//------------------------------// // Keep on Runnin' // Story: The Spice of Life // by Alun Aleriksson //------------------------------// Ch. 4- Keep on Runnin’ The small pavilion would definitely not have been Octavia’s first choice. She doubted it would have been her second, or even third choice either, but it would do as a temporary meeting place for the trio. The dusty floors and cracking paint steered other ponies away from the building, and scant trees isolated it from the rest of the park. Isolated. Even thinking the word made her queasy. She had never as felt cut off from the world as she did now, and it frightened her. She used to be a part of society; albeit, one she disliked, but even fake social interactions were better than none. Although, looking at her present company, she realized she valued quality over quantity, at least. Vinyl and Syncopation may be a little bit different than the ponies she was used to, yet Octavia still enjoyed being with them. To a point, of course. Strangely enough, the current discussion was not about music. Vinyl and Syncopation were busy swapping stories while Octavia listened pensively. She still had no idea what to do next, and it bothered her that her companions did not share a sense of urgency. When she brought it up, however, she was quickly shot down. “Shouldn’t we be discussing what we’re going to do next?” “You got a plan?” Syncopation asked. “Well, no, but—“ “Then why worry? Canterlot ain’t goin’ nowhere, and music ain’t somethin’ you can rush.” “But we still need to think of something to do!” Octavia persisted. “Fine. The way I see it, we need to give the city somethin’ new, somethin’ enjoyable to listen to that’s also enjoyable to play, you follow?” Octavia nodded, not sure where he might be going with this. “Problem is, I already tried that. You ever hear of swing?” Vinyl shook her head with Octavia. “Exactly. And if two reasonably knowledgeable musicians don’t know what it is, what does that tell you about how successful we were?” There was no need for an answer; Octavia and Vinyl just looked at each other, until Vinyl noticed something. “Who’s ‘we’?” Syncopation blinked, then sighed. “Me and Coda,” he explained. “We were messin’ around with our instruments and fell into a weird eighth note rhythm. We liked the way it felt, so we played with it until we understood how it was supposed to sound. Well, I shouldn’t say ‘supposed to,’ since we were makin’ stuff up. But it felt, I dunno, natural I guess, like it was the way our instruments wanted to play the notes. We called it swooping, or swinging the eighth notes.” “So what happened?” Vinyl asked. “We got to a rehearsal for the orchestra we were a part of early, and started playing back and forth. Our director came in and told us we were playing incorrectly, and that if we wanted to keep our positions we should start playing the music the way it was written. Coda just nodded, but I had to open my mouth.” Octavia covered her tiny gasp with a hoof, and Vinyl pressed the conversation. “What’d you tell him?” “That there was no correct way to play the music: it was open to interpretation,” he paused for a second, and then continued. “You can guess I wasn’t part of the orchestra for much longer, so I left, and Coda stayed. I don’t know if he ever played swing again.” “Yeah, Sync! Stick it to the man!” Vinyl held out her hoof for a bump, and did not receive one. Syncopation instead turned to Octavia. “So there you have it. I stood for a change, and ended up on the streets. I tried to keep playing, but who would pay attention to me? So I eventually quit. Haven’t kept a job since.” “I’m sorry,” Octavia’s voice was just above a whisper. “Ah, don’t apologize. If we pull this off, it’ll be worth more than anything you could say to me. Unfortunately, as far as plans go, that puts us back at square one.” “Not quite…” Octavia amended. Syncopation raised his eyebrows at her. “You could teach us to swing,” -XXX- “No, no, stop, Octavia, stop,” The three were back at Octavia’s flat, with some hastily scratched down rhythms and notes designed to teach a DJ and cellist how to play a completely different style of music than what they were used to. “What?” Octavia was just a tad frustrated with her instructor. Syncopation flared his wings defensively. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re playing the notes beautifully, but you’re still not getting that swing element,” “Yeah, swing it, Tavi!” Vinyl cheered, earning her a glare from the gray mare. “I don’t understand; I’m playing the notes just like you said: the eighth notes behave like dotted-eighth-sixteenth notes.” “Yes, but that’s just the problem: I don’t want you to play it exactly like it’s written. It…ah, how do I put this? It’s more like a feel than a style,” Dubious looks told him he wasn’t getting his point across. “Um, kind of like, a rubato slur, but don’t actually slur it, oh, that doesn’t help.” Octavia listened to his rant with her forelegs crossed, and Vinyl’s mouth was slightly open in bored confusion. “Oh! How about this? Think of it like this: doo-bah doo-bah doo-bah doo-bah… you don’t get it, do you?” “No. How is that different than rubato eighth notes?” “You have to feel it more than play it. May I?” He held out his hooves for the cello balanced on Octavia’s body. She internally debated for a moment before passing it to him. He drew the bow across the strings a few times, then looked at the rhythms he had written down. He moved the bow in time with the eighth notes, putting just a little more emphasis on the first one of each pair, but stopped and shook his head. “This isn’t working. Do you absolutely need the bow to play?” “Well, I suppose not, but—hey! I needed that!” Syncopation had tossed her bow away; it landed behind the couch. “You just said you didn’t,” Syncopation corrected. “Let’s try this.” He rested the cello against himself and used a hoof to pluck a single string, over and over, falling into the eighth note rhythm again, this time swaying his body to the beat. His accents, now unrestricted by the bow, were smoother, and like he said, felt different. He played the straight eighths for a few bars before free styling, still using the single note. Vinyl couldn’t hold back her laughs. “I told you it was a giant guitar!” Her good humor persevered through the smack on the back of her head she received as a response. Syncopation handed the instrument off to Octavia. “Your turn. Feel the beat, don’t just play it.” So Octavia felt the beat. She swayed her body, bobbed her head, and accented the eighth notes appropriately. She even closed her eyes for a second, until she heard Vinyl’s snickering. “What now?” She turned to Syncopation, who was also holding back a smile. “Nothing! You’re starting to get it, I think,” “That was priceless, Tavi!” Vinyl was practically cackling now. “You shoulda seen yourself!” She wobbled her head in a crude imitation of Octavia’s motion. A fierce red heat flared across Octavia’s cheeks. “It’s not like I usually do that when I’m playing,” “Well, it’s not like you usually try to learn an entirely new style of music, either,” Syncopation consoled her. “Try it again, but loosen up; this is a very relaxed style. Focus on the feel, and the sway will come naturally.” Octavia nodded and regarded the sheet music once more. She took a breath to relax herself, and began playing. The eighth notes flowed into each other as she did her best to “swoop” them, and tried to stay relaxed at the same time. She fell into a one-note rhythm, as Syncopation had, but she couldn’t get it to sound as smooth as he had, and she couldn’t slur the notes without her bow. Her accents still sounded stiff and traditional. Finally, she stopped her plucking. “I can’t do it,” Ever the drama queen, Vinyl prostrated herself before the cellist. “No, Tavi! You can’t give up; think of the foals! Think of Canterlot! Think of…me!” Octavia was not impressed. “I’m a classical musician. If I can’t swing, I can’t swing.” “Ha! You forget; I was part of an orchestra, too. Tell me, Octavia,” Syncopation looked at the other pieces scattered about the room. “What chair did you hold in the Royal Symphony?” “Well, I was first chair cellist. I suppose Fermata would be now, though.” “First chair in the Royal Symphony and you can’t put feeling into your music? Canterlot’s worse off than I thought,” Octavia bristled. “I’ll have you know I was released because I put feeling into the music!” “Were you now? Show me,” The pegasus leafed through sheets of music until he found one he recognized. “Beethoofen’s Seventh? I remember this one. Here, play it for me.” So Octavia did. She started playing soft and slow, and added the crescendo where Coda had stopped her the last time she had played it. Syncopation followed along, exaggerating a conductor’s movements to the tempo, almost as if he was dancing. After a little while, Syncopation signaled her to stop. “So, what did you feel?” Octavia thought for a bit, but found she understood what her mentor meant. “The movement is a kind of happiness, but its reserved, almost like it’s…forbidden, or something like that.” “That kind of feeling after two minutes and you tell me you can’t swing?” Syncopation shook his head. “I don’t believe that for a second.” “Are you sure it wasn’t about sleep? ‘Cause that’s what I felt,” Vinyl opened her mouth in a huge yawn, drawing it out as long as possible. “Your appreciation of the fine arts is nothing short of astounding, Vinyl,” Octavia commented. Vinyl gave a little bow, ignoring the sarcasm. “Thank you, Miss Tavi,” she said in a fake Canterlot accent. “I do so love a good musical performance.” Octavia rolled her eyes, but smiled in spite of herself. What was this DJ doing to her? “Do you two need some alone time, or are we going to keep practicing?” -XXX- An hour later, Octavia had relaxed into a beat that resembled swing, which was good enough for Syncopation, as he told her that they’d “work on it.” He then turned to the unicorn occupying the floor. “Hope you got all that; you’re up next,” “Yeah, sure. Unlike Miss Priss over there, I got no problem relaxin,’” “’Miss Priss’?” Octavia raised her eyebrows. “And what instrument do you play, if I may?” “Bass cannon, of course,” Vinyl grinned. The other musicians deadpanned. “That doesn’t count,” Syncopation explained. “Unless your electronics can imitate a swing beat, they’re useless to us. Anything else you can play?” “Ugh, fine. I did originally get my cutie mark playing the piano,” “Perfect! That gives us a good mix of instruments. I don’t suppose you have one lying around, though, do you?” “Uh, no.” Syncopation shrugged. “A minor setback. I’m sure we can find an old keyboard or something you can use to practice on. We’ll look for that tomorrow, though: it’s gettin’ on to nighttime.” Octavia looked out her window, surprised at how much time had passed. “Why don’t we meet at the pavilion tomorrow morning,” Syncopation suggested. “We can try some of the older concert halls; one might have an abandoned piano, or maybe just a space we can use. I can also bring my instrument, and if we find somewhere, maybe we can even jam a little bit.” His voice was even, but Octavia sensed genuine excitement in his demeanor. “That sounds like a plan. Though, could we start the search closer to here? I don’t mean to sound selfish, but it would be a bit of a hassle to carry my cello to the Outer District and back,” Octavia said, then realized something. “Syncopation, what instrument do you actually play? I don’t remember you telling us.” “Trumpet,” the pegasus replied. “So, yeah, just a little lighter than a cello. Which means closer to here would be a good choice. I personally know some halls that went out of business because the only place the Royal Symphony and Orchestra started playing at was Carneighgie Hall.” Octavia lowered her eyes. The prestigious concert hall had been the only one deemed “suitable for a performance” for almost a year. She couldn’t imagine how many stages in Canterlot had closed down, or were no longer operating. Syncopation noticed her discomfort. “Hey it’s not that bad. I know, that probably sounds weird, coming from me, but…” He shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll get through it. We just gotta keep goin, keep runnin.’ But let’s save that for tomorrow.” Octavia began packing up her instrument; retrieving the thrown bow and placing it carefully back in its cradle beside her cello. She nodded at Syncopation as she did so, thankful that she had a course set and a plan in motion. Things were looking up, it seemed. Suddenly a pair of alabaster forelegs enclosed her torso. “See you tomorrow, Tavi!” Octavia was in no position to return the gesture, so she awkwardly patted one of the legs she could reach. “Yes, Vinyl, I will see you tomorrow,” The unicorn released her, satisfied, and followed Syncopation out the door. Octavia watched them go, then closed the door and chuckled to herself. An outcast cellist, a hyperactive DJ, and a lonely old orchestra member were going to save Canterlot with a forgotten style of music. The sheer incredulity of her predicament was almost overwhelming. She couldn’t wait to tell Latte all about it.