Anarchy in the Equestrian Nation

“We can do this.” I muttered to myself, staring at the darkness in front of me, interspersed by spots of lamplight shining my gas mask’s signature red, white, and blue pattern upon the tables at the far edges of the mostly-unoccupied, fenced in space I knew to be the designated mosh pit. As if you can actually restrain a mosh. Heh heh. I snarked within my mind before flicking my tail to the left twice, Vagabond’s signal to slam on her low tom and stomp the kick drum twice in quick succession. Boom, boom!

Almost subconsciously, my hoof found its way to the straps of my gas mask, checking if the brightly-dyed piece of leather and rubber was still attached to my face. A quick rustle amongst the semi-hardened spikes of my mane revealed a comforting feeling of leather straps and brass buckles. A feeling I didn’t need anymore. I began frantically undoing the straps, the rubber edges unsealing themselves from my face, and tossed it to the ground.

I flicked my tail to the left twice more. A second pair of booms signaled the stagehands to activate the lights, revealing the entire band, plus Turntable and Six-String off to either side to supplement our opening piece before the concert proper began. I gave fleeting looks to all of the band members, a smirk upon my face, and my hooves set in place along the fretboard and strings of the worn, beaten bass guitar Six-String had loaned me. I rose to my hind legs as I always did to play, looking out at the semi-darkness as more of the attendees filed into the mosh, ready for the rockin’ off of their socks. (OK, none of them were actually wearing socks, but still.)

Turntable and Six-String threw in their efforts with a few synth chords and a strongly accented opening note, respectively, and I joined the fray with a simple but fun bass riff. Six-String continued his lead, while Red hopped in with distorted, angry power chords that lent a more aggressive undertone to it, with Vagabond supplying a powerful drum beat. The overall tone of the song was vaguely wintery with a bit of adventurous (I don’t know how to describe it, kay? I’m not a music critic.) mixed in. Once we’d concluded the song, I did the next logical (or rather, insanely illogical) thought that flew into my head: I smashed the five-string.

I hoisted the old bass over my head and brought it down on the stage over and over like a hammer hitting a wedge in a tree trunk, and it took a solid ten strikes or so before the body flew into the air, separated from its neck and headstock, the bolted metal neck plate coming undone and flying to the right. The body also separated itself from the strings, which snapped off of the neck and curled backwards, wrapping themselves around my forelegs in a motion that left my jacket torn open along the sleeves and gave me a few shallow gashes. I let go of the neck of the bass, the wood making a loud thump as it fell from my hooves to the floor.  I stared out at the audience, who had gone totally silent.

“We are Forty-Two Pickup, and this is the Rock for the Ravine!” I roared, and the silence immediately gave way to cheers as the Chiptones took our place, winking at us as they struck up Densmore, the audience cheering even louder as the opening notes rang out. Densmore faded out to Airbrushed, and as the final notes faded from the ears of those present, they passed the (entirely figurative) torch to Turntable as the stage went dark once more.

Turntable’s “serious shades” (Remember those?) lit up with a bright crimson, casting a dim red glow across his synth equipment. “Fillies and gentlecolts...” he called out into the mic, purposefully deepening his voice, “I understand that you have come here tonight to bear witness to the sound of what you call ‘electronic music’. I regret to announce that this is NOT the case, as what I bring you tonight is the sonic recreation of the end of the world.” He cackled evilly, his sunglasses displaying various patterns, first my gas mask’s signature design, then the keys of a synthesizer, and finally a flat green line. I was curious as to what it was until he queued up Immunize, at which point the line started gaining peaks and valleys, representing the sound of the song as he scratched and twiddled, leaning towards the mic to provide the lyrics, some points screamed and others spoken. The audience thrashed and danced, ripples in the pit clearly evident from the stage top. The line slowly began to shift into a lower range, then finally flattened once more before violently spiking up as the beginning of Bonfirebegan to blare across the crowd, sampled lyrics and bass drops washing over the delighted masses. Animal Rights followed suit, and soon Turntable’s set appeared to be over... until the notes of a song everypony knew started kicking up. The huge gathering of ponies below began to dance, singing only the chorus, which remains stuck in my head to this day (Heeeeeeey, sexy laaadayyy!). “Okay. Buck it. I lied. It’s electronic music. What you gonna do?”

After Turntable, Celestians 28 was the next to step up with a powerful set that didn’t seem religious until the third song, at which point they became promptly booed off the stage in the most hilarious way possible (eggs were involved, let’s just leave it at that). Six-String stepped up to help out the PHS Jazz Band while they set up, pulling up a single stool and sitting down, adjusting the microphone calmly.

“This song is called Hurt. It was written by a student of mine years ago. I’ve never actually played it the whole way through, so forgive me if I make any mistakes.” Red Tear’s eyes had widened at the mention of the title.

“I wrote that song.” he said, shocked and stunned in equal measure, “I wrote it four years ago for his birthday, but he put it in a folder and I never saw it again.” He paused. “I didn’t know he practiced it.” The slate-coated pegasus fell to his knees, tears of happiness streaming down the sides of his face. “I can’t believe he finally got it out.” The song’s rawly emotional chords and Six-String’s mournful voice drove almost all of us to the point of crying, even Six-String himself, the worn-down fretboard of his acoustic staining dark with tears. Once the song had drawn its metaphorical curtains, the alabaster pegasus gave a respectful bow and tossed his sunglasses into the crowd before vanishing behind the literal curtains that framed the stage, sending the previously silent crowd into a frenzy as the Ponyville High Jazz Band finished their set up. Ivories stood at the helm, hooves on the piano and the other musicians rallied behind him, instruments at the playing position.

Soon the warm sounds of lounge swing were settling upon the crowd, inciting them to dance in a more civilized manner, bobbing and waving to the saxophones and trumpets, some even indulging in a little swing dancing. I found myself bobbing my head to the drum beat and thumping a hoof to the standing bass line. One pat on the back and a rather uncomfortably tight brotherly hug later, their set was up, and Ivories wished me luck, smiling warmly. “Thanks for letting us play here, Jack. We haven’t played an actual gig in years.”

I nervously stepped up to the microphone, lowering the stand to my height and fiddling with the tuning heads and volume knobs on the Rickenbucker. I turned to my bandmates, smiling and ready to take home the cash necessary to keep our home away from home from going bankrupt. “What do you suggest first?”

Manga opened his mouth to toss a suggestion in, but he was cut off by Black Bell showing up again, piping up “Miss Murder!” I thought about the prospect for a minute before turning to Manga.

“Actually, I was about to say the same. It’s got one hell of a bass line, and it’s perfect to show off your new skills. Just play the instrumental.” He floated a sheet over to me, which quickly made itself known as tablature, something that thankfully I’d learned to read. A few tries on an unamplified bass and I’d gotten a passable hang of it, spinning around dramatically to step up to the mic.

“We are 42 Pickup, and this is Miss Murder!” I shouted, pumping a hoof into the air, cueing Vagabond to signal a ‘1-2-3-4’ with drumstick taps and for us to launch into the song. My hooves danced across the flatwounds to provide the tone-heavy bass line, the pick tapping at each string just audibly enough to me to know I was hitting the notes as I’d intended, and if ever I strayed the tablature was quick to correct me. After finishing to the crowd’s applause, I wiped my brow and kicked the gas mask (which was still where I’d left it) backwards towards the stage and the other Outcasts before settling my hooves on the bass again. I launched into Streets of Nowhere, after dedicating it to Ponyville itself (the town, not its occupants), Teenagers and Over My Head for the Outcasts and myself, respectively, A Better Nothing and Paper Wings both for Red Tear (who actually ended up singing the first and insisting the second be left out, me adamantly denying his wishes).

We thought our set was over. We were wrong.

I’ve never loved being so wrong before.

As soon as we’d finished, a demure figure stepped up to the microphone beside me, the stage lights’ absence cloaking her form in shadow. A single spotlight shone upon her, and I quickly forced myself out of its bright circle.

It was Pitch-Perfect. She was wearing the band jacket, with the addition of a small bandanna around her neck bearing our emblem, smiling. Her hair was tied back rather than hanging in her face as per usual, and her back hooves were adorned with a pair of what looked like the sneakers I’d seen many punk rockers before us wear on theirs. Her soft, shy voice was replaced, almost as if it was a different pony. “My name is Pitch-Perfect... I’ve decided to sing for you tonight, for all of you. This song I wrote a few months ago, a week or two before I met Union Jack.” I thanked Celestia I was in the shadows, because I felt the blush on my cheeks escalate to something I imagined was akin to blood-red, even through my fur. “It’s called Help, I’m Alive.” Turntable backed up her voice with synthesizer, deliberately kept low volume to showcase her voice, which rang out with a beautiful, warm sound much like her speaking voice, Red Tear hopping in with some surprisingly undistorted guitar and Vagabond with a quickly improvised drum beat, my bass not really needing to be used except to back up Red’s chords, allowing me to slip off and stand in the back of the stage much like a bassist really should. She finished, the final echoes of her singing fading into the crowd, who unlike previous songs simply stood dumbstruck, and the near-silence allowed me to hear a faint sound that sounded almost like a sparkle looked, effervescent and ringing. My coltfriend sense kicked in and I galloped over, the Rickenbucker flapping on my chest, and took a look at her to see what the noise had been. A quick look at her flank (no not like that you perv) revealed what had made itself known.

Her Cutie Mark. A microphone, twined around the stand, accompanied by a music note.

“Um... Pitch. Your flank.”

She spun around, eyes immediately focusing on her now decorated hindquarters, practically squealing. She wrapped her forelegs around me in another one of her uncomfortably bone-shattering hugs and gave me what is undoubtedly the greatest kiss I’ve ever had to this day before running off, thanking the band members and no doubt heading down into the crowd to talk to her parents.

        Something that wasn’t her caught my eye. In the front row, Six-String was holding a small box, Derpy sitting at the table, paying almost sole attention to us. I knew what was happening, and held out the microphone stand, letting the metal tube slide to full length. I mouthed “do it now, Six.”

He tapped his longtime marefriend on the shoulder, opening the box to reveal a shining gold set of wing rings. His voice was going to be broadcast to the whole crowd, and he knew. He loved that.

        “Derpy Hooves, will you marry me?”

The crowd erupted in a unified “aaaawwww!” before applauding, quieting down to hear her answer.

        “Yes. Yes I will!” she cried out, nearly knocking the table over as she brought her now-fiance into a hug and kiss similar to the one Pitch had just given me.

Once the hubbub had died down, the excitement still hung in the air. We started to shut down our equipment, until we heard one unified voice, all of the crowd chanting together...

“ENCORE! ENCORE! ENCORE! ENCORE! ENCORE! ENCORE!”

We knew what we had to do. I called the previous musicians to the stage, The Chiptones taking left, Turntable returning to his rig and flipping the switchboard over to reveal the actual scratching tables, some of the PHS trumpet players standing beside me, and Six-String taking far right, back to back with Red Tear. We’d had this idea before. A massive improv session.

I began with a simple but heavy bass-line, a scratch and a loud, distorted chord, along with a single 8-bit note repeated and slowly dying down, before the trumpets and the Chiptones’ bassist kicked in, along with their lead guitarist, musicians quickly adding to the mix, creating what was undoubtedly one of the most awesome songs I’ve ever taken part in creating, and when it appeared as though it had finished its course, Six-String launched into a blistering guitar solo, one I’d heard him try practicing before, on his Les Pony, sounding like something straight out of a classic-rock song, the audience cheering and roaring with delight more than they had before. When we had finally ended it, we were left wiping the sweat from our brows to the cheers of the crowd.

We weren’t just musicians anymore. We were stars in the making.