Threes and Fours

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.”