Frontman
by Acologic
Dedicated to stanku, whose work inspired me not only to write here but to keep writing.
1.
Discovery
***
Books.
Lots and lots of books. Crammed into cheap-looking bookshelves surely creaking under their combined weight. Inside each a score and analysis? Several? Or perhaps scores of QA-approved performance pieces waiting to be dished out come exam term. Who knew?
‘Very good, bring us in there, that’s it. Careful though, you’ve got too much weight behind that… Got to make those notes snappier. Again. Yes! Better.’
And guitars too. God, there were lots, hanging glumly from Post-it note–encircled wall mounts, all bashed, bruised and abused over years of thoughtless students and open-day usage. And cables, for want of a better word. Lots of those. Black jumbles of them, like a snake nest. The modern musician, he’d read, was as much a technician as an artist. That scared him.
‘No, it’s… no, bar twenty-one, please. Yes. Again, please. Yes. Good.’
Plectrums. Some scattered by a kettle in the corner, some on the floor. Rosin too. Just the one. Left behind? And on the desk a poster boasting hackneyed tag lines yet to be Blu-tacked to the corridor display.
‘Two, three and in!’
Dec waited.
‘Keep it up, don’t slow!
‘Watch that though, that one, that chord just there. “Let ring”, it says, as you play them, the notes. Let’s hear… No, the major seventh, please. Better.
‘Too much, too much behind that. Bring it down a bit, please. Again.
‘OK, when you come in, Ross, you need to hold those first three notes longer, full values. Again, and don’t rush.’
He wasn’t close to half good, this guy, thought Dec. The guitar was just… bad. Flashy, and meaningless, and horribly distorted, combining terribly with its performer to produce only irritating sound.
‘Not bad, Ross, just keep working on it, please.’
A very tactful way of breaking it to him. And Dec – knowing he was next, his own future on the line, his talent laid bare for the admittedly kind teacher to judge – he felt for this Ross.
‘… off back now, and I’ll pass on the recording, OK? Alright? Good. Thank you, Ross.’
Dec’s stomach squirmed, and he gulped a few times, feeling ill as he always did before any performance. He brushed the neck of his lute, pressed his hoof into the cold strings. Deep breaths. And as with every performance, his worries hadn’t changed. His lute, quite literally the instrument of his success, he knew it would not let him down.
But its secret could never be known.
‘And now… Dec? Dec, you can come in, please.’
Books. Bookshelves. Guitars. Cables. Post-its, and posters, and plectrums. And now Ross, unplugging, and then the classroom and everything in it. Music stands, a grand piano by the whiteboard, more cables, a few dusty corner desks, a projector and screen, and a lot of space, but mostly filled with seniors, and all of them holding instruments. CAC Chamber Group. Real musicians. And all of them looking at Dec.
His turn.
***
Quentin,
You’ll no doubt wonder what this is all about, a line instead of our usual natter by the staff base. It’s just I’ve come across a wonderful new prospect, heard him today at a tryout for the Philharmonic. We had the Chamber Group in, you know, Studio 1 at lunchtime. And this first-year… Dec Domesquad is his name. Such technical proficiency! A guitarist, hoofstyle, he’s an Earth, you see, had me astounded when I saw which piece he’d chosen! Valse du lapin, the original! At full speed! I know, I’m as shocked as you undoubtedly are, because he managed it! Hoofstyle, no horn! You could actually hear the striking of the strings!
All I ask is see for yourself. I’ve invited Dec to your next rehearsal. He’s a very pleasant boy, sensitive. Let him play, and his ability will speak for itself.
Many thanks,
H.
***
Dec manoeuvred his case into an overhead locker, took the seat opposite so as to keep it in view. Coach 11 was all but empty today, but that was no reason to be careless. Deal yourself a bad hand, whose side are you on? Caution first, always. He’d read both sayings somewhere, had taken both to heart. Jake, sitting beside him, his little smirk said he knew exactly what was going through Dec’s head as he stood up again to make certain the catch was secure.
‘So,’ said the latter once he’d finished, ‘how’d it go?’
Dec grinned guiltily. ‘Mr Harriot’s mouth was open after only six bars. Couldn’t have gone better in a script.’
‘Hah!’ Jake snorted, slapped a seat, sending dust everywhere. ‘He transferred you?’
‘Yep,’ said Dec happily. ‘Tomorrow morning, first thing. I’m playing with the Phillies. You know what that means?’
‘Gevanni?’
‘Yeah.’
Jake whistled. ‘Sure you’re up for it?’
‘Jake…’ Dec nodded at the locker as the engine gurgled into life and the bus jerked forwards.
‘No, I mean you. Psychologically.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Jake clicked his tongue and shrugged. ‘Well, he’s got a reputation, isn’t it? What if he finds out?’
Jake had said that deliberately, knowing the effect it would have on him. Dec could feel worms in his stomach again.
‘He won’t.’ But it didn’t sound confident, which bugged him even more. You’d think after all these years undetected he’d have more faith in himself, in his lute. And he’d seen Harriot’s face. He’d done alright, hadn’t he? Attention, yes, but in all the right places. No one suspected anything.
‘How’s the job?’ he asked as casually as he could, hoping to change the subject.
‘Don’t change the subject,’ came Jake’s reply. Dec grinned at that.
‘Huh. You’ve seen through my cunning plan.’
‘You’d better hope he doesn’t.’
‘Gevanni. Yeah, I’m… pretty nervous. But it’s nothing new. We’ve done this for years.’
‘You’ve done this,’ corrected Jake. ‘I’ve just…’
‘Kept quiet for as long as I have? Yeah. The word “complicit” comes to mind.’
Jake’s turn to grin. ‘Good luck either way. Knock ’em dead.’
‘Might have to if he finds out.’
They laughed, Dec a little forcefully. How many times had he made that joke? Still, it was funny. He turned his attention to the window, watched the city crawl by. Canterlot. Busy as always, stagnant traffic, flashing lights, chewing-gum encrusted streets. The world had so much going for it, so many other details and distractions it hardly mattered that he, Dec Domesquad, was up to something. Who would notice amidst all this? He watched a flock of pedestrians cross the road, their collars up against the wind. Who would care even to look, to glance?
But was it right? Ah, there it was again, that little voice inside his head. Was it right, this deception, albeit harmless? Harmless. Sort of. Who was he hurting, really? In fact, all he’d done so far was bring joy to ponies around him. Happiness. Contentment. And to himself too. Was that so bad? It wasn’t as though he was lying either. People simply assumed it was so, and he didn’t bother correcting their mistake.
But is it right… Is it right… Is it right… Is it right…
Not wrong, anyway. Not really. What else was he supposed to do? You get given a gift, you use it.
He sighed.
***
Half an hour later, the bus pulled in. Dec’s chip-yellow stop post. He carefully dragged the case from its perch, knocked hooves with Jake.
‘Hayhouse later tonight?’ said Jake, pulling out an earphone.
‘Not really feeling it,’ said Dec, ‘but give me a call after seven, I might be hungry enough.’
‘Will do.’
Dec thanked the driver and stepped off. The bus curled itself around the bend and out of sight. His grey-brown cuboid of a student village, hardly the most welcoming. But a home of sorts, and at least inside was ten if not twenty times more tolerable than its brutal exterior. Gate. Stairs. Yard. Gust of wind. He swiped his key card, tugged hard on the heavy door to Block C, grunting. More stairs.
No. 23, key card again.
And in.
He tossed his coat onto its peg, leaned his bag against the cold radiator, laid his case on the bed, walked over to the window. Now there was a thing he liked about the room. His window, a big one, almost large enough to fall through were it glass-less. Through it Dec could observe the entire undercity, so dubbed purely on account of the citadel, for unlike most diminutives it was hardly inferior. Lower Canterlot was three times the size of its counterpart and teemed with life, unassuming and everyday, just as that of any healthy city should be, written in the reds, greens, purples and yellows of neon signs and street lamps.
Oh, and noisy. Car horns, and laughter, and pigeons, and come nighttime college parties and carelessly loud pubs and clubs. City noise. The music of mundanity, as important a part of inspiration as anything.
Is it right… is it right… is it right…
Oh, shut up with that, he thought to himself. This was impersonal. Just business, as they say. That tomorrow he’d be playing with the big boys… On the face of it, small – but Dec recognised the significance of this progression and fought his conscience down.
The battle was short-lived. Cut short, in fact, because his MagCo went off.
He rummaged through his bag, pulled it out.
His heart leapt.
‘… Dad?’
‘Dec, haha, my son, how are you, haha, how was the day, my son?’
‘Good, Dad, I –’
‘Haha, so good to hear your voice again! Your aunt told me the big news, the big first-year now! At the conservatoire, very… how do you say, posh? Haha! So proud! So proud, of course, so happy, haha!’
‘Dad, I… well, yeah, I’m – I got in –’
‘Good school, is it? What they teach you there, my son? The piano, yes? Good for your keratin, work the hoof tips, you get plenty of exercise, my son, haha, plenty of the workouts!’
‘Actually playing my lute, Dad, heh… just, still on that, you know…’
‘Oh, I know, I know, a little joke, haha, just the fun, you know how I say, haha?’
‘Yeah. Dad, I… I actually had a tryout today, at the school. Like, an audition. For the philharmonic orchestra?’
‘Haha, the big star already, I can bet! Impressing them with the skills already, playing them into astonishment, I can bet, haha! You make me very proud.’
Dec felt an eyelid flutter. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘Make me so proud! Haha, they’ll remember the name Domesquad then, haha! You make your mother too, so very happy, she sees us, she knows, haha!’
‘How are you though, it’s been ages. Nancy still at your beck and call?’
‘Haha, you know, haha, you see, no fooling! She’s here, next to me now!’
‘Nancy? No end to your suffering, then?’
‘Haha, see how she smiles! Haha!’
‘Just want to know if you’re OK though, Dad.’
‘Me? Pah! You know how it is, I sit, I watch the happy pictures. Haha, you know how it moves for me, haha, how life moves!’
‘But you aren’t working?’
‘Me, no, no, of course not! No, little bit here perhaps, there and here and not much, only how you say, the small jobs.’
‘Dad, you’re not supposed –’
‘Which reminds me! How good that you say! I’m sending an allowance! No, I don’t want to hear!’
For Dec had protested immediately.
‘My son, my money, I give to whomever I choose, haha, you see how, know how it is, haha. My little works, they pay some for your fundings, haha! For your savings!’
‘You sure you know how to transfer these days? It’s all magic now.’
‘Haha, the big joker, haha, from me you get this! You’ll get your funding, haha, my son, so good to hear the voice again. So good.’
‘Heh, thanks, Dad. Are you…’ He paused. ‘Still on for summer, right?’
‘Oh yes, haha, yes, yes, your uncle, he say I come over, haha, will be seeing you then, I can bet, haha!’
Dec grinned. ‘Great. Wouldn’t be right without you.’
‘Haha, no dropping-ins here, you see how it is, haha. This time it’s all mapped, haha, on the plan! Oho, Nancy, haha, how you make me laugh! Haha, my son, I am to go now, Nancy wants – no, no, haha! Nancy is wanting me out of the staff room!’
‘Heh. I should have known.’
‘Haha, you see how it is! I’ll speak soon with you more, son, haha! Goodbye, Dec, goodbye!’
‘Bye, Dad. Bye.’
‘Haha, my son, goodbye!’
His MagCo flashed out.
Frontman
by Acologic
2.
Impression
***
The cellos hummed and then entered the oboes, playful at first but growing fainter, more mournful. A countermelody, motif reintroduced with slight variation this time.
How loud they were in this little studio. Dec gulped. He was expected to play alongside these, compete for a place among their ranks: in over his head. He couldn’t prevent the thought. Stupid though, he knew he could. But of course, it wasn’t about just the playing. Parlance, etiquette, know-how. The culture itself. All of these he was far, far behind on in comparison. And any one thing could let him down were a pony to suspect the facade.
‘And off!’
Gevanni threw his hoof skyward. The music stopped at once.
‘Leonard,’ he said, stroking his chin, ‘you’re too withdrawn. Louder, more vigour. The pauper finding the ring, this is a moment of victory. Right now Joseph next to you, he’s drowning you out. I noticed he was adjusting there. Don’t.’
The clarinet, Joseph, nodded.
‘Lighten up, that’s the long and short of it, you’re meant to sing it out like you’ve just struck gold! Now I know to a young lad that doesn’t mean much, but I’ll ask you to put yourself in the beggar’s shoes, please, and no, you won’t catch anything.’
A few weak chuckles.
‘Alright, let’s take five. Toilet break, cup of water, you know the drill. Dec?’ He beckoned without turning. Dec’s stomach sank lower.
Quentin Gevanni was an Earth, thickset and crinkly, with saucer-wide eyes and a short, grey-speckled goatee. His mane, also greying, was close-cropped and his coat was linen white. His stance was square-on, relaxed, and wasn’t helping Dec’s nerves any. He gulped as Gevanni surveyed him, waited for him to speak.
Gevanni jerked his head at the disbanding orchestra. ‘You recognise that piece?’
Dec nodded. Gevanni raised an eyebrow. Dec cleared his throat. ‘The Rat Town, one of Alek Walker’s tone poems.’
‘You like Walker?’
‘Sometimes I listen –’
‘No? Who do you like, then? Guitar, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Eiger? Borrelli?’
‘Not really, I… Pajarin, I like.’
‘Ah. Which works?’
‘Sonata no. 5.’
‘Piano?’ He seemed almost amused. ‘Alright then, Dec, here’s how it works.’ He spread his hooves, smiling pleasantly. ‘See this? All of us? We’re pressed for time all the time. That’s the first thing you’ll learn. We’ve always more to do than we can manage, but we always manage. And to do that, it’s all about being economical. You follow so far?’
Dec nodded.
‘Now, I could tell you all about the countless commitments these musicians and myself have elsewhere, but there’s no point. Wouldn’t be very economical now, would it? And we’ll learn very quickly whether you fit in here. If you’re a good player, a good team player. Still with me?’
Dec nodded.
‘Aaron Blake, that’s him over there.’ He indicated a well-groomed Earth laughing with friends by the door. ‘He’s struggling today, bad hoof. You’re going to replace him. We’re doing Intro and Allegro next, plenty of guitar. Get ready. Aaron!’ he called. ‘I need your music!’
Aaron Blake looked up at the sound of his name, came over quickly and handed Gevanni the papers, who passed them to Dec.
‘You’ve got… three-and-a-half minutes. It’s going to sound rough, of course it is. Doesn’t matter, just give it your best. Chair over there, Dec, let’s get busy.’
He sat, placed the sheet music on its stand, gave it a look-over. As luck would have it, each passage was mercifully brief. To his surprise, he was actually smiling. No small talk. No questions. Straight to business, and that he could handle. That was, in fact, ideal. He opened his case, pulled out his lute, his hoof tips tingling.
All he had to do was play.
It was in the bag.
***
‘Off!’
Dec let go. His lute stopped.
Everyone was looking at him again, Gevanni from the front, Aaron Blake from the dusty desks, Joseph the clarinet and Leonard.
‘Well, how about that!’ Gevanni, although shaking his head, was also smiling, eyes heavy with interest and something else. Dec prayed it wasn’t suspicion.
‘Dec,’ said Gevanni, beckoning, ‘a word.’
In one corner of the studio was a sliding door, which, Dec realised as they stepped through, covered a walk-in storage space, long and narrow, linking Studio 3 to 4. Like Harriot’s room, there were books here too, and cables. No guitars, but plenty more music stands, and on an upper shelf beater boxes and glockenspiels.
‘Well,’ began Gevanni, ‘I did wonder, when Harriot dropped me his little note, whether you were too good to be true. How long have you played like that for, young man?’
The Q&A session he’d expected. And had prepared for.
‘I started when I was seven,’ he said carefully, holding the tone.
‘And what are you now? Eighteen?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Nineteen. And you’ve never tried that piece before?’
Dec shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
Gevanni nodded, visibly impressed. ‘Alright, Dec, well, first, congratulations. You’ll be joining us at rehearsal from now on.’
Dec felt a swooping sensation somewhere down below.
‘Who’s your father?’
And his heart skipped a beat. ‘What?’
‘Don’t have a parent who plays?’ Gevanni’s eyes widened quizzingly.
‘I – no, it’s just me.’
Gevanni looked him up and down again with intense interest. ‘Now that is a first. No one in your family at all, then? No one who plays?’
‘No.’
‘What made you want to start?’
‘Well, my dad bought me a startup –’
‘Not that one.’ Gevanni was pointing at Dec’s lute, which he realised he was still holding. That he was was good, he noted idly, a habit born of focused care.
‘No. This one – my uncle made it for me.’
‘He makes instruments?’
‘When he can.’
There was a pause.
‘Well,’ said Gevanni, still nodding, ‘it’s quite a gift. He’s a man of some ability, like yourself.’
‘Thanks.’
Dec feared where this might be going. But then Gevanni relented. ‘Good for another go, then?’ he said matter-of-factly, as though he too wanted to change the subject.
‘What?’
‘Intro and Allegro, until Aaron feels up to it.’
‘Oh.’ Dec hesitated. ‘Yeah.’
‘Good.’ He held open the door, and Dec stepped into the room. He could almost feel Gevanni’s eyes on him all the way back to his seat.
***
‘Spiffing day at the office, chum?’ said Jake, and Dec choked on his toffee mid-snort.
‘I’m trying to eat here,’ he gasped, half-smiling.
‘Ah, the musician needs his energy.’
Coach 11 rattled over a speed bump, jerking the packet they were sharing from between his hooves. Cursing while Jake laughed, Dec stooped to retrieve it, hit his head off the seat as the bus rolled angrily over another and swore again.
‘Karma!’ Jake snorted as Dec picked up loose candies. ‘How went Gevanni?’
‘By the end of practice I swear he could have kissed me,’ muttered Dec, massaging his scalp. ‘I don’t know how I’ll go about this, playing in front of him day in, day out. He asks too many questions.’
‘Bet you had the answers though.’
‘Sort of. He asked about Dad.’
‘What, he knows him?’
‘No, just wondered if he plays. He seemed to think I was from a musical family.’
‘It’ll be because they start their kids off young, you know? Work their hooves to the bone till they shit scales and all that. Bet he thought you were one of those types.’
Dec shrugged, said, ‘I suppose he did, yeah.’
‘Anything else? What did you tell him?’
‘The truth. Well, as much as I could.’ For a clever liar tells as much truth as he can, thought Dec, gritting his jaw.
‘Ha. He’ll be watching.’
‘Yeah, we predicted that.’
‘Be careful is all I’m saying.’
‘I’m always careful.’
Jake grinned. ‘Well, we’ll soon find out, I guess.’
‘You’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you. Don’t say you’re not.’
‘Maybe a tad.’
Dec snorted, shook his head. Well. That made one of them, at least. He, Dec, wasn’t here for fun, after all. This wasn’t a game; it was his life, his future – these were with what he was juggling. A fumble, one slip-up – all it would take for them to fall and shatter. How could he enjoy himself?
They cleared the roundabout and turned onto the main road. The sun tunnelled through the glass, clawed at the side of Dec’s face. He grimaced and narrowed his eyes against the glare. Simultaneously, however, there was warmth – not unpleasant. He placed his head against the window, relaxed his brow, felt the bus’s bumps and vibrations, at times jolting, even painful.
How many times had he looked back at the locker inside which was his lute? He sighed.
‘No!’
Jake’s eyes were wider than Dec’s own, and his mouth was hanging open. Dec pulled his strumming hoof away at once. But for that of the birds and the treetops above them, the music stopped. He dropped the lute onto the foliage and scurried backwards, his heart pounding.
‘Jake, that – that wasn’t me… ’ Dec stammered.
‘W-what?’ Jake said. ‘H-how?’
‘I – I don’t know! It just… played.’ Dec licked his lips, shook his head inexplicably. ‘It played me.’
‘What do you mean “it played you”? You’re not making sense!’
‘I don’t know how to describe it.’ Dec, his breathing heavy, inched towards the lute, stretched out his hoof and picked it up.
‘Don’t!’ squealed Jake, his voice shooting up to irritating registers.
‘Why?’ Dec sat down, crossed his legs, placed the instrument slowly back onto his lap. He ran his hoof up and down the neck, tested the boiled steel strings. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt right.
‘It’s… Dec, what if it’s dangerous?’
‘Dangerous?’ Jake’s mouth was trembling, his eyes straining, holding back tears. He looked more like a child than a proud colt of 10. Dec sighed with both exasperation and fondness. He positioned his hooves to play.
And it happened again, the sudden, bewildering jerk of his forelegs, their carrying out the actions, producing sounds without any effort on his part, the tips of his left hoof pressing and jumping between frets, those of his right strumming the strings above the sound hole. Daisy Was a Little Cow, the rhyme Uncle liked to hum in the workshop. Dec couldn’t explain it; he felt his hooves moving and could comprehend what they were doing, but he wasn’t playing.
The lute was.
Dec sighed again, turned to Jake, who was still chewing sweets, his expression unreadable. How things had changed for both of them, he thought. Yet together they remained. He turned his head back to the locker. Had Jake been right all those years ago?
Was this really a gift or a curse?
