//------------------------------// // Lento // Story: All The Mares In The House Groove To Mozart // by Sanctae //------------------------------// The lights were low, the dimmer meticulously aligned with the yellowing sticky label she’d used to mark the brightness that was just right. The kettle had been standing for a minute or two, teabag waiting patiently in an old mug proudly advertising the Grand Equestrian Orchestra. You know, back when they were still called that. The rattly old windows had been dragged shut, the curtains pulled, and the sofa dragged laboriously across the thick, warm carpeting to the perfect spot that she had painstakingly found. The record was lovingly drawn from its cardboard sheath and placed, with practiced reverence, on the turntable. The stylus was lowered, the motor powered, and a few dials turned. Her mug of tea steamed gently on the low wooden table as she took a moment to plump the cushions under her neck and flick a few wayward strands of hair out of her face. She closed her eyes, letting the aroma of lemongrass condense into a pleasant cloud around her head as the first silky notes of Brahms’ Waltz in A Flat Major flowed into the room. The sofa sighed with her as she leant back, allowing the stress of the day to be swept away by the dance. Her ear flicked. Her eyebrows furrowed as she fidgeted on the cushions. She took a gentle sip of her tea, rolling the flavour around on her tongue as she tried to block it out. Tried not to feel the vibration destroy the flow of the gramophone stylus, tried not to notice the insidious off-tempo thumping overpowering the nuanced piano, tried not to have her evening ruined by the moronic, tasteless, soulless...noise that- Right. That was it. She slammed her mug down on the table and stamped across the room, snatching up a broom from its designated corner. “Keep it down already!” She started furiously adding a set of new dents and scratches to her battered ceiling. “If I wanted to listen to that trash I would have dropped out of school and taken a job selling glow sticks on the streets to fuel my drug habit!” A final few shots from the broom handle and she sat back down again, fishing a few flakes of plaster out of her tea. The bass got louder. ~~~ All The Mares In The House Groove To Mozart - A thesis on the nature of subjectivity in art versus the concepts of merit and quality - Sanctae ~~~ The cello, as some proportion of music lovers would presumably tell you, is the most beautiful instrument in all the orchestra. Possessing a deep, soothing voice, smooth tone, and rich timbre, it is often held to be the most expressive, the most emotional of them all; a piece of art unto itself. And without fail, after the last, soulful note has rang out around the concert hall, and the last peal of teary applause has died into silence, the beauty and the artistry suddenly deflate like cheap bubble wrap and there you are. It’s almost ten pm, it’s raining, and you have a four foot wooden box you need to drag home without a single dent or scratch, otherwise it’s several hundred bits down the drain. This must be why people bother to play the flute, she thought. Or chose to play something so monumentally awkward that moving it magically becomes somepony else’s problem. Lyra. “What, Tavi?” “Hmm?” “You just keep staring at my cutie mark and grinding your teeth. It’s kinda worrying, actually.” “Mm, oh, it’s nothing. Forget it.” She stopped walking, bouncing the heavy cello case up her shoulders a little, almost overbalancing down the hill, giving a slightly different muscle group some grief and lulling the other ones into a false sense of security. Home was still a good half an hour away. “I know what’s gotten under your coat. It’s that pony upstairs again...how’d you put it?” Lyra put on her best ‘tea-and-crumpets-on-the-lawn’ voice. “‘That vapid, boorish troglodyte and his squawking, atonal caterwauling’ and then a bunch of other words I had to look up when I got home.” Octavia said nothing, resuming her slow walk down the hill. A minty green elbow nudged her in the ribs. “Ah, c’mon Tavi. I know I said that I would strangle you if you didn’t shut up about it, but that was then. This is now, and I want to be here for you in your time of artistic intolerance.” “IT’S NOT INTOL-...It’s not intolerance, Lyra,” she said, adopting a tone usually reserved for rather trying foals and adding just the slightest undercurrent of impending physical violence. “It’s the simple fact that it is not art in the first place. It’s the result of a violent altercation between a microphone, a pony, and a bag full of angry cats from which no party emerged victorious.” “Well, I went to the last open booth night at SoundBite and I’d say that was pretty victorious!” “That’s not funny, Lyra, and stop waving your hooves around. You’re embarrassing the both of us.” Lyra dropped daintily back onto all fours, nose imperiously in the air, and trotted back to Octavia’s side; the very picture of poise and grace save for the manic grin. “Look at it this way. You blast one kind of music, he, she, or it blasts anoth-” “I do not ‘blast’ Beethoven. I do not ‘crank’ Mozart. I play them as they were meant- don’t give me that look” “Pfffhahaa, oh Tavi. Could you just say ‘crank’ again? Please? I want the sound engraved in my memory.” Her friend skipped nimbly out of reach of the right hook, laughing like a hyena. “I really don’t know what I did for fun before I met you.” “Probably spent hours watching the spin cycle on the washing machine...” “Ah, there ya go. Them's fightin’ words.” Lyra again matched pace with her slow plod, dialing the grin back to a friendly smile. “Look, all I’m saying is that maybe you could live and let live a little, hmm? It makes people happy and that’s what’s really important, love and peace and all that hippy nonsense.” “But it makes me unhappy.” Suddenly, a hoof grabbed her cheek, twisting her head to look into a pair of deeply concerned eyes; the smile wiped away. “And that’s important to me, Tavi, as a friend and as a fellow patron of the musical arts.” The earnest stare was piercing, the deep golden eyes hypnotizing. “But I think you need to consider that Drum ‘n’ Bass kicks flank and Mozart would probably agree.” “Aaugh!” She knocked the hoof aside and stomped down the road. They were, she realised, just past Lyra's place. “Tavi.” She stopped and turned, Lyra having paused by her front gate a little ways behind her. “Look, there’s a specials night at SoundBite that is the closest thing I can think of to something you might be physically capable of enjoy- of not hating. Come out tomorrow, and I’ll show you that it isn’t really as bad as you think. ‘Sides, we haven’t had a night out in ages, it’ll do the both of us some good.” Octavia stared blankly back at her friend, into the completely put-on expression of wide-eyed despair and desperation, and considered. Sometimes the important decisions in a pony’s life are easy to spot. “I’ll cut the green wire”, “I’ll just double-check the safety net”, “I think I’ll wait ‘til I’m sober before I tender my resignation”. Sometimes, however... “Hmph...okay, okay, don’t break out the puppy eyes. Anyway, I don’t think I could stand another night in, alone with that cacophony, so why not spend a night out with that cacophony and a good fr-...well, you, at any rate...” “Yes! Awesome! I’ll send you th-” “...On one condition,” she shot over her shoulder.  “If I hate it, drinks are on you.” Lyra snapped to attention, throwing a curt salute, before turning her attention to the two stallions pulling the cart containing her massive harp. Octavia could just hear the exchange as she walked away. “That’s great lads, I don’t suppose you could just help me get it inside could you? And mind the doorframe, this only works from a very specific angle.” ~~~ The sign had been neon red and ‘witty’, a headphone-wearing piranha biting, then un-biting, the second half of the name. Inside was dark and heavy, everything bathed in a flat, pink-red glow. They’d gotten their hooves stamped at the door and bought their first G&Ts (or vodka-cokes in Lyra’s case) at the bar, ignoring the unsteady advances of a particularly quick-off-the-mark colt. Now they were seated in the corner, Octavia anxiously scuffing her hooves along the scratched wooden tabletop, Lyra talking nineteen to the dozen about the ‘artists’ for the ‘SoundBite Nu Culture Nite’. The stage was small; really just an area with no tables, a few more power outlets, and slightly better lighting. A mauve pony with a rather poofy mane was fussing over a mixing desk to one side, the other side remained curiously empty save for a lonely microphone stand. Her eyes kept roving over the stage as she drank, the microphone, the DJ’s three-daisy cutie mark, and the banners and posters in the back advertising upcoming events. “So, that’s why it’s called ‘Nu Classical'. Well, it’s why it should be called that even if nopony does yet, and...you...weren’t listening anyway, so I guess it doesn’t matter.” “Hmm? Oh, I’m sorry, Ly.” “Hey, don’t sweat it. It’s the music that matters anyway, not the history, really.” “...You actually know a lot about this, don’t you?” “Yeah, it’s a bit of a hobby, y’know. I just picked the history up as I went along- oh, here we go!” A beige earth pony with a deep red mane had taken up the other side of the stage, exchanging a few friendly words with the other pony before stepping up to the microphone. “Hey there SoundBite!” Lyra enthusiastically cheered along with the rest of the bar, kicking Octavia under the table until she got a half-hearted ‘Woo’. “We’ll be starting up in a minute or two, so you just stay right where you are for Crystal Rose, that's me, and DJ Sunny Delight!” She smiled, winking to the small crowd, and turned to start unpacking her instrument from its rather oddly shaped case. “DJ Sunny Delight?” “Yeah, she’s been playing a few gigs around town recently...and...what’s wrong?” “What is that?” “...That’s a cello, Tavi. They’re a member of the stringed section in an orchestra. Maybe you’ve heard of them? ” “...What. Is. That.” “A. Cello. Tavi. If you want I can draw you a diagram. It would just be the word ‘CELLO’ written on a barmat next to a bad drawing of your face, but I’m thinking we need to go back to basics here.” “Lyra.” “...Yes, Octavia.” “That...is a stick...with some strings and....oh sweet Celestia, is it connected...is that an electric amplifier?” “Yes, Tavi. Yes it is. Have you really never seen an elec- where are you going?” “To the bar.” “But you haven’t finished your...uh, okay wow, Tavi, that’s actually a little impressive. Wanna get me something while you’re up?” “Drinks are already on you, Lute-butt” “Nuts.” ~~~ She was at the bar when the music started. Oh, it got her hopes up. For one, glorious, fleeting instant she thought she might be able to stand it. ‘Crystal Rose’ wasn’t the best, by any means, but there was a little spark of something in her playing that, if nurtured, could maybe take her places. The instrument - she shuddered as she necked another G&T - the instrument was...unique, certainly...she found it helped if she didn’t think of it as a cello in all but the most technical sense. But the backing...ugh...the screeching wail and thick drumbeat were just too much. They drowned everything out. Any emotional depth that might have been coming through from the cello was a last, desperate hoof poking above the waves, struggling for air as it slipped beneath the foaming sea of - she gave Lyra’s money to the barcolt, knocking back a G&T but saving the other two - sea of...of...something something drowning metaphor...the DJ sucked, that was what mattered. DJ Sunny Depfffhehehe, ah that name was just...ahem, anyway, DJ Sunny Delight, more like DJ complete lack of subtlety. She didn’t blame the ‘cellist’, the cellist was...well she was a cellist. Clearly the issue here was that turntable...thing. Lyra didn’t seem to care, she noted, sipping delicately at her G&T, her friend was beside her at the bar, jumping around and shouting things at Octavia from time to time. She had no idea what- she took another si- Oh, the glass was empty. She ordered another. She had no idea...er....um...something. Music, probably. The music wasn’t very good. It was still playing, the music...she thought...actually hard to tell. Sounded like...distant. Woops, almost lost the glass...where’s the table gone? Hi, Lyra. Didn’t get a word of what Lyra just said but it’s probably funny. Something about a lute not being a harp. She knew that. She knew musics. She liked playing the cello. Better tell Lyra that, she likes music too. The music here isn’t too bad. Catchy. Makes you move your- Oh it’s really bright. Ouch, who, oh, door frame, how silly. Lyra’s laughing too. It’s funny. Funny and cold. Cold mainly. Pfffhahaha Lamppost dancing with Ly- wait...other way rouuhahahaaa. Wooooo, Lyra! Weren’t they at a bar? Something about cellos. She loved playing cello. Lyra lives here. Bye bye Lyra. Like music, hehee, can’t sing straight. Just not practiced...huh, this is her house...but Lyra lives miiiiles away...she must be the fastestest pony in...door keys. OOF, ouch, who left shoes here? Stupid place. Stupid sh The first, hard rays of morning slotted between her loosely pulled curtains, hitting her neatly across the face like they had some personal grudge to settle. Right now, as she lay there with the thought dragging itself through her head by its fingernails, that was the only reasonable explanation for the world of misery in which she found herself. Blinking hurt. Breathing hurt. Her mouth was full of rust and her face felt like it was going to explode. She lolled her head to the side, looking over at- aawww, no...Out of the corner of her eye she saw a rounded shape underneath the duvet. She would have sighed if she had the strength, she would have closed her eyes if her eyelids weren’t made of razor-blades, and she would have massaged her forehead if her hooves weren’t made of lead. As it was she just stared at the ceiling. It was always so embarrassing in the mornings, that’s why she’d sworn she wouldn’t drink like that anymore. Not after last time. Especially after last time. Lyra still had the pictures. She shuddered as she lay there, painfully squinting against the sun. She withstood it for almost a minute before the piercing headache from getting up started to seem more attractive than the piercing headache from the sunlight. Besides, better to get this over and done with now. She shakily clambered out of bed, threw back the covers, heaving her cello off the bed and back onto its stand in the corner, fishing her bow out from under the bed to join it. The re-tuning was going to be a bitch.