously feeling guilty about the prank he pulled on the pink pony earlier. With small twitches of his hoof, he signalled the appropriate tempo, earning glares of disapproval from Octavia and Nadermane. The invader moved over to a stage microphone, addressing the crowd with an impossible lack of formality. Again without any proper chance to communicate, a signal was given by Pinkie to the band to start playing, and their communal internal metronome guided them well through the song. Apparently, all of the musicians had in mind the same four piece arrangement of the foalish tune. Nopony was sure what rules of decorum still applied when the vocalist was singing about the forward, backward, and shaking movement of hooves, so the instrumentalists gave their music full attention. Looking out to the crowd would probably show the most confused expressions ever imagined. *** By the end of the tune, Octavia and her contrabello both lay on the ground unceremoniously, the gray pony nearly catatonic as she gaped at a visible scratch on her instrument. Bluenote had enough of hiding herself from the audience reaction, and stood up on her hind legs to examine the scene with large purple eyes. The crowd was angered by the tone shift of the party, and the idle chatter of unimportant banter had stopped completely. Nadermane also stopped playing, leaving only a spirited piano accompaniment with which the pink lunatic could finish. Octavia gathered herself, clearly more worried about her instrument than her body. Harpo helped with carrying the contrabello off the stage. "Young lady! This is not that kind of party!" A haughty voice was the last thing the four musicians heard as they rushed off of the stage. InvitationBackstage, the four musicians found themselves in an awkward silence. Whatever had come over them, they all found themselves allowing a guest to decide what they should play. Further, they allowed this guest to make a mockery of music and the entire gala. Horseshoepin would have berated Bluenote for giving the intruder a chance to start, had he not been equally guilty. Nadermane was helping Octavia examine every facet of the contrabello, the gray mare a distraught mess by this point. Her hooves ran over the length of the exterior, feeling a distinct dent in the back of the instrument’s body. An expletive ran from her mouth, and she paced around the room in anger, the soles of her hooves stomping on the tiled floor with a percussive rhythm more rigid than her normal canter. “That wild foal had better be ready to pay up!” Octavia yelled. The walls of the castle were well insulated, but it sounded like some sort of commotion was going on in the palace. Any noise Ms. Philharmonica made was easily drowned out. “Tavi, calm down.” Bluenote marched confidently across the room, sousaphone still around her body, placing a hoof on the angered musician. “If it’s damaged, you ca-“ “It is damaged,” the gray mare interjected, shrugging off the hoof, “and I don’t want to hear you tell me that I can just get it fixed. It would take weeks, and it will never have the same beautiful tone again!” She may have come off as a drama queen, but the others in the room could vouch for how important the health of an instrument is. “Stuff happens,” the blue pony once again tried to comfort her friend. “You’re not going to be any worse just because there’s a dent. It’s not like there’s not another one like it.” Bluenote knew that Octavia had been the subject of a few posters advertising the Celuneste brand of stringed instruments, and the contrabello at the gala had on it the interjoined, stylized moon and sun of a high class music company. “You’re one to talk, Blues,” Octavia spat out, disdain in her voice. “It’s not like you’ve played personally for royalty with this, or toured across Equestria with a prized possession, or ever been able to play anything more than that chunk of copper!” She ran her hoof around the rim of the marching tuba, reaching up as she did so. “That’s not something fit to play at the gala! That’s something that belongs at the stands for a university hoofball game!” Octavia stood angry above Bluenote, their postures contrasting. The two of them had struck discordant chords against each other, and the brass player was shrinking back down into her instrument against her intimidating colleague. Two pairs of wide, purple eyes stared at each other, Octavia’s a decidedly more gray and underspoken shade. Despite this, hers were more intense in the moment, filled with the rage of a wronged musician. Bluenote took a quiet step back. “O-Octavia…” The tense air was broken not by any of the four in the room, but instead by sounds heard through the castle walls. Five huge crashes of stone on stone rocked the palace, and the earth shook as pillars toppled to the ground. The expectable public panic held off for about fifteen seconds, when the doors crashed open and a yell of “LOVE ME!” permeated the silent atmosphere. With this, the crowd (and what sounded like monkeys?) made a raucous scene that could only be heard by the musicians, who stopped what they were doing and turned to the door. “Well, I’m out.” Harpo Parish Nadermane quickly uttered before running out the door, towards the nearest exit with the rest of the crowd. “I’ve no more to do here.” Frederic Horseshoepin said as he trotted away from the two musical mares, ready to leave for his Canterlot residence. “And you, my dearest Blues?” Octavia mocked, the contrabello now once again in her arms, “Will you leave me here alone?” “I don’t think you want me here with you right now, Tavi.” Bluenote used the fillyhood nickname in endearment while Octavia did so in some disgust. “That is correct,” the gray mare remarked matter-of-factly. The two of them shared a moment of silence before Bluenote turned about face, her long and winding tube of brass turning with her. Her brown mane and tail similarly swayed with her march style movement. “We’ll catch up right some time, Tavi. When you’re not angrier than Nightmare Moon.” Octavia didn’t have a chance for rebuttal before the doors swung back closed, leaving her and her instrument alone inside a castle of chaos. *** The trek out to the horse-drawn carriages was a harsh one. As is always the case with the Grand Galloping Gala, there were thousands of ponies involved. This year, they all were trying to leave at once. Despite any impression she may have given off, Bluenote wasn’t eager to get her instrument damaged, and wasn’t in a position to take it off. Its case was at home, and how she ever got the huge horn on and off in the first place was the topic of minor speculation. So, she braved her way through the crowd, keeping her posture straight. She ticked to herself like a snare’s metronomic pattern of taps, denoting the steps of her front left hoof. Some mares and stallions cleared in front of her at times, perhaps intimidated by the sousaphone. She eventually found her way over the rolling hills of the castle garden to the main road where dozens of stagecoaches waited. The closest unoccupied carriage to her was being pulled by a lone male earth pony with a cream caramel coat and cyan eyes, a bowtie around his neck like many of the gala attendees. Bluenote climbed into the coach, making sure not to bump her brass in the process. The carriage was not designed to accommodate for such an object, but with a bit of maneuvering, she was able to stand comfortably in solitude. “You don’t mind if I’m in here alone, do you?” Bluenote asked in an unintentionally aggressive tone. “No I don’t, ma’am,” the pulling stallion replied automatically. His voice was deeper than expected, but still sounded a bit uncertain. “Where are we headed, ma’am?” The sousapony spouted out a corner address from memory. “Really, the P0n-3 show? You didn’t seem the type.” Without looking back, the stallion began his somewhat slow trot out into downtown Canterlot. “I mean, it’s not like I got too good of a look at you. Not because you’re … you know, I’ll just shut up and pull right now.” The driver seemed the kind who would ramble on one-sidedly for an hour if given the chance. Bluenote couldn’t find it in herself to laugh at the social ineptitude. “My apartment is on the same corner,” she explained. “Sorry…” The caramel pony hung his head down a bit and continued his pace towards the brighter parts of Canterlot. Realizing she had snapped at him, Bluenote let back on her tone of voice. “I’m sorry, I’m berating you on assumptions and I never even caught your name.” The stallion’s posture snapped back up in optimism as he took the time to look back at his current passenger. Her hair was becoming frayed from the stress of the gala, her mane losing its curl and finding itself covering the top of her left eye. “I’m Caramel,” he stuttered. From the awkward walking angle of his body, his cutie mark could be made out as three blue horseshoes. He smiled a stupid smile with the same class he had carried himself in the last minute or so of conversation. “Shouldn’t you be wa-“ Bluenote tried to warn Caramel before he bumped into another coach headed in the opposite direction, which snapped him back to reality. “Just keep looking forward, Mr. Caramel.” “Sorry, ma’am, sorry.” He stumbled for a moment over a crack of cobblestone before regaining his canter and spending the next hooffull minutes in silence. The driver and passenger slowly made their way closer to downtown Canterlot, the stray streetlight fading out to the magically magnified moonlight and starlight. The land was bright, and various clubs, bars, restaurants, and shops displayed themselves to a consumer with the éclat and dazzle of a showmare. A constant layer of talking ponies set the scene for street performers and the faint beat of clubs. “So, why did you leave so early? Don’t the musicians have to stay ‘til the end?” Caramel inquired, trying to calm down his embittered passenger with mindless conversation. “We were forced to leave because the gala ended early.” Bluenote explained with more patience. “Why?” He asked simply in stark contrast to the sophistication of Bluenote’s last several hours. “I don’t know.” She answered after a brief pause. “Everypony was running and screaming, the castle was a mess, and animals were running around the halls.” She would have been content with her answer if the party were ever officially called off. “You don’t think I’m in trouble, do you?” Suddenly, she once again had reason to worry for her career. “No, why would you?” Caramel’s gaze was now staying forwards, but drifted now and again to examine a storefront. His response seemed automatic and without thought. “Well, they never said I could leave! What if they think I’m a deserter? And what about the times I messed up? Or playing pieces out of the repertoire! Mr. Jazz could make it so I never have a good job again!” Her voice climbed the reaches of her range, ending her miniature panic in a high, whiny register. He let out a chuckle, a comforting one like that of a grandfather. “I don’t think there’s a job in the world that’s that bad. I don’t think there’d even be anypony to listen to you if you stayed…” Caramel’s voice trailed off, unable to end the sentence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name either, ma’am.” “Bluenote Brass,” she recited, giving a reflexive bow which her companion couldn’t see. “The musical world is very unforgiving.” “Maybe yours,” he retorted as he gave another quick laugh. “I can’t think of one artist on my iPony who’s perfect. Hedged Sevenfold, Daft Pony, David Petal, Hooves and Roses, Whinny Hendrix, they’ve all messed up, especially in concert.” Bluenote pondered the examples for a minute. “So, wait, you have Hedged Sevenfold and David Petal on your iPony?” “Yup,” he answered. “Sorry, do you not know who they are? David Petal did 'Where Them Mares At' and 'Sexy Bit,' Hedged Sevenfold did 'Night Mare,' 'Celestia Ha-'“ “Yeah, I know!” She cut him off before more song names could be dropped. “I just didn’t really think you’d like both of them at once. They’re pretty different genres.” The pop culture references distracted her for the moment from her alleged career issues. “No way you like them,” Caramel taunted in disbelief. “You’re worrying about Mozcart and Beethoofen one minute and liking today’s music the next.” “What, just because I make one kind of music, I can’t like another?” Bluenote responded playfully. “No, no, of course not!” He seemed worried that he offended his passenger. “You just really didn’t look like the kind of pony, like I said earlier.” He paused, trying not to run his mouth and say more than he had to like the first time the topic was brought up. “I mean, you came out of the palace with an instrument. I thought everyone at the gala was a stuck-up rich pony.” “I don’t really feel like I fit in there, anyway.” Bluenote sighed a sigh of fatigue. “I need to not make a foal of myself in front of all of those high class fillies and gentlecolts, and apparently it’s not too easy.” “I would recommend going to see P0n-3 if you get the chance. If the bass doesn’t get your mind off your problems, the drinks will.” Caramel spoke over his shoulder as they were beginning to approach their destination. He gave an honest smile and another one of his laughs, this one less reserved. It was a laugh at the world, and Bluenote couldn’t help but share it. “Thank you, Caramel,” Bluenote said, “but I think I’ll be occupied tonight.” “Alright, if you say so.” Caramel’s voice trailed upwards, implying a question. Bluenote took this as a challenge, deciding to speak with the sense of artificial formality she would have used at the Gala. “I’ll have you know I’m very busy. This sousaphone doesn’t maintain itself, you know. And if I had free time, I would spend it in a far more meaningful way that being bounced between drunk, flirtatious colts.” “If you say so,” he repeated, tone climbing even higher into a sing-songy taunt. Within a minute they were at their destination. Bluenote carefully climbed out of the coach, and dug into her saddlebags for bits for the driver. There were no bits in the saddlebag. There was no saddlebag on her pony at all. The musician hadn’t even noticed that she only brought her instrument to the gala. She planned to walk back, but the hustle and bustle of the Gala’s ending changed her mind. “I’m sorry, I’ll be right back, please trust me!” Without more explanation, Bluenote ran into the apartment building. No sooner did she enter than almost collide with a mare with a light blue coat in the lobby. Her mane was layered, icy white over cerulean blue. “Colgate, lend me five bits? You’ll get them back first thing tomorrow.” “Sure thing!” The blue-eyed pony replied with a smile. Without hesitation, she reached into her bags and flipped out with her teeth a five-bit piece. “Why do you need it?” Maybe she should have asked before giving the money. “Need to pay a cabby and my stuff’s upstairs.” The explanation was rushed, and Bluenote turned to pay Caramel. Through the exchange, her sousaphone was still around her body. “Thanks for waiting, and thanks for the ride!” Bluenote smiled courteously at Caramel, who took the coin from the outstretched hoof without taking his eyes off of the mare’s face. “You have fun with your sousathingy, now.” Caramel looked over at a clock. “My, look at the time,” he muttered. “What time is it?” Bluenote disregarded the sousathingy comment and looked over to a clock. The time had officially passed over into the morning of the next day. “Time for me to return this coach and then I’m done for the night. Good-bye, have a nice night maintaining your instrument.” Caramel took care now to not call the sousaphone by any incorrect name. He turned off for the road. Bluenote watched him begin his trot off, and thought of what her night would look like. Valve oil and cheap salt, most likely. That and the complexities of taking off the blasted brass. “Hey, Caramel!” Bluenote shouted out a bit more loudly than she had expected, a hoof outstretched towards the coach. The brown pony turned, perfectly round eyes cocked in confusion. “Sorry, yes?” Normally this meant he forgot to give proper change to a customer. “Meet me back here in an hour for that club across the corner?” Now where in Equestria did that come from? Insomniac DreamsFor the second time in one night, Bluenote found herself jumping too quickly into situations. For one, telling Caramel to be back at her place in an hour was way too small a timeframe. She took nearly half the time getting out of her sousaphone. It was a ritual that could have been thoroughly avoided if the instrument were divided, but instead took twenty minutes and a copious amount of contortion. The sousathingy, as a non-musician might call it, was hastily stowed in its case. The rest of her time was spent preparing for a late night at the club. She looked around her apartment, unclasping her bowtie and laying it down on a dresser. The whole place looked like a father had set it up and let his daughter live in it for a few weeks. There was still an illusion of order from the last time she cleaned up, but it was so much quicker to throw things about haphazardly. The apartment had what was needed in the space of four rooms. She could have spent an hour looking over the living quarters, musing over a hypothetical dream home, but she hadn’t allotted herself that kind of time tonight. Bluenote trotted into the shower, keeping the water cold. In there she pondered what to wear to the club across the corner, settling on nothing but a thin and loose chain necklace of silver. It couldn’t possibly be a formal environment. Most nights its lights were on until sunrise, and a careful observer could feel the bass resonate through the ground. She once again asked herself what she was thinking asking a stallion she barely knew to the club. You felt bad for him. You were bored. You needed an excuse to go. The music’s supposed to be good. The drinks are, too. It’s better than sitting at home. He seems like an alright pony. Excuses buzzed around in her head, bouncing like a swarm of a thousand frenzied parasprites. Any such thoughts with romantic tones were singled out to be swatted away. Unfortunately, it’s not easy to catch up to such energetic emotion. The light blue mare’s coat was becoming saturated with water, as was her brown mane which tangled within her coat. Her tail similarly lost form and was pushed lightly by water on the shower tile. The frigid flow helped to keep her thoughts level as she went through the cleaning process as quickly as possible. She stepped out after she was satisfied with her job of cleansing herself of the gala and the stress that it caused. She shook herself crudely to throw standing water off before grabbing some towels and fervently drying off. She quite thoroughly abused the present perfume, aware that all senses would be obscured in a small number of minutes by the busy ambience of nightlife. Top notes of jasmine and orange blossom dominated the rest of the scents. She was drying herself for as long as she could afford while she finished the rest of her preparation. She made sure to bring along bits this time. Bluenote began combing her mane and coat as time ticked down, choosing an uneven level. The front of her mane was allowed to sneak over her right eye, obscuring the lashes. She could barely remember the last time she’d been in a club atmosphere, and remembered even less the proper decorum. Her friends and colleagues generally guided her away from the more contemporary musical scene. In an attempt to calm herself, she took a minute to more carefully pack away her instrument than she had when rushing back to her apartment. As confident as she would be, Bluenote strode out of her room and down to the main lobby. Her toothpaste-colored friend was no longer in the lobby, presumably having more important things to do. The sousaphonist held her form high, hooves gliding low over the ground as she trotted outside. Her eyes were open and determined, focusing directly forward. As she stepped out the door, she saw Caramel looking up at the walls of the nightclub. The building stood several stories tall, and its street corner was cut out on the first floor to make way for sets of glass double doors blocked by bouncers and dividers. Two poorly formed lines from either side of the corner slowly proceeded forward, guided by tiles installed in the sidewalk that glowed a fluorescent green. A wavy group of neon tubes ran across the top of the structure, arranged in rainbow formation. They met at the corner, taking a sharp turn upwards and running onto the empty roof of the building. On top of the lights in the front was the name of the club in a gaudy, bright red font. “Insomniac Dreams” must have sounded witty when first pitched. The caramel brown stallion stood mesmerized by the lights and sounds of the bar and dance club. Behind him, his companion prowled up to his left, centimeters away from her hair brushing against his. The blue mare swayed and leaned with exaggeration, nestling the side of her muzzle into Caramel’s mane. It was softer than she expected. His body stiffened in surprise, coming back into reality. His shoulders in particular shot back, and Bluenote felt that in her jaw like a short punch. Undeterred, she spoke quietly and slowly into his ear. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Caramel.” Her eyes were closed, and she dug deeper into his hair. “H-hey,” Caramel responded tentatively. He allowed his posture to relax and turned his snout over hers. The two of them stood on the street corner for a moment together before the blue mare pulled her muzzle out. She took a better look at Caramel. His mane was pushed forwards, parting into a few bangs above his eyes. His tail lacked the definite S shape that it had an hour before, leaving a shorter and less formal look. He cocked his head after a moment of Bluenote’s examination. “Is everything alright?” “Mmhmm,” She replied quickly, “Just thinking. Shall we?” She flicked her head in the direction of the bright neon signs for “The Dream.” “Sure.” Caramel wasn’t as keen on masking himself with confidence as Bluenote was. The two of them crossed over to the corner of the club and stood themselves at the back of a slow queue to enter. In front of them, several dozen ponies were exchanging idle conversation with one another. Most of them looked like they would at home, but a few dressed up with goggle shades or glowsticks. As the line inched forwards, Bluenote could feel a heavy kick drum at what she recognized as march tempo. The beat resonated in her hooves as she passively tapped a hind heel down with each hit. No speakers lined the walls outside of the club; any sound heard right now was just finding its way through the building. The two worked their way up to the front without speaking much to each other. A bouncer with an icy blue mohawk waved them through after a cursory glance. He pointed to the doors with a hoof. The huge room seemed to flicker in and out of existence by the light of green lasers. Before either of them had a chance to enter, the beat stopped, and the green flashes cut out completely. Caramel opened the door for Bluenote, and they proceeded through a blank vestibule to the club proper. The room was packed with ponies passionately moving with the trance saws that cut through the air. The entire sound of Insomniac Dreams was focused in the treble ranges for a fleeting moment before bass started to fade in through subwoofers on and in the ground. As the deeper waves entered, a platform overlooking the whole floor illuminated with electric blue. The star of the night’s show slowly raised her head up until she was staring at the ceiling through purple-tinted lenses. A kick build fazed in and the DJ pulled herself higher, looking like she could fall backwards. The whole track cut for half a beat, and P0n-3 raised her front hooves off the ground. Her entire body snapped back down as electronic hats and cymbals crashed. Her gel-styled cerulean mane bounced violently but maintained form as bassy tones retook the club by storm. Her smug smile bobbed up and down in time as music saturated with fourth and fifth power chords evoked cheers from her captive audience. Caramel and Bluenote stared up in awe at the theatric performance of a bass drop. The dance floor bounced with the continual bass and snare. The crowd formed circles, some of two or three friends and some totaling to several dozens. Some groups pumped hooves in the air while others pulsed their whole bodies to the beat. Some colts and fillies were practically dancing on top of each other, fueled by the primeval desires of their partners. Whatever the activities, everypony was having a good time save for the rare awkward friend trying to make conversation with a dancing companion. The moving wall of ponies was intimidating to enter alone. Caramel and Bluenote circled around it, eventually finding a nook to fill. The song was in a period of decline, bass quieting and treble losing sharpness. The two allowed their bodies to embrace the slowing rhythm, guided by the push of those around them. The mob was powered by the kick drum, and when it stopped, the club stopped jumping and started swaying. Bluenote looked up at the DJ presiding over the event. Her head bobbed constantly, and one of her hooves was placed in front of her on a soundboard, messing with precise volumes and reverberations. Once satisfied, she shifted to hitting a black pad on the board. Kick re-entered on uneven beats where the synth was quieter. On the cue of an ending melody, the white mare slammed forward another meter, throwing pulsing offbeats into mix. The beat of the bass drum was back in full swing, maybe louder than before. “Sorry, are you alright?” Caramel’s voice broke through the noise of the club and pierced Bluenote’s thoughts. "You haven't said much tonight." She shook her head, continuing to gaze up at the confident queen of the decks. “Yeah. Maybe just tired?” A forced laugh came from her lips. “What’s this DJ’s name again?” “DJ P0n-3.” Caramel replied, sure of the pronunciation of the name. “Her real name’s Vinyl Scratch. She used to go by DJ Raverider, but only the hipsteers call her that now.” “How do you know that?” Bluenote quizzed over the heavy beat. “Wikiponia,” Caramel shrugged. “She’ll do some more complex stuff as the night goes on.” “Why, the mix isn’t full enough already?” The two shared a laugh as the track in the building built up on a chromatic pattern before another huge crash sent the song back to the four measures or so that repeated to make up the song. “It’s good ear candy. I like it.” “Glad to introduce anypony to new music.” Caramel smiled as laser lights absorbed into his coat. The show did indeed get more involved. The tempos of the music gradually sped up, the number of tracks in each song multiplied, and every style of techno was explored. Trance lead to acid lead to breakbeat, then to rave and glitch and dubstep. The whole universe for everypony inside was controlled by the DJ, whose smile never faltered through her concert. She ended the show like the rest of the crowd: glistening with sweat and at least a bit drunk. Bluenote and Caramel joined in the minutes-long ovation that followed the last encore. “Thank you, Canterlot!” Vinyl screamed into a microphone in front of her, her vocal chords clearly shot from the last few hours of partying. “I’m out!” One last time, she slammed a limp hoof onto a button and a low male voice took hold of the room. “Every day I’m gallopin’,” it said before leading into a scratchy synth devoid of the heavy bass and live performance P0n-3 had just offered. She turned away from her audience and exited her elevated stage. Lasers and fluorescent blues and greens gave way to more natural white and yellow lights in the ceiling. The show was officially over, and some patrons already made a mad dash for the exit. A few straggling colts decided that the party was only over when they said so, and they continued to dance on the main floor. Bluenote began moving for the exit with the rest of the crowd. Caramel put a hoof out in front of her to stop the motion. “Let’s head over to the bar, okay?” She was willing to accept the suggestion, her mind still foggy from a cup too many of heavily spiked and sweetened punch. The two of them had exchanged amusing conversation for the time inside the club, and Caramel seemed like a trustworthy, if not sometimes forgetful pony. They reached the bar, where a light tan stallion with a martini glass for a cutie mark was filling multiple orders at once. “P0n-3 normally hangs here after her shows,” Caramel explained. “You come here often, then?” Bluenote slurred, swaying her body towards her companion. “Twice before, so not really. I’m surprised you haven’t. I’d go more often if I lived across from the Dream.” He stepped up to the bar and tapped it in an attempt to get some attention. Bluenote looked around at the dozens still remaining in the club, likely all here to get autographs or a picture with a famous musician. I’m a famous musician… she complained in jest to herself, why don’t I get to sign autographs? Who wouldn’t want a signed picture with the tubist of the Fillydelphia Philharmonic? She exhaled, pushing her mane up for a moment before it fell lifelessly. Bluenote leaned herself against a vacant table for a few minutes until the musician of the night stepped out of a door across the dance floor. Excitement murmured from the compact crowd at the bar, and they parted a lane to the alcohol for Vinyl. “So, how’d y’all like it?” the mare with ever-gelled hair asked to nopony in particular. The question got a holler of positive cheers from the group, which hushed when she kept talking. “It’s awesome to get to set up the beats for nights like this, ‘Specially ‘cause at least one of you’s gonna remember tonight. I look like I stepped out of Everfree Forest right now, but anypony want any photos or autographs?” She glanced at the bartender. “Sonic Rainbomb, by the way.” The DJ commandeered an empty table, and a mob formed around her. She levitated a pen with her horn and started scribbling on a photo of herself a fan pushed at her. Bluenote and Caramel pushed into the fray, Caramel having brought Super Ponybeat Vol. 1 to the show to get signed. By the time they reached the front of the queue, most ponies had their seconds to chat with a celebrity, and only a dozen or so patrons were left in the club. Caramel pushed forward the album with a hoof, and Vinyl reflexively stated signing it. “I really liked the show,” Bluenote chimed in. “Was that Contrapunctus you sampled in your last piece?” P0n-3’s head shot up at the mention of the piece name, and she looked over Bluenote through purple lenses. “Yeah,” she replied slowly, “by Johoof Sebastian Bach. I’m guessing by that cutie mark you’re a musician?” Bluenote looked down at the black bass clef blazoned on her flank. “Yes, that’s right.” The DJ took another swig of the rainbow drink in front of her. “Great, legit. Can you come up with me to the booth in a few? I need help on a song, but the studio’s full of morons and my fans always just say it’s great. It’ll only be a couple of minutes, I swear.” She handed the signed album back to Caramel, who looked just as surprised as Bluenote at the proposition. “Well, I don’t really know about that.” Bluenote admitted. “I mean, I play the sousaphone. It’s not like I’m the best at music theory.” “Even better!” Vinyl’s eyes probably brightened behind the goggle shades, which looked like they’d been wiped clear of fog recently. “Formal training just makes limits. Like ponies saying we can only have five toppings on top of our pizza.” Seeing the confused looks across the table, she added in, “I’ll explain that later. I still gotta greet a few more guests. You can bring your coltfriend, if you want.” “He’s not my co-“ The rebuttal was interrupted by the next clubgoers pushing her out from between them and P0n-3. “That’s great!” Caramel exclaimed. “Do you want me to stay for the music making?” Bluenote thought for a minute. “No, I think you should go home and get at least some sleep.” She embraced Caramel with a foreleg. “Thanks for giving me a chance to come here, Caramel.” “Thank you,” he replied, “for inviting me.” “If you want to find me again, you know where I am,” Bluenote offered. She stepped back from the embrace and looked through tired eyes for one last time at Caramel. He had a good time tonight. “I do. Good bye, Bluenote.” He considered saying something more. The last words flowed insubstantially out of his mouth, but he just turned away towards the exit. Well, I guess I might remember tonight after all. Bluenote looked around for any sort of clock. It was intentionally hard to find, but she saw an analog timepiece behind the bar. 4 AM. Could be worse. Author’s Note: Never listen to a three minute loop of ear candy when you have school tomorrow. It will invade your thoughts and keep you in a catatonic state while granting you no benefits of sleep. SorryVinyl led the way up a narrow, dimly lit staircase. Bluenote averted her gaze down to the steps directly in front of her to avoid staring at the DJ’s rump the whole way, as interesting a conversation as that might have sparked. Fifty or so steps of lightly inebriated gait later, the two musicians were overlooking the club floor. Employees cleaned up the aftermath of the party to a mellow track by Fountains of Mane. Bluenote looked at the synthesizing machine in front of her. Two keyboards set the base, and behind them were a few dozen pads marked with drum names by masking tape. Past those were at least a dozen sliders, most of them pushed all the way forwards. Further back still were hundreds of knobs locked in a grid, labeled for pitch modulation, equalization, reverberation, stereo balancing, and a myriad of other effects. Connected to the huge machine was a much simpler short box that sat next to it on the long table. Under its blank display screen were a dial for master volume and jacks for headphones and input. On either side was a turntable, both covered with unmarked black vinyl. Scratch laughed at the blue mare’s attempts to understand the complexities of modern music as she pulled a Gaitway laptop out from underneath the table. The computer began its boot up and vinyl lifted two pairs of huge Sennhalter headphones next to the synthesizing modules. The percussive sound of the drop shook Bluenote from her momentary trance, and Vinyl snickered again when the blue mare’s body tensed up. “Put a pair of those on,” the DJ demanded simply. After a minute of trying to open the headphones, fumbling them to the ground a few times in her clumsy hooves, Bluenote donned the equipment. Vinyl telekinetically plugged in both pairs, lifting the oversized headset to her ears. Her horn illuminated soft white for a moment before the computer recognized the magical signature and allowed access to the musical machine. It booted straight to a synthesizing program nearly as complicated as the hardware in the booth. Okay. I forgot what I was doing with this story. There was about a two week gap between the last paragraph and this one. I buried the possibilities I laid out for any semblance of plot in the first three sections, and there’s nowhere I could go where I wouldn’t grow to hate my writing. Fic / writing experiment abruptly ended. Thanks to everypony who left comments. Thanks to the ones who give 4 and 5 stars for convincing me to keep writing, and thanks to the 2 and 3 star ratings that tell me I need to do better. (If you give a 1 star rating and don’t comment explaining why, I won’t love you anymore.) The next time I write, I hope that I avoid so much extraneous detail in my description. I also want to have something happen. I’m thinking a cutie mark parlor, exploring morality and legality (and technology) of Equestrian body art. Please leave any thoughts in the comments. Sorry I couldn’t give this story any resolution or anything. I’ll try and choose a good story next time.
Always AwfulThe Grand Galloping Gala is always awful. It’s worse for some ponies than others. In the palace in Canterlot, there was a great dance hall. The floor was patterned with huge, purple tinted checkered tile topped with red carpets. The ground shone like the opulent jewelry the aristocrats at the gala wore. Expensive vases housed towering plants, highlighting their innumerable blooms. Windows three stories high looked out upon the purple gradience of night. Others were blocked from view by gold-lined silk hangings. Immense stained glass landscapes of all colors lined the hall. The room was circled by segmented stone pillars, marbled with cloudy white swirls. A grand statue of an alicorn crafted of magically reinforced white gold stood precariously upon a gold and black pedestal. Even the most extravagant of ponies couldn't help but gasp in awe as they entered. In the front of it all, opposite the main entranceway, was a raised stage upon which twenty royal guardsmen could stand comfortably. Behind it, two panes of stained glass portrayed celestial objects in all shades and tints of blue. Curtains as tall as the hall itself were pulled back to show the beautiful architecture, but also to frame the four musicians fortunate enough to earn the chance to perform on the night of the gala. On stage right was the official group leader on the piano, Professor Frederic Horseshoepin. His striking green eyes were the only pair to be open for most of the performance, giving a look of confidence as he embraced the simplicity of the Gala's background music. His confidence extended to his appearance, as his light tan coiffure refused to budge as he swayed side to side with the music. His playing position prominently displayed his cutie mark of white and black eighth notes. Two of the other talented performers carried themselves with a similar self-possession, their eyes closed as they serenaded the audience. They stood as evidence that earth ponies could be successful musicians, although Octavia Philharmonica was the only one to actually stand as she handled her contrabello with little apparent effort. Her cutie mark, a purple treble clef, justified her assured demeanour as she played. Sharing a similar tone of orchestral decorum, Harpo Parish Nadermane's deep purple hooves plucked the golden harp before him, his eyes occasionally opening to reveal a less striking shade of dulled lime green. His mark was a lyre, visible as he sat on a low stool. Every element of the display was meant to inspire thoughts of elegance. Octavia's tail fell all the way to the ground in a ceremonious matter, retaining its perfectly straight form. Nadermane's harp was made of gold etched with decorative nothings and purple silk. Even the stool which Horseshoepin sat on was elegant, the rim of the cushion lined with some indiscernible kind of gem. Octavia's contrabello was beautiful in its simplicity alone, before accounting for its gloriously crafted f-holes and striking tailpiece. Even the colors of the ponies blended with the stained glass to be neutral to the greater tone of the room. Somehow in the midst of this elegance stood Bluenote Brass. The casual observer might not even have noticed Bluenote's presence because she seemed estranged from the other musicians. She stood on all four hooves unlike the rest of the band, a tinny yellow sousaphone (named after the great march composer John Filly Sousa) wrapped rather tightly around her sky blue body. The large brass instrument hid her flank from the audience, leaving her cutie mark wholly indiscernible. She bounced upwards noticeably on each beat she played, her well-combed brown mane jumping along while maintaining its shape. This sort of technique would normally be frowned upon, but it made no difference. Bluenote's tone stayed consistent and underneath the other pieces of the band. Anypony carrying out a casual conversation in the hall would likely hear a piano and a cello, maybe a harp. The low, mellow root notes were nearly invisible in the gala's simple chords which were designed to fade into the background. With neither fame nor applause to gain from this performance, Bluenote simply embraced the opportunity to be a part of everypony's big night at the gala. Further, she welcomed the chance to play mere feet away from the esteemed Octavia, who could surely hear everything Ms. Brass was doing right or wrong. The sousaphonist wished for a chance to have a proper musical discourse with the contrabellist, but strict rules of behavior were enforced with the threat of losing all credibility as a musician. Such conversation would have to wait. The two played facing each other, all eyes closed in musical harmony. *** It was about one hour into the set of orchestral combo standards when a pink pony literally hopped into the room, wearing a costume with elements of exaggerated baker's and confectioner's costumes. She would barely have been able to pass by as a Canterlot pony if she were to keep her hooves still in her childish socks. It became patently obvious that this pony had no idea where she was when she began a jump down the red carpet, singing a filly's folktune. The true musicians in the room would have been content to continue their set of classics and ignore the foalish behavior if the pink one didn't slide onto the stage between Nadermane and Bluenote. The both of them lost their concentration in shock. Nadermane's irises seemed to shrink as he nearly fell off of his stool. Bluenote accidentally expelled the rest of the air from her lungs, causing a sudden, loud, and high-pitched utterance to come from the least expensive instrument in the room. Missing only a beat, she threw herself back into the music's time. Though her eyes were closed as they were before, she could feel the stares of dozens of sophisticated individuals. She had caused an interruption in the so far perfect concert, and she feared that the gala planner might use his influence in the musical world to assure that she would never have a good job again. Bluenote didn't take notice that the pink pony managed to jump into the grand piano and teleport back to the main floor. She did, however, take note of Professor Horseshoepin's subtle musical cues that signaled a grand pause of the music in just a few measures. The group stopped in time to see the entire hall focused on Pinkie’s abomination of song, and a good five seconds of silence followed. Slowly, a murmur of disapproval came from the crowd. Finally, there was a moment when the band was not engrossed in music. Bluenote allowed her embouchure to loosen and took her mouth off of the instrument. Octavia was appalled by the events and slumped with the sad knowledge that tonight’s performance would forever be imperfect. Depression aside, Bluenote took this as the perfect opportunity to begin conversation with her colleague. “So Oc-“ "From rehearsal D, no pick up." The pianist’s frank instructions struck Bluenote like a dagger. Leaving no more time to talk, Frederic played off three ascending notes, and the band was once again in unity. *** Some five minutes later, the group was once again fully composed, ready to finish their last song of the first "act" and then retire for a time into the crowd. Before a coda could be reached, Bluenote heard the piano halt its playing, and the contrabello soon after. She was just taking another breath when she heard whispering to the left of her. She opened her eyes to see the same mischievous pink mare hanging upside down. "Hey, do you guys know how to play the Pony Pokey? 'Cause there's nothing like the Pony Pokey to turn a party into a super-fun-errific party!" The musicians glanced back and forth, incredulous at the intrusion. Bluenote sighed into her instrument, making a series of off-colour notes that punctuated her exasperation. Horseshoepin stared at the ground, obviously feeling guilty about the prank he pulled on the pink pony earlier. With small twitches of his hoof, he signalled the appropriate tempo, earning glares of disapproval from Octavia and Nadermane. The invader moved over to a stage microphone, addressing the crowd with an impossible lack of formality. Again without any proper chance to communicate, a signal was given by Pinkie to the band to start playing, and their communal internal metronome guided them well through the song. Apparently, all of the musicians had in mind the same four piece arrangement of the foalish tune. Nopony was sure what rules of decorum still applied when the vocalist was singing about the forward, backward, and shaking movement of hooves, so the instrumentalists gave their music full attention. Looking out to the crowd would probably show the most confused expressions ever imagined. *** By the end of the tune, Octavia and her contrabello both lay on the ground unceremoniously, the gray pony nearly catatonic as she gaped at a visible scratch on her instrument. Bluenote had enough of hiding herself from the audience reaction, and stood up on her hind legs to examine the scene with large purple eyes. The crowd was angered by the tone shift of the party, and the idle chatter of unimportant banter had stopped completely. Nadermane also stopped playing, leaving only a spirited piano accompaniment with which the pink lunatic could finish. Octavia gathered herself, clearly more worried about her instrument than her body. Harpo helped with carrying the contrabello off the stage. "Young lady! This is not that kind of party!" A haughty voice was the last thing the four musicians heard as they rushed off of the stage.
InvitationBackstage, the four musicians found themselves in an awkward silence. Whatever had come over them, they all found themselves allowing a guest to decide what they should play. Further, they allowed this guest to make a mockery of music and the entire gala. Horseshoepin would have berated Bluenote for giving the intruder a chance to start, had he not been equally guilty. Nadermane was helping Octavia examine every facet of the contrabello, the gray mare a distraught mess by this point. Her hooves ran over the length of the exterior, feeling a distinct dent in the back of the instrument’s body. An expletive ran from her mouth, and she paced around the room in anger, the soles of her hooves stomping on the tiled floor with a percussive rhythm more rigid than her normal canter. “That wild foal had better be ready to pay up!” Octavia yelled. The walls of the castle were well insulated, but it sounded like some sort of commotion was going on in the palace. Any noise Ms. Philharmonica made was easily drowned out. “Tavi, calm down.” Bluenote marched confidently across the room, sousaphone still around her body, placing a hoof on the angered musician. “If it’s damaged, you ca-“ “It is damaged,” the gray mare interjected, shrugging off the hoof, “and I don’t want to hear you tell me that I can just get it fixed. It would take weeks, and it will never have the same beautiful tone again!” She may have come off as a drama queen, but the others in the room could vouch for how important the health of an instrument is. “Stuff happens,” the blue pony once again tried to comfort her friend. “You’re not going to be any worse just because there’s a dent. It’s not like there’s not another one like it.” Bluenote knew that Octavia had been the subject of a few posters advertising the Celuneste brand of stringed instruments, and the contrabello at the gala had on it the interjoined, stylized moon and sun of a high class music company. “You’re one to talk, Blues,” Octavia spat out, disdain in her voice. “It’s not like you’ve played personally for royalty with this, or toured across Equestria with a prized possession, or ever been able to play anything more than that chunk of copper!” She ran her hoof around the rim of the marching tuba, reaching up as she did so. “That’s not something fit to play at the gala! That’s something that belongs at the stands for a university hoofball game!” Octavia stood angry above Bluenote, their postures contrasting. The two of them had struck discordant chords against each other, and the brass player was shrinking back down into her instrument against her intimidating colleague. Two pairs of wide, purple eyes stared at each other, Octavia’s a decidedly more gray and underspoken shade. Despite this, hers were more intense in the moment, filled with the rage of a wronged musician. Bluenote took a quiet step back. “O-Octavia…” The tense air was broken not by any of the four in the room, but instead by sounds heard through the castle walls. Five huge crashes of stone on stone rocked the palace, and the earth shook as pillars toppled to the ground. The expectable public panic held off for about fifteen seconds, when the doors crashed open and a yell of “LOVE ME!” permeated the silent atmosphere. With this, the crowd (and what sounded like monkeys?) made a raucous scene that could only be heard by the musicians, who stopped what they were doing and turned to the door. “Well, I’m out.” Harpo Parish Nadermane quickly uttered before running out the door, towards the nearest exit with the rest of the crowd. “I’ve no more to do here.” Frederic Horseshoepin said as he trotted away from the two musical mares, ready to leave for his Canterlot residence. “And you, my dearest Blues?” Octavia mocked, the contrabello now once again in her arms, “Will you leave me here alone?” “I don’t think you want me here with you right now, Tavi.” Bluenote used the fillyhood nickname in endearment while Octavia did so in some disgust. “That is correct,” the gray mare remarked matter-of-factly. The two of them shared a moment of silence before Bluenote turned about face, her long and winding tube of brass turning with her. Her brown mane and tail similarly swayed with her march style movement. “We’ll catch up right some time, Tavi. When you’re not angrier than Nightmare Moon.” Octavia didn’t have a chance for rebuttal before the doors swung back closed, leaving her and her instrument alone inside a castle of chaos. *** The trek out to the horse-drawn carriages was a harsh one. As is always the case with the Grand Galloping Gala, there were thousands of ponies involved. This year, they all were trying to leave at once. Despite any impression she may have given off, Bluenote wasn’t eager to get her instrument damaged, and wasn’t in a position to take it off. Its case was at home, and how she ever got the huge horn on and off in the first place was the topic of minor speculation. So, she braved her way through the crowd, keeping her posture straight. She ticked to herself like a snare’s metronomic pattern of taps, denoting the steps of her front left hoof. Some mares and stallions cleared in front of her at times, perhaps intimidated by the sousaphone. She eventually found her way over the rolling hills of the castle garden to the main road where dozens of stagecoaches waited. The closest unoccupied carriage to her was being pulled by a lone male earth pony with a cream caramel coat and cyan eyes, a bowtie around his neck like many of the gala attendees. Bluenote climbed into the coach, making sure not to bump her brass in the process. The carriage was not designed to accommodate for such an object, but with a bit of maneuvering, she was able to stand comfortably in solitude. “You don’t mind if I’m in here alone, do you?” Bluenote asked in an unintentionally aggressive tone. “No I don’t, ma’am,” the pulling stallion replied automatically. His voice was deeper than expected, but still sounded a bit uncertain. “Where are we headed, ma’am?” The sousapony spouted out a corner address from memory. “Really, the P0n-3 show? You didn’t seem the type.” Without looking back, the stallion began his somewhat slow trot out into downtown Canterlot. “I mean, it’s not like I got too good of a look at you. Not because you’re … you know, I’ll just shut up and pull right now.” The driver seemed the kind who would ramble on one-sidedly for an hour if given the chance. Bluenote couldn’t find it in herself to laugh at the social ineptitude. “My apartment is on the same corner,” she explained. “Sorry…” The caramel pony hung his head down a bit and continued his pace towards the brighter parts of Canterlot. Realizing she had snapped at him, Bluenote let back on her tone of voice. “I’m sorry, I’m berating you on assumptions and I never even caught your name.” The stallion’s posture snapped back up in optimism as he took the time to look back at his current passenger. Her hair was becoming frayed from the stress of the gala, her mane losing its curl and finding itself covering the top of her left eye. “I’m Caramel,” he stuttered. From the awkward walking angle of his body, his cutie mark could be made out as three blue horseshoes. He smiled a stupid smile with the same class he had carried himself in the last minute or so of conversation. “Shouldn’t you be wa-“ Bluenote tried to warn Caramel before he bumped into another coach headed in the opposite direction, which snapped him back to reality. “Just keep looking forward, Mr. Caramel.” “Sorry, ma’am, sorry.” He stumbled for a moment over a crack of cobblestone before regaining his canter and spending the next hooffull minutes in silence. The driver and passenger slowly made their way closer to downtown Canterlot, the stray streetlight fading out to the magically magnified moonlight and starlight. The land was bright, and various clubs, bars, restaurants, and shops displayed themselves to a consumer with the éclat and dazzle of a showmare. A constant layer of talking ponies set the scene for street performers and the faint beat of clubs. “So, why did you leave so early? Don’t the musicians have to stay ‘til the end?” Caramel inquired, trying to calm down his embittered passenger with mindless conversation. “We were forced to leave because the gala ended early.” Bluenote explained with more patience. “Why?” He asked simply in stark contrast to the sophistication of Bluenote’s last several hours. “I don’t know.” She answered after a brief pause. “Everypony was running and screaming, the castle was a mess, and animals were running around the halls.” She would have been content with her answer if the party were ever officially called off. “You don’t think I’m in trouble, do you?” Suddenly, she once again had reason to worry for her career. “No, why would you?” Caramel’s gaze was now staying forwards, but drifted now and again to examine a storefront. His response seemed automatic and without thought. “Well, they never said I could leave! What if they think I’m a deserter? And what about the times I messed up? Or playing pieces out of the repertoire! Mr. Jazz could make it so I never have a good job again!” Her voice climbed the reaches of her range, ending her miniature panic in a high, whiny register. He let out a chuckle, a comforting one like that of a grandfather. “I don’t think there’s a job in the world that’s that bad. I don’t think there’d even be anypony to listen to you if you stayed…” Caramel’s voice trailed off, unable to end the sentence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name either, ma’am.” “Bluenote Brass,” she recited, giving a reflexive bow which her companion couldn’t see. “The musical world is very unforgiving.” “Maybe yours,” he retorted as he gave another quick laugh. “I can’t think of one artist on my iPony who’s perfect. Hedged Sevenfold, Daft Pony, David Petal, Hooves and Roses, Whinny Hendrix, they’ve all messed up, especially in concert.” Bluenote pondered the examples for a minute. “So, wait, you have Hedged Sevenfold and David Petal on your iPony?” “Yup,” he answered. “Sorry, do you not know who they are? David Petal did 'Where Them Mares At' and 'Sexy Bit,' Hedged Sevenfold did 'Night Mare,' 'Celestia Ha-'“ “Yeah, I know!” She cut him off before more song names could be dropped. “I just didn’t really think you’d like both of them at once. They’re pretty different genres.” The pop culture references distracted her for the moment from her alleged career issues. “No way you like them,” Caramel taunted in disbelief. “You’re worrying about Mozcart and Beethoofen one minute and liking today’s music the next.” “What, just because I make one kind of music, I can’t like another?” Bluenote responded playfully. “No, no, of course not!” He seemed worried that he offended his passenger. “You just really didn’t look like the kind of pony, like I said earlier.” He paused, trying not to run his mouth and say more than he had to like the first time the topic was brought up. “I mean, you came out of the palace with an instrument. I thought everyone at the gala was a stuck-up rich pony.” “I don’t really feel like I fit in there, anyway.” Bluenote sighed a sigh of fatigue. “I need to not make a foal of myself in front of all of those high class fillies and gentlecolts, and apparently it’s not too easy.” “I would recommend going to see P0n-3 if you get the chance. If the bass doesn’t get your mind off your problems, the drinks will.” Caramel spoke over his shoulder as they were beginning to approach their destination. He gave an honest smile and another one of his laughs, this one less reserved. It was a laugh at the world, and Bluenote couldn’t help but share it. “Thank you, Caramel,” Bluenote said, “but I think I’ll be occupied tonight.” “Alright, if you say so.” Caramel’s voice trailed upwards, implying a question. Bluenote took this as a challenge, deciding to speak with the sense of artificial formality she would have used at the Gala. “I’ll have you know I’m very busy. This sousaphone doesn’t maintain itself, you know. And if I had free time, I would spend it in a far more meaningful way that being bounced between drunk, flirtatious colts.” “If you say so,” he repeated, tone climbing even higher into a sing-songy taunt. Within a minute they were at their destination. Bluenote carefully climbed out of the coach, and dug into her saddlebags for bits for the driver. There were no bits in the saddlebag. There was no saddlebag on her pony at all. The musician hadn’t even noticed that she only brought her instrument to the gala. She planned to walk back, but the hustle and bustle of the Gala’s ending changed her mind. “I’m sorry, I’ll be right back, please trust me!” Without more explanation, Bluenote ran into the apartment building. No sooner did she enter than almost collide with a mare with a light blue coat in the lobby. Her mane was layered, icy white over cerulean blue. “Colgate, lend me five bits? You’ll get them back first thing tomorrow.” “Sure thing!” The blue-eyed pony replied with a smile. Without hesitation, she reached into her bags and flipped out with her teeth a five-bit piece. “Why do you need it?” Maybe she should have asked before giving the money. “Need to pay a cabby and my stuff’s upstairs.” The explanation was rushed, and Bluenote turned to pay Caramel. Through the exchange, her sousaphone was still around her body. “Thanks for waiting, and thanks for the ride!” Bluenote smiled courteously at Caramel, who took the coin from the outstretched hoof without taking his eyes off of the mare’s face. “You have fun with your sousathingy, now.” Caramel looked over at a clock. “My, look at the time,” he muttered. “What time is it?” Bluenote disregarded the sousathingy comment and looked over to a clock. The time had officially passed over into the morning of the next day. “Time for me to return this coach and then I’m done for the night. Good-bye, have a nice night maintaining your instrument.” Caramel took care now to not call the sousaphone by any incorrect name. He turned off for the road. Bluenote watched him begin his trot off, and thought of what her night would look like. Valve oil and cheap salt, most likely. That and the complexities of taking off the blasted brass. “Hey, Caramel!” Bluenote shouted out a bit more loudly than she had expected, a hoof outstretched towards the coach. The brown pony turned, perfectly round eyes cocked in confusion. “Sorry, yes?” Normally this meant he forgot to give proper change to a customer. “Meet me back here in an hour for that club across the corner?” Now where in Equestria did that come from?
Insomniac DreamsFor the second time in one night, Bluenote found herself jumping too quickly into situations. For one, telling Caramel to be back at her place in an hour was way too small a timeframe. She took nearly half the time getting out of her sousaphone. It was a ritual that could have been thoroughly avoided if the instrument were divided, but instead took twenty minutes and a copious amount of contortion. The sousathingy, as a non-musician might call it, was hastily stowed in its case. The rest of her time was spent preparing for a late night at the club. She looked around her apartment, unclasping her bowtie and laying it down on a dresser. The whole place looked like a father had set it up and let his daughter live in it for a few weeks. There was still an illusion of order from the last time she cleaned up, but it was so much quicker to throw things about haphazardly. The apartment had what was needed in the space of four rooms. She could have spent an hour looking over the living quarters, musing over a hypothetical dream home, but she hadn’t allotted herself that kind of time tonight. Bluenote trotted into the shower, keeping the water cold. In there she pondered what to wear to the club across the corner, settling on nothing but a thin and loose chain necklace of silver. It couldn’t possibly be a formal environment. Most nights its lights were on until sunrise, and a careful observer could feel the bass resonate through the ground. She once again asked herself what she was thinking asking a stallion she barely knew to the club. You felt bad for him. You were bored. You needed an excuse to go. The music’s supposed to be good. The drinks are, too. It’s better than sitting at home. He seems like an alright pony. Excuses buzzed around in her head, bouncing like a swarm of a thousand frenzied parasprites. Any such thoughts with romantic tones were singled out to be swatted away. Unfortunately, it’s not easy to catch up to such energetic emotion. The light blue mare’s coat was becoming saturated with water, as was her brown mane which tangled within her coat. Her tail similarly lost form and was pushed lightly by water on the shower tile. The frigid flow helped to keep her thoughts level as she went through the cleaning process as quickly as possible. She stepped out after she was satisfied with her job of cleansing herself of the gala and the stress that it caused. She shook herself crudely to throw standing water off before grabbing some towels and fervently drying off. She quite thoroughly abused the present perfume, aware that all senses would be obscured in a small number of minutes by the busy ambience of nightlife. Top notes of jasmine and orange blossom dominated the rest of the scents. She was drying herself for as long as she could afford while she finished the rest of her preparation. She made sure to bring along bits this time. Bluenote began combing her mane and coat as time ticked down, choosing an uneven level. The front of her mane was allowed to sneak over her right eye, obscuring the lashes. She could barely remember the last time she’d been in a club atmosphere, and remembered even less the proper decorum. Her friends and colleagues generally guided her away from the more contemporary musical scene. In an attempt to calm herself, she took a minute to more carefully pack away her instrument than she had when rushing back to her apartment. As confident as she would be, Bluenote strode out of her room and down to the main lobby. Her toothpaste-colored friend was no longer in the lobby, presumably having more important things to do. The sousaphonist held her form high, hooves gliding low over the ground as she trotted outside. Her eyes were open and determined, focusing directly forward. As she stepped out the door, she saw Caramel looking up at the walls of the nightclub. The building stood several stories tall, and its street corner was cut out on the first floor to make way for sets of glass double doors blocked by bouncers and dividers. Two poorly formed lines from either side of the corner slowly proceeded forward, guided by tiles installed in the sidewalk that glowed a fluorescent green. A wavy group of neon tubes ran across the top of the structure, arranged in rainbow formation. They met at the corner, taking a sharp turn upwards and running onto the empty roof of the building. On top of the lights in the front was the name of the club in a gaudy, bright red font. “Insomniac Dreams” must have sounded witty when first pitched. The caramel brown stallion stood mesmerized by the lights and sounds of the bar and dance club. Behind him, his companion prowled up to his left, centimeters away from her hair brushing against his. The blue mare swayed and leaned with exaggeration, nestling the side of her muzzle into Caramel’s mane. It was softer than she expected. His body stiffened in surprise, coming back into reality. His shoulders in particular shot back, and Bluenote felt that in her jaw like a short punch. Undeterred, she spoke quietly and slowly into his ear. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Caramel.” Her eyes were closed, and she dug deeper into his hair. “H-hey,” Caramel responded tentatively. He allowed his posture to relax and turned his snout over hers. The two of them stood on the street corner for a moment together before the blue mare pulled her muzzle out. She took a better look at Caramel. His mane was pushed forwards, parting into a few bangs above his eyes. His tail lacked the definite S shape that it had an hour before, leaving a shorter and less formal look. He cocked his head after a moment of Bluenote’s examination. “Is everything alright?” “Mmhmm,” She replied quickly, “Just thinking. Shall we?” She flicked her head in the direction of the bright neon signs for “The Dream.” “Sure.” Caramel wasn’t as keen on masking himself with confidence as Bluenote was. The two of them crossed over to the corner of the club and stood themselves at the back of a slow queue to enter. In front of them, several dozen ponies were exchanging idle conversation with one another. Most of them looked like they would at home, but a few dressed up with goggle shades or glowsticks. As the line inched forwards, Bluenote could feel a heavy kick drum at what she recognized as march tempo. The beat resonated in her hooves as she passively tapped a hind heel down with each hit. No speakers lined the walls outside of the club; any sound heard right now was just finding its way through the building. The two worked their way up to the front without speaking much to each other. A bouncer with an icy blue mohawk waved them through after a cursory glance. He pointed to the doors with a hoof. The huge room seemed to flicker in and out of existence by the light of green lasers. Before either of them had a chance to enter, the beat stopped, and the green flashes cut out completely. Caramel opened the door for Bluenote, and they proceeded through a blank vestibule to the club proper. The room was packed with ponies passionately moving with the trance saws that cut through the air. The entire sound of Insomniac Dreams was focused in the treble ranges for a fleeting moment before bass started to fade in through subwoofers on and in the ground. As the deeper waves entered, a platform overlooking the whole floor illuminated with electric blue. The star of the night’s show slowly raised her head up until she was staring at the ceiling through purple-tinted lenses. A kick build fazed in and the DJ pulled herself higher, looking like she could fall backwards. The whole track cut for half a beat, and P0n-3 raised her front hooves off the ground. Her entire body snapped back down as electronic hats and cymbals crashed. Her gel-styled cerulean mane bounced violently but maintained form as bassy tones retook the club by storm. Her smug smile bobbed up and down in time as music saturated with fourth and fifth power chords evoked cheers from her captive audience. Caramel and Bluenote stared up in awe at the theatric performance of a bass drop. The dance floor bounced with the continual bass and snare. The crowd formed circles, some of two or three friends and some totaling to several dozens. Some groups pumped hooves in the air while others pulsed their whole bodies to the beat. Some colts and fillies were practically dancing on top of each other, fueled by the primeval desires of their partners. Whatever the activities, everypony was having a good time save for the rare awkward friend trying to make conversation with a dancing companion. The moving wall of ponies was intimidating to enter alone. Caramel and Bluenote circled around it, eventually finding a nook to fill. The song was in a period of decline, bass quieting and treble losing sharpness. The two allowed their bodies to embrace the slowing rhythm, guided by the push of those around them. The mob was powered by the kick drum, and when it stopped, the club stopped jumping and started swaying. Bluenote looked up at the DJ presiding over the event. Her head bobbed constantly, and one of her hooves was placed in front of her on a soundboard, messing with precise volumes and reverberations. Once satisfied, she shifted to hitting a black pad on the board. Kick re-entered on uneven beats where the synth was quieter. On the cue of an ending melody, the white mare slammed forward another meter, throwing pulsing offbeats into mix. The beat of the bass drum was back in full swing, maybe louder than before. “Sorry, are you alright?” Caramel’s voice broke through the noise of the club and pierced Bluenote’s thoughts. "You haven't said much tonight." She shook her head, continuing to gaze up at the confident queen of the decks. “Yeah. Maybe just tired?” A forced laugh came from her lips. “What’s this DJ’s name again?” “DJ P0n-3.” Caramel replied, sure of the pronunciation of the name. “Her real name’s Vinyl Scratch. She used to go by DJ Raverider, but only the hipsteers call her that now.” “How do you know that?” Bluenote quizzed over the heavy beat. “Wikiponia,” Caramel shrugged. “She’ll do some more complex stuff as the night goes on.” “Why, the mix isn’t full enough already?” The two shared a laugh as the track in the building built up on a chromatic pattern before another huge crash sent the song back to the four measures or so that repeated to make up the song. “It’s good ear candy. I like it.” “Glad to introduce anypony to new music.” Caramel smiled as laser lights absorbed into his coat. The show did indeed get more involved. The tempos of the music gradually sped up, the number of tracks in each song multiplied, and every style of techno was explored. Trance lead to acid lead to breakbeat, then to rave and glitch and dubstep. The whole universe for everypony inside was controlled by the DJ, whose smile never faltered through her concert. She ended the show like the rest of the crowd: glistening with sweat and at least a bit drunk. Bluenote and Caramel joined in the minutes-long ovation that followed the last encore. “Thank you, Canterlot!” Vinyl screamed into a microphone in front of her, her vocal chords clearly shot from the last few hours of partying. “I’m out!” One last time, she slammed a limp hoof onto a button and a low male voice took hold of the room. “Every day I’m gallopin’,” it said before leading into a scratchy synth devoid of the heavy bass and live performance P0n-3 had just offered. She turned away from her audience and exited her elevated stage. Lasers and fluorescent blues and greens gave way to more natural white and yellow lights in the ceiling. The show was officially over, and some patrons already made a mad dash for the exit. A few straggling colts decided that the party was only over when they said so, and they continued to dance on the main floor. Bluenote began moving for the exit with the rest of the crowd. Caramel put a hoof out in front of her to stop the motion. “Let’s head over to the bar, okay?” She was willing to accept the suggestion, her mind still foggy from a cup too many of heavily spiked and sweetened punch. The two of them had exchanged amusing conversation for the time inside the club, and Caramel seemed like a trustworthy, if not sometimes forgetful pony. They reached the bar, where a light tan stallion with a martini glass for a cutie mark was filling multiple orders at once. “P0n-3 normally hangs here after her shows,” Caramel explained. “You come here often, then?” Bluenote slurred, swaying her body towards her companion. “Twice before, so not really. I’m surprised you haven’t. I’d go more often if I lived across from the Dream.” He stepped up to the bar and tapped it in an attempt to get some attention. Bluenote looked around at the dozens still remaining in the club, likely all here to get autographs or a picture with a famous musician. I’m a famous musician… she complained in jest to herself, why don’t I get to sign autographs? Who wouldn’t want a signed picture with the tubist of the Fillydelphia Philharmonic? She exhaled, pushing her mane up for a moment before it fell lifelessly. Bluenote leaned herself against a vacant table for a few minutes until the musician of the night stepped out of a door across the dance floor. Excitement murmured from the compact crowd at the bar, and they parted a lane to the alcohol for Vinyl. “So, how’d y’all like it?” the mare with ever-gelled hair asked to nopony in particular. The question got a holler of positive cheers from the group, which hushed when she kept talking. “It’s awesome to get to set up the beats for nights like this, ‘Specially ‘cause at least one of you’s gonna remember tonight. I look like I stepped out of Everfree Forest right now, but anypony want any photos or autographs?” She glanced at the bartender. “Sonic Rainbomb, by the way.” The DJ commandeered an empty table, and a mob formed around her. She levitated a pen with her horn and started scribbling on a photo of herself a fan pushed at her. Bluenote and Caramel pushed into the fray, Caramel having brought Super Ponybeat Vol. 1 to the show to get signed. By the time they reached the front of the queue, most ponies had their seconds to chat with a celebrity, and only a dozen or so patrons were left in the club. Caramel pushed forward the album with a hoof, and Vinyl reflexively stated signing it. “I really liked the show,” Bluenote chimed in. “Was that Contrapunctus you sampled in your last piece?” P0n-3’s head shot up at the mention of the piece name, and she looked over Bluenote through purple lenses. “Yeah,” she replied slowly, “by Johoof Sebastian Bach. I’m guessing by that cutie mark you’re a musician?” Bluenote looked down at the black bass clef blazoned on her flank. “Yes, that’s right.” The DJ took another swig of the rainbow drink in front of her. “Great, legit. Can you come up with me to the booth in a few? I need help on a song, but the studio’s full of morons and my fans always just say it’s great. It’ll only be a couple of minutes, I swear.” She handed the signed album back to Caramel, who looked just as surprised as Bluenote at the proposition. “Well, I don’t really know about that.” Bluenote admitted. “I mean, I play the sousaphone. It’s not like I’m the best at music theory.” “Even better!” Vinyl’s eyes probably brightened behind the goggle shades, which looked like they’d been wiped clear of fog recently. “Formal training just makes limits. Like ponies saying we can only have five toppings on top of our pizza.” Seeing the confused looks across the table, she added in, “I’ll explain that later. I still gotta greet a few more guests. You can bring your coltfriend, if you want.” “He’s not my co-“ The rebuttal was interrupted by the next clubgoers pushing her out from between them and P0n-3. “That’s great!” Caramel exclaimed. “Do you want me to stay for the music making?” Bluenote thought for a minute. “No, I think you should go home and get at least some sleep.” She embraced Caramel with a foreleg. “Thanks for giving me a chance to come here, Caramel.” “Thank you,” he replied, “for inviting me.” “If you want to find me again, you know where I am,” Bluenote offered. She stepped back from the embrace and looked through tired eyes for one last time at Caramel. He had a good time tonight. “I do. Good bye, Bluenote.” He considered saying something more. The last words flowed insubstantially out of his mouth, but he just turned away towards the exit. Well, I guess I might remember tonight after all. Bluenote looked around for any sort of clock. It was intentionally hard to find, but she saw an analog timepiece behind the bar. 4 AM. Could be worse. Author’s Note: Never listen to a three minute loop of ear candy when you have school tomorrow. It will invade your thoughts and keep you in a catatonic state while granting you no benefits of sleep.
SorryVinyl led the way up a narrow, dimly lit staircase. Bluenote averted her gaze down to the steps directly in front of her to avoid staring at the DJ’s rump the whole way, as interesting a conversation as that might have sparked. Fifty or so steps of lightly inebriated gait later, the two musicians were overlooking the club floor. Employees cleaned up the aftermath of the party to a mellow track by Fountains of Mane. Bluenote looked at the synthesizing machine in front of her. Two keyboards set the base, and behind them were a few dozen pads marked with drum names by masking tape. Past those were at least a dozen sliders, most of them pushed all the way forwards. Further back still were hundreds of knobs locked in a grid, labeled for pitch modulation, equalization, reverberation, stereo balancing, and a myriad of other effects. Connected to the huge machine was a much simpler short box that sat next to it on the long table. Under its blank display screen were a dial for master volume and jacks for headphones and input. On either side was a turntable, both covered with unmarked black vinyl. Scratch laughed at the blue mare’s attempts to understand the complexities of modern music as she pulled a Gaitway laptop out from underneath the table. The computer began its boot up and vinyl lifted two pairs of huge Sennhalter headphones next to the synthesizing modules. The percussive sound of the drop shook Bluenote from her momentary trance, and Vinyl snickered again when the blue mare’s body tensed up. “Put a pair of those on,” the DJ demanded simply. After a minute of trying to open the headphones, fumbling them to the ground a few times in her clumsy hooves, Bluenote donned the equipment. Vinyl telekinetically plugged in both pairs, lifting the oversized headset to her ears. Her horn illuminated soft white for a moment before the computer recognized the magical signature and allowed access to the musical machine. It booted straight to a synthesizing program nearly as complicated as the hardware in the booth. Okay. I forgot what I was doing with this story. There was about a two week gap between the last paragraph and this one. I buried the possibilities I laid out for any semblance of plot in the first three sections, and there’s nowhere I could go where I wouldn’t grow to hate my writing. Fic / writing experiment abruptly ended. Thanks to everypony who left comments. Thanks to the ones who give 4 and 5 stars for convincing me to keep writing, and thanks to the 2 and 3 star ratings that tell me I need to do better. (If you give a 1 star rating and don’t comment explaining why, I won’t love you anymore.) The next time I write, I hope that I avoid so much extraneous detail in my description. I also want to have something happen. I’m thinking a cutie mark parlor, exploring morality and legality (and technology) of Equestrian body art. Please leave any thoughts in the comments. Sorry I couldn’t give this story any resolution or anything. I’ll try and choose a good story next time.
