The Spice of Life

by Alun Aleriksson

Edge of the Blade

Ch. 5 – Edge of the Blade

Octavia woke up happy: the sun shined down upon her, and she had slept well. She stretched and hummed contentedly, preparing her body for the day.

First thing on her agenda, after a shower, of course, was to fill her good friend in on the advancements she had made yesterday. She donned her trademark bow tie and set off.

-XXX-

There was actually another mare in the café that morning. Octavia politely greeted her with a silent nod and smile before approaching the counter.

“Hey, Octavia! Got any more juicy news for me today?”

“That depends: do you have a juicy pastry for me in return?”

“Ooh, a witty retort? I told you that DJ would be good for you. See anything you like?”

Octavia rolled her eyes at the mention of Vinyl and scanned Latte’s selection. “What do you recommend?”

“How about a new flavor?” Latte responded easily. “We have more than just blueberry muffins, you know: cranberry, strawberry, banana nut, cinnamon… they come in from Ponyville, of all places,” She rubbed her chin and shrugged.

Octavia considered her options. “Well, I trust your judgment; surprise me!”

Latte cocked an eyebrow and presented a muffin with large red chunks of berry in it. “Those are fresh, real strawberries, so you better enjoy it,”

Enjoy it Octavia did. The strawberries were slightly sweeter than blueberries, and their size ensured a piece in every bite. “I think,” she said between mouthfuls, “my new goal will be to try everything you have here, Latte.”

Latte chortled. “I’ll make a checklist,” The mares shared a laugh. “So, you got your pastry, where’s my news, huh?”

Octavia swallowed the last of her muffin. “I suppose I promised you, didn’t I? Well, it seems as though I’m not the first to start this musical crusade; Vinyl and I found a pegasus stallion who said he would teach us a new style of music.”

“Really? An entirely new style? How are you doing with that?”

“I guess I’m more of a traditionalist,” Octavia admitted. “I’m still working on not making my accents sound like they’re supposed to.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with a classical feel, you know,”

“Of course not,” Octavia agreed. “Though, if I am to broaden my horizons, learning a new style is necessary.” Latte had to concede that much.

“So, are you going to play a gig any time soon?”

Octavia stopped to consider that. Even if she and Vinyl got the hang of swing today, and Syncopation had pieces they could play, who would offer them a chance to perform? Surely not any high society organization or gathering. They would have to aim lower for their debut.

“No,” the cellist answered slowly, “We still have a lot of work to do,” she realized. ‘More work than I thought. I have to talk to the others!’ She excused herself as quickly as she could while still being polite, and exited the café at a trot.

-XXX-

Octavia eased open the door to find Syncopation lying on the dusty ground, asleep. Confused, she shook him awake.

“What? Huh? Oh, hey ‘Tavia.” The old stallion groaned and stretched. “What time is it?”

“A little after ten-thirty. Syncopation, did you sleep here?”

Syncopation dusted off his hat with a wing and placed it securely on his head. “Better’n I have in a long while,” he answered.

Octavia felt sorry for the pegasus; he deserved more than this.

“Don’t gimme that look, Octavia,” Syncopation interrupted her thought. “I ain’t sorry ‘bout it. I just gotta get back up and fix it. Where’s Vinyl?”

“Knowing her, still asleep.” Octavia mentally chastised the DJ for her habits.

“Whelp, in that case, I gotta grab my instrument. I’ll be right back!” He flew off toward the outer district.

Octavia had been expecting to be alone for a little bit: she was used to being the first to any gathering. (Unless ponies camped at the meeting place) She pulled some blank sheets and a quill from her saddlebags and tried to get something done.

She had a rough first draft of the intro to Luna’s Dreamscape scribbled down when Syncopation flapped to the open door and let himself in. It wasn’t much, but it felt good to write something after the stress she had been experiencing lately.

“Is Vinyl still not here?” Octavia shook her head in response. “I’m almost thinkin’ about leavin’ without her.”

“Nah, I’m too pretty to be left behind,” a voice sounded right behind Octavia. She whipped around, coming face to face with a giant purple and white bug. “Hey, Tavi.”

Octavia would have smacked her, but her heart had to calm down at least a few beats per minute, first. “And just where did you come from?”

The DJ gave a smug grin. “A good ninja never reveals her secrets.”

“Personal Invisibility Spell,” Syncopation guessed. “That ain’t simple magic, Vinyl; I’m impressed.”

“Aw, come on!” Vinyl groaned. “I had her, Sync!”

Octavia was dignifiedly gathering her supplies. “Well, since you’re here now, I believe it’s time to be off.”

“Alright, then, first stop is to get Vinyl an instrument,” Syncopation led the way out of the park.

-XXX-

It took three abandoned concert halls for Vinyl to start complaining.

“Don’t any of these places have a piano they were too lazy to get rid of? They can’t all be gone, I mean, right? How many did the Symphony take?”

“Some places sold the instruments they weren’t using. Others destroyed them and used them for firewood, or had them made into furniture.” Syncopation said evenly.

“They would do that?” Octavia felt a chill in her hooves.

Syncopation glanced back at her. “Unfortunately, yes. You hafta remember: once the Symphony and Orchestra took over, these ponies didn’t have an income anymore. They did the best they could.”

“That’s horrible,” Octavia shuddered. This was Canterlot! The symbol of hope and prosperity for all of Equestria! The thought gave her strength; she wasn’t just saving a city anymore: she was saving the country.

Syncopation turned into another run-down building with boarded up windows. Octavia could tell the hall had been magnificent in its time: lush red and gold drapes that had adorned the rafters now hung limp and dreary. The handsome wooden doors were creaky, and many seat cushions were torn or missing altogether. The balcony, painted a pristine white, was faded and peeling.

Syncopation walked by, seemingly unaffected. His eyes were trained on the stage, which was hidden by a thick curtain. The other two musicians lingered, as if at the gravestone of a loved one.

Octavia’s hoofsteps were tender and cautious as she made her way down a central aisle to where Syncopation was just pulling back the heavy cloth to look for abandoned instruments. Bent or broken metal stands were scattered across the stage, and old plastic chairs sat in a semi-circle, but no cases were open, no instruments were tuning, and nopony was playing here.

In the wings, Syncopation tried a light switch that ended up burning out most of the stage lights and blinding Octavia with the flash. Undeterred, the pegasus made his way through in the poor light. Vinyl trotted over, her horn illuminated. The pair continued their search while Octavia hovered around the chairs. In her mind’s eye, she could see musicians, friends, talking, laughing, getting ready for a performance. She picked a seat and looked toward the center of the circle, where the director would be. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the large window behind the balcony, creating a natural spotlight. The image was one of the saddest things Octavia thought she would ever see.

A clatter drew her attention back to her companions: Syncopation had torn off a drop cloth from something Octavia couldn’t see. The noise had been whatever the pegasus hadn’t bothered moving in his haste. Octavia could only barely make out what he said next.

“Hello, beautiful,”

-XXX-

Octavia didn’t know a whole lot about pianos; she had never talked to the Symphony pianist, and had never played one herself. That being said, she was no less in awe of the instrument before her than either of the other two. It was sleek, polished, and, as Syncopation said, absolutely beautiful.

The black finish was scuffed in a few places, but considering the condition of the hall around them, they were lucky all the keys were there. Syncopation was circling it, making sure it was in working order and marveling at the craftsmanship. Vinyl had seated herself at the bench and was gazing absently at the keys. She brought a hoof up and slid it across them, bringing the piano to life.

The sound coming from it, though, had Octavia clutching at her ears. That wasn’t at all what the symphony’s piano sounded like!

“It’s out of tune,” Vinyl observed, and Syncopation laughed.

“That’s the least of our worries. I’m just glad it exists!”

The piano was, according to Syncopation, a Baldwin baby grand; a fairly common model used for accompaniment or pleasure playing. Larger halls wouldn’t be caught dead with a grand this small, but it was just the thing for the trio’s purposes.

“I know a guy who can look at it, get it back into shape,” Syncopation was musing to himself as much as he was telling the other two. “She’ll be back to her old self in no time.”

“So, what now?” Vinyl couldn’t sit still for long. As soon as she had found out the piano was virtually unplayable, she had stood up, and was now pacing the stage.

“Now, you do the same thing Octavia did yesterday,” was the answer. “And she gets to watch you bob your head.”

-XXX-

Vinyl was naturally very relaxed; she picked up the essence of swing in no time, and was using a few of the keys that were relatively in tune to make up her own rhythms faster than Octavia had expected. Hearing it, she felt she finally understood why she had been having trouble: she hadn’t been able to find the proper beat because there was no proper beat. Vinyl inserted notes where she thought they should go, and didn’t stop if they sounded bad or off.

Consequently, Octavia got no chance to laugh at a ridiculous show of bodily uncoordination. She watched Vinyl sway when she had a beat, and stop when it disintegrated into a freestyle hodgepodge.

Syncopation guided her practice, but when it was clear she had it down, he moved over to Octavia and started humming improvised beats that picked up the notes that Vinyl missed, or added some embellishment to her playing. The way he used his voice reminded Octavia of a string bass, which was odd. Shouldn’t he be humming a trumpet-like part?

He kept doing it, bobbing along to his low, accented accompaniment, sometimes letting the piano take over in a solo. It fit uncannily well, Octavia thought, especially because he couldn’t predict what Vinyl was going to play next. She wondered if he was going to get his trumpet out to play; she would like to hear it.

However, his bass part continued as he danced beside the cellist, until it suddenly dawned on her. Syncopation was humming her part. She started listening more intently to what he was doing, but again could find no pattern. The entire piece was improvised using Vinyl’s two or three notes and his voice. She tried to keep up with him, moving her mouth and humming along, trying to fill in what Vinyl left un-played. He smiled as she did, staying with her for a bit longer before moving to his trumpet case and clicking it open.

Octavia continued her part, doing her best to relax into the feel of having a less than definite beat guiding her. Syncopation held his slightly tarnished trumpet sideways, operating the valves with an extended wing. He licked his lips and played a single, loud note that lasted a second before he cut it off. He smirked and played it again, twice this time, in quick bursts. His timing seemed random, but somehow it melded with what Vinyl had laid down as a baseline. Octavia stopped her humming unconsciously to better hear the stallion play.

The trumpet was more than an instrument; it was an outlet. Listening to it, Octavia could hear, see, and even feel what he felt while he played. His trumpet eagerly accepted the notes, translating his thoughts into raw sound. This was what he meant by the music feeling natural. The trumpet wanted to play this, and it wanted to do it without a meter or director stifling it.

Even Vinyl stopped playing, so Syncopation was soloing for a good minute when he realized he was the only one playing.

“What?” He asked the mares staring at him.

Unsurprisingly, Vinyl found her voice first. “That was awesome, Sync! Where’d you learn to play like that?”

The old pegasus blushed at the praise. “Well, like I said: it’s more of a feel than a style.”

“Hay yeah, it is! Right now I’m feelin’ pretty good! How ‘bout you, Tavi?”

“Yes, this was… productive.” Octavia did her best to keep a ladylike face on, but Vinyl saw straight through it.

“Aw, come on: we’re awesome!” The DJ-turned-pianist shook the cellist by the shoulders. “I wanna hear you say it!”

“Vinyl, get off me!”

“Say it, Tavi!”

“We’re awesome,” Octavia mumbled.

“I can’t hear you, Tavi!”

“We’re awesome, now please stop manhandling me!”

Vinyl complied, but not without complaint. “Aw, but you’re so manhandleabuhdle… I think.”

Octavia sighed, though she was beaming on the inside. Today had gone well so far, better than any of them could have guessed.

“Uh, ladies? I don’t mean to interrupt your little session, there, but who’s up for lunch?”

-XXX-

The next weeks were repetitive, but it was the good kind of repetitive: the repetition of rehearsal. Syncopation called in a favor with a friend of his to get the piano tuned and ready. Octavia decided to store her cello at the old hall, along with Syncopation’s trumpet; it wasn’t as if anypony would care.

Instead of having written music, Syncopation described their songs in terms of what chords went where and for how many bars. The rest was up to improvisation, which Octavia struggled with and Vinyl mastered. Noticing this, Syncopation brought in some old pieces he and Coda had put together years ago, with a suggested cello part written in. He strongly encouraged Octavia not to use it, though, so she would have to rely on the feel and flow of the music to play.

Day after day they practiced, never playing the exact same song twice. Since Octavia and Vinyl were already versed in music theory, the only thing Syncopation could do to help their improvisation was to force them to improvise. He emphasized what feelings the song conveyed, and urged them to feel the same way as they were playing it. This resulted in a natural progression of the song, and made the improvised parts easier for Octavia to understand.

One day broke the tradition. Syncopation had been gone for most of the day, leaving Octavia and Vinyl alone to practice. Vinyl prodded a few keys, coaxing out a melody with no more than three notes, like she had the first day. Octavia let her play for a few bars, so she could get the feel, and then fell in with her. The cello supported the piano thorough the melody and the solo Vinyl made up with a single note. It reminded Octavia of the freestyle Syncopation had done on her cello when they had first tried to swing.

After a few minutes, Vinyl finished out the made-up song with a few long, heavy chords. “Nice, Tavi!” She complimented. “Think we’re really getting’ into the swing of things!”

Octavia did not laugh. “That was terrible,”

Before Vinyl could defend herself, Syncopation barged in, clearly ecstatic about something.

“Hey!” he huffed, winded from flying so fast. “You guys… are not gonna believe this!”

“Well, spit it out, man!” Vinyl demanded.

The old stallion held up a hoof, still wheezing faintly. “I… I got us a gig.”

-XXX-

A thin haze of smoke permeated the modestly lit room. It was the kind of place ponies went to so they could talk in hushed voices, or just drink and reflect on their lives. Octavia and Vinyl stayed close to Syncopation as he made his way to the bar.

“Syncopation,” the bartender tilted his head as a greeting. “Are these your friends?”

“Yep! This is Octavia and Vinyl. Octavia, Vinyl, this is Scat Cat. We’ve been buddies for a little while now,”

“Fifteen years, if I recall, Syncopation.”

“Don’t say it like that; I don’t want to feel that old.” Scat Cat smirked. “Anyway, he’s agreed to let us play here tomorrow night.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Scat,” Octavia said politely.

The bartender winced. “Call me Cat. Please.”

“I’m just gonna show ‘em around, get the layout, you know?” Scat nodded to his friend.

The stage was small and simple: a half circle of wooden planks was raised about six inches above the rest of the floor. Even so, Octavia could see the entirety of the venue from here. The main bar stretched along the side wall, and wooden tables occupied most of the rest of the space. A tiny sign in the back pointed out the restrooms.

“I know, it isn’t much,” Syncopation admitted. “But it’s a start,”

Octavia nodded silently. The huddled groups of ponies gave her the creeps; it was as if they all knew what needed to be said, but nopony wanted to say it.

Vinyl blew the dust off of the small electric keyboard Scat had set up, and coughed from the resulting cloud. Her magic found the wire and plugged it in. She pressed a hoof to a single note, listening to the tone.

“I can work with this,” she said, satisfied.

“Good, ‘cause it would be a pain in the flank to get the piano through the door,” Syncopation remarked.

“Yeah, well, when we make it big, we won’t have to worry about that!”

Octavia scoffed. “What, are you going to make a new piano that will fit through the door?”

Vinyl waved a hoof at her. “Mare, please. Doors will be made to fit my piano, not the other way ‘round!”

-XXX-

Nerves. Jitters. Cold hooves. Whatever you called them, every performer had them, and Octavia was no exception. The stage suddenly felt very cramped, and she shifted her weight uncomfortably as she tried to tune. Though the lounge was dim, and hardly anypony was paying attention to the musicians setting up, Octavia felt as if a spotlight were shining in her face. This could possibly be the only chance she and her compatriots would get to introduce swing. If it didn’t take off here, they had nowhere else to go.

She motioned in Syncopation’s direction to let him know she was ready. He affirmed with a nod and turned to Vinyl, who was grinning widely.

“A-one, a-two, a-one, two, three…”

They started low and slow, just loud enough to be considered background music. Hearing the soft, natural notes calmed Octavia significantly, and she closed her eyes like she usually did while she was playing something familiar to her. The song washed away her worries; she could only hope it was doing the same for the ponies listening in the small crowd.

This was unfortunately not the case.

“What are you doing?”

“Would you play the notes right?”

“How is that even music?”

The patrons closest to the stage, who had evidently been expecting a rigid classical piece, protested the free-flowing style. Octavia cracked an eye to glance at Syncopation, who shrugged and kept on playing. That is, until the words thrown at them turned to projectiles.

“Get off the stage!”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you, ya phistaline!?” That one was Vinyl. At least she had used the word in proper context this time.

Octavia put a hoof to her head. This wasn’t working out according to plan. She caught Syncopation’s eye, and the two ducked off the stage into the crowd. Vinyl noticed their absence moments later and hurried to catch up with them.

They regrouped in the back alley where Scat Cat was waiting; he had exited his bar when the critics had begun raving.

“Look, guys, I’m sorry about this. I didn’t quite tell them you wouldn’t be playing traditionally.”

“Don’t sweat it, Cat,” Syncopation sounded exhausted. “If they ain’t ready, they ain’t ready.”

The bartender nodded, but otherwise did not move. “Still, they coulda been at least a little open,”

Syncopation took a breath. “Well, we gotta take what we’re given, I guess. See you around, Cat.”

“I wish I could offer more than this, but best of luck. Looks like you’re gonna need it,”

Syncopation tipped his hat in thanks, and then they were off.

Author's Note:

Sorry for the long wait, hopefully it'll take less than a month and a half to write the next chapter, but unfortunately, I can't make any hard and fast promises. Anyways, yeah, more words.