Genius is a powerful word
‘A bronze award! A bronze!’ fumed Vinyl, throwing up her hooves in frustration. ‘Can you believe it?’
Vinyl had just left the auditorium. She’d put all her soul into that performance, but the festival adjudicators had dismissed her playing as uninspired and inelegant. Perhaps the latter adjective was fair; she wasn’t so slick on the keys these days. But to call her work insipid was plain rude!
‘Was it really that bad?’ she asked Octavia, who was patiently awaiting her turn. ‘I thought I jazzed it up real nice! Even pulled out that major ninth chord to finish – could’ve counted against me, I suppose – imperfect cadence – no, what am I saying? It sounded sick! But a bronze? Come on!’
Octavia smiled sympathetically.
‘Sick? Yes, but that isn’t what they’re looking for. You slipped up, Vinyl, and I’ll tell you why. First, consider your entrance.’
Vinyl stared blankly at her.
‘My entrance?’
‘Yes. You were brash. You were brazen. This isn’t a concert, it’s a music festival – and you walked onto that stage as if you were Sapphire Shores.’
‘And that’s a bad thing?’
‘Oh, most definitely,’ said Octavia gravely. ‘Let me introduce you to the subtle art of winning over an audience.’
Octavia stood up and inhaled deeply. A dreamy expression came over her face.
‘Novelty and the unorthodox,’ she said in hushed tones. ‘It’s all about novelty and the unorthodox.’
Vinyl scratched her head.
‘Eh?’
‘You must present yourself as a visionary, my friend – a progressive mind. You must do this via your demeanour and your music.’
‘I don’t get it.’
Octavia raised her forehooves theatrically and spoke as though she were chanting incantations.
‘My name is Vinyl,’ she announced, ‘and I am very pleased to be here tonight. With your kind permission, I shall play “Leaves on the Wind”, a composition of mine which I’m sure you will appreciate.’
She sat on a footstool, her back straight as an arrow, her eyes wide and meaningful. Then she relaxed.
‘Like so. And if your music is sufficiently abstract, they’ll lap it up.’
Vinyl had never seen anything so ridiculous.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Tell me you aren’t going to do that.’
‘Why not?’ said Octavia. ‘Novelty and the unorthodox! I’ll prove to you it works every time.’
Half an hour passed quickly, and during that half hour the adjudicators laid into several of Canterlot’s finest musicians. Mordent’s sonata was too busy, they said; Rubato’s programme music was too drawn out; even Coloratura’s coloratura was deemed too flashy. Octavia was next, but she hadn’t bothered to uncase her cello.
‘Hurry up!’ hissed Vinyl. ‘You’re on!’
‘Oh, I shan’t be playing the cello tonight. Novelty and the unorthodox. Watch and learn.’
She breathed in and positively floated onto the stage. The chatter of the interim ceased instantly.
Octavia stood in silence until all eyes were on her. Then, in a wonderfully mellow voice, she said, ‘Fillies and gentlecolts. I am delighted to be here.’
A wave of appreciative murmuring swept through the auditorium. The adjudicators nodded approvingly. Vinyl harrumphed. Octavia had outdone her already, but she didn’t mind. She wanted only to see whether this so-called novelty and the unorthodox rubbish really worked.
‘Many of you know me as a cellist,’ Octavia continued, her eyes unblinking, ‘but tonight I shall play for you on the piano.’
‘Indeed?’ said the foremost adjudicator, who was surveying Octavia with great interest. The latter smiled graciously.
‘With your kind permission, I shall now perform a composition of mine – fillies and gentlecolts, this is “The Trench”.’
She bowed as the audience broke into applause.
‘All right, Octi,’ muttered Vinyl. ‘Time to put your money where your mouth is.’
Octavia slid gracefully onto the piano stool and sat still for a time. Then she began to play.
Vinyl winced. The first four notes were heavy and exaggerated – and totally dissonant. Three notes later, she realised Octavia was completing a tone row.
‘Really, Octi?’ Vinyl said to herself. ‘Are you serial – I mean, serious?’
Octavia repeated the phrase. Like most (if not all) twelve-tone phrases, it was ugly and jarring. Vinyl shook her head, but the audience listened with rapt attention.
Suddenly, Octavia got to her hooves. Her face contorted with emotion, she stabbed down. Sound issued forth from the instrument, warm and powerful.
‘Minor eleventh,’ remarked Vinyl. ‘Nice.’
Holding down the pedal, Octavia flicked her right hoof off the higher registers, which stung like hail. Vinyl winced again, thinking that the beauty of the previous chord could not have been obliterated more effectively. Once more, Octavia threw her weight onto the keys, letting rip another succulent chord.
‘Nice! But don’t spoil –’
Octavia hit bottom A.
‘– it.’
She let it ring for thirty seconds, frowning as though she were puzzling out a riddle. Unorthodox? thought Vinyl. More like a bad racket!
She sighed as Octavia relapsed into tone rows. She seemed to be convulsing; her playing became wilder and wilder. She switched to a pentatonic scale, then to a whole-tone one. She tossed her head backwards and settled abruptly on a chord of stacked fourths. They rang out, like the bells of a sunken cathedral. Vinyl whistled. After ten seconds’ pause, Octavia transposed them down a tone. The adjudicators gasped. She repeated the manoeuvre, then pulled the chord back a semitone, the tip of her snout now touching the piano keys. She stayed in this position until the last notes had faded.
Then she got up and bowed. The auditorium erupted. All five adjudicators, each of them awestruck, were giving her a standing ovation. It was as though divine truths had been spoken. Octavia bowed and bowed and left the stage, waving. Vinyl gaped at her. Octavia winked.
‘Novelty and the unorthodox,’ she said again. ‘And that, my friend, is how you do it.’
Two hours later, they left the music theatre and boarded the train for Ponyville, Octavia clutching a trophy, Vinyl nursing a bad headache.
‘You know,’ said Octavia as the train began to move, ‘I think you should give it a try sometime. It really works like magic!’
‘Hmph,’ said Vinyl, rubbing her temples. ‘I’m a beat designer, Octi, not a pianist – a fact those adjudicator devils were quick to point out!’
Octavia seemed to ponder this for a moment, then said, ‘There’s a new genre of electronic music turning heads in the alternative scene, one which most certainly incorporates both nov—’
‘You don’t have to say it again!’
‘All right, all right!’
Vinyl puffed out her cheeks.
‘This new style,’ she said. ‘What’s it called?’
Octavia grinned.
‘Lowercase.’
