Twenty thousand bits. Unbelieveable.
Un-bucking-believeable.
Twenty thousand, three hundred and fourteen bits. It’s easily the largest check I’ve ever held- for that matter, the largest amount of bits I’ve ever seen in one place, and I’ve seen some fairly large stacks in my time. Never mine, of course, but nonetheless. And then, here comes this check. Twenty thousand bits, and yet all I want to do is tear it up.
Yes, you heard me right. All I want to do is take this check and tear it into shreds, then tear those shreds into confetti to use for the party to celebrate the check’s new lack of existence, because this check should not exist.
It never should have happened. The day I met up with that blue-maned hooligan... it’s a day I wish I could forget, especially considering it’s one that should have been forgettable. She called herself a musician, claiming to enjoy my pieces on the cello. She went on and on about her work, and my work, chatting like we were old friends and this wasn’t the first time we’d ever met. She even had the audacity to call me “Tavi.”
It’s rare I let my friends call me Tavi, and that filly is no friend of mine.
But she kept talking, and then it came up: she was making an album. Good for her, I suppose; nothing I thought would concern me... until she brought up the reason she’d tracked me down. She wanted to sample my works in her music; she’d written up a contract and everything- or, at least, hired somepony to write it for her. Formal legal jargon hardly seems like her forte, but that’s neither here nor there. I wasn’t sure what to think; something like this had never come up, and this certainly didn’t seem like a typical form of collaboration. So I told her that I’d have to listen to what she was able to compose first, figuring that would get her off my back for the time being.
I certainly didn’t expect her to come with a record prepared.
So... I humored her. What else was I supposed to do? I put the record on, and listened, and... what came out was only “music” in the loosest possible sense of the word. I could have kicked her out of my apartment right then and there. By all means, I should have. Yet I didn’t. Even if her dulcet tones sounded like a badger fighting a raccoon while falling down a flight of stairs, she was a young, aspiring musician, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (not that I could properly discern the former with those mirrored nigh-goggles she wears), and also one that I had apparently inspired to create works of art, their quality notwithstanding. There’s something to be said for that.
Perhaps it was that idea, or the hope that she’d improve, or the fact that I’d had a bit to drink at lunch. I honestly can’t be certain why, but I signed the contract. She could sample my compositions, with royalties paid, of course. As I signed it, I even told her that “using my music can only serve to help that detestable white noise.”
White noise. That’s certainly come back to bite me in the flank, hasn’t it? Not that I expected it, of course. What I expected was the contract to become null and void as soon as she decided she didn’t have it in her to produce a full album, and being that I didn’t hear from her for a few months that’s exactly what I assumed. I didn’t worry about it. I didn’t think I had to. That is, until about a month ago, when I clicked on the radio on a whim. Mind you, I’m not the biggest fan of radio, as it doesn’t often play the kind of music I typically enjoy, but occasionally I do dabble. That said, what I heard was the last thing I expected to come out of that speaker: my song.
Only it wasn’t my song anymore.
She had... what she had done to it, what she’s doing to it to this day... it’s unspeakable. Her music-in-name-only still sounded like a badger fighting a raccoon while falling down a flight of stairs, but now it was my badger, my raccoon, my stairs. This wasn’t inspiration. This was desecration, and what’s worse, it was on the radio.
My songs... so many had called them beautiful, but even then, I had never been on the radio. Not until that day.
But no matter. Perhaps it was a fluke, or a contrived coincidence. Stranger things have happened in this world, that’s for certain. And that’s exactly what I thought... until I clicked another station, and heard another one of my songs. Different from the first, but exactly as defiled. Since then... well, I suppose my royalty check says it all.
Twenty thousand bits. And that’s only from my royalties. And only for the first month. And that’s rounding down! Celestia knows how much Scratch is raking in from all this. Not that her wealth will add a single ounce to her class, I’d imagine, aside from perhaps passing out with a cider bottle taped to her hoof in the lobby of a five-star hotel. Then again, she might use some of it to buy better equipment, though it’ll help about as well as asking a foal to play my cello and expecting a masterpiece. An album isn’t easy to make, and that’s coming from somepony working on her fourth. I’ll give her points for the effort, but she simply doesn’t have the talent.
And yet... despite all of that, she’s still more successful than me. Her... I can’t even bear to call it music anymore... is still more successful than mine, but only because of me. Or, to put it another way, my music is only successful because of... her.
Am I really that bad a pony to deserve that kind of karma?
I don’t think of myself like that. But... how else do you explain it? My entire life, all I’ve ever wanted to do is play beautiful music. From the violin my parents got me for Hearth’s Warming Eve as a filly right up to the cello I proudly play now, everything I do works to assert that dream. Yet... my music had never made it to the radio. My albums never sold particularly well. I’m well known among the Canterlot elite, of course, but... outside of that world, I’m nopony. I’m an earth pony with a cutie mark that means I probably do something musical; nothing less, nothing more. And until her album came out, Scratch was just a unicorn with exactly the same anonymity. Only now she’s famous and touring all of Equestria, with every stop taking my music- my life’s work- and tossing it against every brick wall she can find. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in this tiny apartment on the outskirts, which after the three-hundred-bit bow ties and hundred-bit bottles of wine is all I can afford.
Except... I suppose it isn’t all I can afford anymore. Twenty thousand bits, right there on the table. But cashing it would mean admitting it. It would mean informing the teller, the bank, the city block, all of Canterlot, all of Equestria... that that spiky-maned mule succeeded where I failed. That... she’s better than me at the one thing I hold most dear.
That DJ Pon3 is a proper musician. She’s not. The only remotely musically apt thing she’s ever done is recognize my pieces as worth sampling, and even then, she didn’t care enough to take the rhythm into consideration as she destroyed them, leaving only bass-riddled husks formerly known as beauty. I want to scream about what right she has, but... that’s just the problem. I know exactly what rights she has: the ones I signed away, and due to that she’ll continue to abuse.
How do I deserve this? I’ve played at the Gala! I’ve played for Her Royal Bucking Highness Princess Celestia herself, and this is how my music becomes famous? My music makes me more bits than I’ve ever seen, and I can’t even enjoy it? How am I supposed to enjoy it? Either nopony knows who composed the samples and I get zero fame for all my hard work, or everypony knows and I’m a sellout, and one who collaborates on horrible music at that. I might as well change my name to DJ Tavi, complete with a capital four.
And all of this because I wanted to help out an aspiring musician. Somepony whom I had inspired to create a work of art. I suppose what they say is true... no good deed goes unpunished.
Un-bucking-believable, ain’t it? This has been one heck of a ride so far, and it’s only going to get crazier from here! Manehattan one night, Trottingham the next... it’s exhausting being on the road like this, but it sure is worth it, and I wouldn’t trade the hordes of screaming fans for anything!
That said, the show I’m really looking forward to is Canterlot. Know why? ‘Cause I’ve been so busy signing autographs and diving off stages that it wasn’t until yesterday that I realized... I still haven’t thanked Tavi in person. Not once. And that’s just wrong.
What? You don’t even know who Tavi is, do you? Exactly. That’s the whole point. If it wasn’t for her, I’d still be some crazy filly in a rat-hole apartment with a barely working mixing board and a dream, dropping the needle on other ponies' records and never sniffing my own. She’s the reason my album exists. She’s the reason this tour exists. She didn’t have to let me sample her masterpieces for my sound. Honestly, I didn’t even think she was going to, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to try, and she did! She wanted me to succeed; I’ll never forget that as long as I live. Little bit of trivia? She’s even the one that came up with the album name! Though I was the one to add the threes.
But seriously, Tavi’s cello work is... beautiful. I hate using that word ‘cause it sounds so prissy, but it’s the truth; there’s no other word for it. Tavi’s music is simply beautiful. Lots of ponies give me lots of horseapples for liking classical music, but... it ain’t fair to the whole genre to all be dumped together as boring drivel only fit for elitist, upper-class mules. If ponies would only sit and listen... it’s amazing, especially hers. I really wish more record stores would sell it. More than that, I want ponies to know about her, period! ‘Cause the most famous songs on the whole album... that might be my blood, sweat and tears you hear in there, but that’s her heart, and her soul.
Everything I have is 'cause of her. No amount of shaking her hoof is ever going to be enough. Of course, she does get plenty of royalties, but I’m sure it’s nothing to her, given all the big names around Canterlot she rubs shoulders with. Still, I hope she takes that money and spends it on something nice. She deserves it. Maybe take a vacation. I could definitely give her advice on what cities to have a good time in, that’s for sure!
Speaking of, maybe after I get done with this tour I can take a little vacation and go see one of her concerts. Believe it or not, as much as I’m gushing over her I’ve never actually heard her play live. Lots of the time she does a lot of private shows for some seriously classy parties, and even with her concerts the tickets are amazingly expensive- but hey, I sure got the money to afford it now, don’t I? Oh wow, I’m psyched just thinking about getting to see Tavi live in concert! I wonder if she’d sign her albums. I wonder if she’d sign my album! I wonder if she’d want to work together on something. Like, for real work together; not just me using her songs in my own stuff. Couldn’t hurt to ask, right?
Honestly though, I really just want to thank her. Sure, I thanked her in the liner notes, I thank her before every show, I make sure to mention her in every interview, whether they ask about her or not (and a lot of the time, they don’t), but... I haven’t thanked her in person, and I can’t sit well about all of this until I get that done.
Until then, I’ve got to make sure everypony in Equestria knows the name Octavia, and the music that inspired what they come from miles around to hear. By all means she should be the one filling stadiums, yet about nopony outside of Canterlot knows she exists.
I’m not really one to believe in fate, but all the same... she’s far too kind a mare for fate to deal her that kind of treatment.
“You okay, Vinyl?”
“I went over to... her apartment. You know... to thank her.”
“Really? Cool. So what, are you and Tavi going to collaborate on-”
“Do you know what she said?”
“No, what did-”
“‘I can’t go even outside anymore without hearing your music, without hearing my music.’”
“So she’s-”
“‘I might not have had your fame, but at least I had dignity. Now? I’m nothing but a sellout and a laughingstock. You ruined me, you insipid mule.’”
“She... She said that?”
“She said that.”
“I’m sorry. I... I really don’t know what to-”
“Give everypony a refund at the gate. I don’t really feel like playing tonight.”
“Vinyl?”
“What?”
“You’re on in ten.”
“You think I don’t know that? I’ve done enough of these shows; I can figure it out.”
“Yeesh. Sorry. Just trying to help...”
It should have made me sick, but it hasn’t. Then again, I haven’t felt like eating much of anything for a while, so maybe it has.
It should have made me angry, furious, sad, depressed... anything. But it didn’t. All I feel is... empty. Empty’s a pretty sucky feeling. You want to scream, but at the same time, you know screaming ain’t worth the effort.
It sucks. It sucks to see so many ponies, all so happy, and knowing that you’re the one making them happy, and yet you can’t be happy yourself. No matter what I do, it just ain’t there anymore. Sure, I put on a smile for the cameras, but that’s ‘cause I got to, ‘cause they’re not going to take anything less, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But just ‘cause there’s nothing wrong with that doesn’t mean that it’s not fake, and it doesn’t mean that I enjoy it. Yeah, I should enjoy it, and I know I should enjoy it and that just makes it worse. It makes me seem ungrateful. I’m not, I swear. I appreciate every fan that I have, I swear. I just really wish... that I had just one more. You know which one.
I didn’t... no. No, I didn’t. I didn’t, because it’s not my fault. I did everything I could and everything right. I thanked her. I commended her. I paid tribute and royalties and all the horseapples! Has everything gone the way I wanted it to? Yeah, you better believe it has! I got the album sales and the screaming fans and the sold-out stadiums and enough bits to make even the Canterlonian Duke of Bits be all “Dang, that’s a lot of bits!”
Hmm. I don’t know how much sense that made. Whatever. Point is, everything’s going my way. Everything! So why should I feel bad? There’s no reason for it! It’s not my fault that Tavi’s... you know, being mocked and ridiculed by her own fans for allowing my sampling and effectively guest-starring on my album, with how much of the work is hers. It’s not my fault that Whit3 Nois3 has got so popular among the lower rungs of Canterlot that the elite have taken a hatred to it purely on some sort of misguided principle. It’s not my fault that Tavi’s had to publicly display her disgust with me in order to save face.
At least, that’s why she did it, right? She can’t hate me. That would be stupid. Right? I didn’t do anything wrong. Right? Right, I couldn’t have done anything wrong. Because I never do anything wrong. Because I’m perfect, you know? That’s what everypony tells me anyway. I’m perfect. Luna-cursed perfect.
Maybe DJ Pon3 is perfect. Maybe. Maybe. But I can tell you right now that Vinyl Scratch isn’t. DJ Pon3 is beloved, adored, and a bunch of other words making me want a thesaurus. But Vinyl Scratch? She’s just a mare with too many things on her schedule and too much money for her own good. She’s just a unicorn with a love for music and an ear willing to explore. It’s who I’ve always been and who I’ll always be. But while DJ Pon3 is perfect, Vinyl Scratch knows she screwed up.
Maybe I was overeager. No, no, there’s no maybe involved there- I was overeager. I’d ask if you could blame me, but yeah, you can blame me. I know I’m blaming myself. But what am I supposed to even do about it? I can’t fix this. What do I do, talk less? Ignore her? I’m sure she’d love it, knowing her, but it doesn’t feel right to me! I want everypony to know ‘cause I want everypony to think about what they’re listening to and not just jam to whatever they’re force-fed. I want everypony to listen to Octavia, but how am I supposed to do that when they won’t even...
Hey. But that’s it. Yeah, they will listen to me. I’ve just got to talk in a language they want to understand.
All of a sudden, I can’t wait ‘til the end of this tour. I got some work to do.
If there’s anything to be said about Vinyl Scratch, it’s that there is no cutie mark she deserves other than a four-leaf clover, for that mare is far less a musician and far more simply, purely lucky.
Lucky we were introduced on a day where I was in a good mood and thus more receptive to her requests. Lucky that her sound found so many ears that were for reasons entirely unbeknownst to me simply craving it, giving her such bombastic popularity. Lucky I didn’t snap her horn clean off when she possessed the absolute audacity to arrive at my apartment in order to thank me, yes, thank me for allowing the series of actions that has left my reputation in shambles. And, of course, lucky I was listening to the radio on one particular morning.
I certainly wasn’t listening for anything in particular, but nonetheless a somewhat interesting viola piece emerged from the speaker. Far from a masterpiece, mind you; particularly amateurish, in fact, and quite clearly played by somepony who had not yet mastered her instrument of choice, but still interesting, especially since it wasn’t on a station I typically listen to. Perhaps this would have to be a setting I’d need to remember, I thought, if it was going to play this style of music. But, just then, the song immediately cut out, and I was witness to an argument I never expected to hear in my life.
“Alright, enough of that nonsense. Come on, where’s the real single?”
“That was the real single.”
“Come on now, Pon3, I know you like a good prank, but joke’s over. Everypony wants to hear the new single. Where is it?”
“That was it. Right there. It’s called A Plea for Sanity in A Minor.”
“A what? Come on. Seriously. What are you trying to-”
“What I’m trying to do is prove a point here, Riff, if you’d let me! And you’re doing a pretty good job at proving it right now.”
“What are you talking about-”
“You brought me on this show ‘cause you wanted DJ Pon3’s hot new single! You wanted to be the first to play it, the first to hear it, the first to let everypony in Equestria listen for themselves, and guess what? You got it. You got it because it’s music like that that’s the reason you hear music like you’re used to. Those are my roots. Those are my inspirations. But y’all don’t give a flying feather about that, now do you?”
“Um... I don’t think you’re allowed to say that on the r-”
“Then fine me, ‘cause I’m gonna keep on talking. Flying feather, flying feather, I don’t care. You wanted DJ Pon3 and it must be Hearth’s Warming Eve ‘cause you got her! But maybe she’s not what you asked for. Maybe my single’s not what you asked for. But that’s the problem. The problem with you, the problem with the station, the problem with the whole system! You ask. You demand. But do you ever seek? You don’t! You listen to what you’re told to listen to, and half the reason for that is ‘cause you play what you’re told to play.”
“Me? What did I ever-”
“Yeah, you’re just doing your job. You’re just the messenger. Whatever. You got any idea how many horseapples I’ve gotten just for having Octavia’s records in my collection? But I listened to ‘em anyway, because she’s brilliant. Yeah, I know she hates me, but she’s still brilliant and she ain’t going to stop inspiring me just because I can’t look her in the eyes. You know what’s happened to her? Those Canterlot snobs can’t stand me so much that her career’s taken a hit just ‘cause I sampled some of the greatest classical works of our era! That would be bad enough. But you know the truth? We’re all guilty, and you just proved it.”
“I don’t take well to being attacked, Ms. Scratch-”
“Neither do I. But as much as they don’t like me, nopony else will even give Octavia or anypony like her a chance. Ever heard of Beauty Brass? No, you haven’t, ‘cause you think all classical is dreck just like they think all the tracks you know and wub are beneath them. And don’t worry, ‘cause there’s plenty of bass-dropping on the new album too. But it ain’t just that, nor should it be, ‘cause that shouldn’t be all you listen to! That’s all I’m trying to say. If I didn’t broaden my horizons, Whit3 Nois3 wouldn’t exist. That’s all I’m asking. You think you’re better than those ponies that wouldn’t spit on us if we were on fire? Then prove it. And you can start proving it by playing more than fifteen seconds of a single by a musician you say you love just ‘cause you hear a Celly-banished viola and-”
The microphone cut out, and all that was left was silence, silence I still managed to listen to intently for a few minutes before turning the radio off, then listening to that silence for a while longer.
I honestly can’t say that I know what came over her. Whatever that was, it was most certainly going to become a PR disaster one way or another, but despite it all one thing was quite clear, and that was that Scratch spoke her mind. There’s always something to be said for somepony that chooses to speak her mind and won’t allow herself to be duressed by the consequences. She may be a hooligan and she may be a fool, but I don’t believe that she’s stupid. Impulsive, yes. Angry, I certainly now know. But she’s a lot more intelligent than she lets on; I can feel it.
I almost feel as though I’m wrong about all this, but... well, it’s difficult to claim that I’ve been completely closed-minded. After all, I did listen to her tracks. I found them abhorrent, but I certainly managed to listen to them. There’s a clear line between refusal to broaden one’s horizons and the simple virtue of good taste, and I firmly find myself on the latter side. I didn’t like DJ Pon3. I still don’t. However, the fact that she would do this, that she would release a purely classical track on her album in the spirit of defiance says quite a bit about her, and I can’t say I mind that concept.
Scratch and I are far from friends. I don’t want to see her; I don’t want to talk to her; I don’t want to shake her hoof. With that said, however, no matter if I have to pay somepony off, no matter if I have to arrive in a hood and cloak, no matter if I have to have it mailed to me in packaging that would make a plain brown box look conspicuous, I will be one of the first ponies in Equestria to own DJ Pon3’s new album.
I couldn’t care less about the badgers fighting raccoons down flights of stairs, but I must hear the rest of that song.
