The Ponyville Rag

by Fernie Canto

Track 1: Almost by Mistake

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Dainty Tunes had been working in construction jobs for a while now.

The work he did was quite unlike him; his body was slender, he wasn’t particularly strong, and the work was a little more dangerous than he was comfortable with. However, he went along well enough. His methodical, attentive style of working in a way compensated for his lack of physical strength, and anything that demanded more minutious, repetitive work was usually left for him. It was tough work, and very far from his aspirations, but it would have to do for the time being.

If anything, he was getting along with his workmates. In fact, this very evening, he was going off to hang out with two of his colleagues, Jack Hammer and Iron Bolt. He somehow found some affinity with them, and, though he talked rather little, he was an attentive listener, and he was always reliable to hear whatever stories, joyful or tragic, the other two had to share. He noticed, though, that neither had any particular interest in music. They did enjoy it, but not enough to discuss the musical traditions of Equestria, all the different styles, and the stark contrast between the regal, erudite musical tradition of Canterlot and the folk music of settlements such as Ponyville itself. Deep down, he hoped he could somehow make use of all the studying and reading he did in his free time; when he wasn’t composing or training his instruments, he was reading scores or treatises on harmony and orchestration. It was interesting, but, so far, it was nothing but a hobby.

For now, he was happy enough heading off with his two friends to a pub, just outside Ponyville, for some drinks and chatting. He had been there twice before, the Bamboo Pub; the first time, there had been a trio of musicians playing on a tiny stage, which included an upright piano. It was pleasant, competent music, and he had found himself paying more attention to the music than to his friends’ chat at some times. On the second night, there was no one playing.

When they went inside, he noticed the stage was empty again. The pub itself was about half full, with ponies talking loudly around the simplistic, strictly functional tables, all of them supplied with drinks and snacks. A waiter roamed through the tables, mostly delivering drinks. The owner of the pub, a senior, corpulent pony, worked behind the counter with his wife, a lady with a friendly face and greyish mane. The trio greeted the two of them with a wave, and were soon met by the waiter.

“Same place as usual?” the waiter said.

“Sure thing, pal!” Iron Bolt replied. “We hope it’s not taken.”

“No, it’s free today!” the waiter replied, leading them to an empty table at the far back of the pub, close to the stage.

“Great,” Jack Hammer said, “and bring us a cold one right away.”

“Sure thing, chief!” the waiter replied, already darting off to the counter.

The three ponies occupied their seats, continuing the chatter they were having while on the way. Dainty listened carefully as the other two debated the fates of the local sports teams, with rock solid opinions and steely interest. Even though Dainty wasn’t knowledgeable about sports, he tried to follow what they had to say and learn something or other. He admired how his friends knew so much about sports, and were able to elaborate their opinions and thoughts. Perhaps their interest wasn’t too different from Dainty’s passion for music, after all.

The drink arrived together with three cups. Dainty filled the cups, they cheered and drank, and the talk resumed. The conversation sometimes wandered into their day-to-day chores on the construction sites, and those times, Dainty was able to contribute a little more.

A while later, he heard some movement on the stage behind him. Somepony was heading to the piano.

“Aw, no!” Jack Hammer said. “It’s open stage night.”

“Ah, I had completely forgotten,” Iron Bolt replied.

“Why? Is that bad?” Dainty Tunes said.

“Well, most of the time, it’s alright,” Jack Hammer said. “But sometimes, it can get pretty dire.”

The pony who sat at the piano had an unkempt look, a frizzy mane and the face of somepony who couldn’t care less about that. He played something jolly and uptempo, and it had no singing. Dainty’s friends quickly resumed the chat, but he couldn’t help but notice the melody sometimes. He kept wondering, he might as well go to the piano and play something, but he couldn’t think of a proper repertoire. The songs he knew didn’t seem appropriate for that setting, especially his own compositions. He thought to himself: he did carry in his memory some songs from the alternate universe where he had been created, but he felt it could raise suspicion to play such songs to that crowd. Nopony would know them, and he wouldn’t have the courage to claim he wrote them! This wasn’t a dumb, cheesy Danny Boyle film.

The musician at the piano played a string of compositions. The bottle of drink on the table of the three friends was finished before he was.

“Hey, Dainty, do your thing,” Iron Bolt said, handing him the empty bottle.

“Yep, sure thing,” he replied, licking his lips and grabbing the bottle.

He brought the opening of the bottle up to his lips, and, adopting a specific embouchure, blew on it. A loud, hollow whistle flew across the pub.

“In a moment!” the lady behind the counter replied, in her friendly tone.

The trio chuckled. “It never fails!”

In a couple of seconds, the waiter brought them another bottle. Iron Bolt filled the cups.

A few more musical acts alternated on the stage. After the pianist, a male pony accompanied a female singer on the guitar. They were good, though a little bit generic, but quite skilled. A few minutes after they were done, another male pony, more stylishly dressed and with a carefully combed mane, sang some songs on the piano. They seemed to be common folk songs, as he heard other ponies singing along around the tables.

Dainty noticed the level of inebriation was slowly rising around the place. It was still calm and friendly, but the loud chatter and laughing made the conversation with his friends a little more difficult.

Then, he noticed a pony strolling towards the stage, a guitar on his back. He pulled up a chair, sat down and readied his guitar.

“I’m now going to play some classic songs from The Town Troop.”

There were sudden, loud groans and protests coming from the other tables. Dainty frowned, looking around to see who was objecting.

“Give more respect, will ya?” the musician retorted. “You ponies need to know some good music.”

Then, he played some arpeggiated chords, and the protests went on. Dainty couldn’t help but listen closely to those chords: Cmaj7, Am7, Bm7 and Em… Odd, he thought. That’s an uncommon style of playing. The music moved on to a quickly strummed repetition of the same chords, and the pony started to sing in a deep baritone. The lyrics were pensive, introspective, mulling about time in an almost obsessive way.

A few crumpled paper napkins flew towards the stage, but the pony kept playing and singing, ignoring all the booing. Iron Bolt and Jack Hammer shook their heads.

“Can’t believe he’s really doing that!” Iron Bolt said.

“What’s the problem?” Dainty said. “Why is everypony so upset?”

“No one here likes The Town Troop, pal,” Jack Hammer said. “That band is a done deal.”

“They were way too popular many years ago, and nopony can stand them anymore,” Iron Bolt said.

Dainty thought for a moment. Though he had no idea who that band was, if he displayed too much ignorance, the others could become a little suspicious. “Huh, I didn’t know they were that disliked.”

“That’s just how the crowd here is, pal,” Iron Bolt said.

Dainty made an effort to hear the song in the middle of that chaos; it sounded very intriguing, and oddly powerful. Those lyrics! He had never heard anything like that. The way the melody just kept going, with very little repetition, was strangely captivating.

Still, the crowd got the best of the poor musician, and the owner of the pub went to the stage and kindly asked him to stop and go back to his seat. Many ponies cheered when he stopped, and some kept criticising him as he dragged himself back to his seat.

Dainty felt sorry for him, but tried not to let it show too much; he was afraid somepony could become hostile towards him, and he wasn’t in the mood for that.

The night marched on for a while, and, at one point, Dainty felt like going outside for a bit, as the noise was getting to him. A trio of ponies was now playing, and they were nowhere as competent as the trio he had seen on the first night, but the crowd wasn’t displeased. Perhaps the drinks helped make the music more acceptable.

The air was rather cool and refreshing outside, and the moon shone brightly in the sky. He looked up, with a slight smile. “Cheers to you, Princess Luna!” he said, and looked around himself.

From somewhere, he heard some faint guitar notes, making an interesting, unusual melody. He frowned, trotted around the side of the tavern, and found the musician from before, sitting on the floor against the wall, playing to himself. He had a concentrated, melancholy look as he watched his own hooves playing the tune. He had a long, puffy mane in shades of red, from very dark to almost orange, and his coat was sort of burnt yellow. His cutie mark was the head of an acoustic guitar, complete with tuning pegs.

Dainty watched in silence, hoping he wouldn’t disturb him, and noticing how that melody seemed to match the dark tranquility of his surroundings. The musician repeated the guitar phrases a few times, until he slowed down to a stop, letting some lonely notes ring out towards the woods.

“That was good,” Dainty said.

The musician turned to look at him, without changing his expression. “Huh. You didn’t come here just to boo me?”

“No, of course not,” Dainty replied, taking a few tentative steps ahead. “That was… pretty sad, what they did to you. And a shame, too, because the song was good.”

The musician shrugged. “They just don’t get it. They’re too trendy and cool to enjoy the classics. No matter how much we try to show them the value of songs like these, they just won’t listen.”

“So why keep insisting, then?” Dainty said, standing in front of the musician.

“Because maybe there’ll be a single, solitary pony who’ll want to listen and discover more, and that will make it worth it.”

Dainty gazed to his side. “… so, I made it all worth it? Well, I’m glad.”

“Yeah… I still wish more would be like you, but I shouldn’t ask for too much, I guess.”

He started to play some quiet, apparently improvised chords, and Dainty rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if he was overstaying his welcome. “So, that band,” he said, “how old are they? Have been going on for a long time?”

The musician lifted his head. “Well, they started almost forty years ago, now,” he said, making a plaintive pause, “and ended about twenty-five years ago.”

“Oh, they’re not around anymore,” Dainty said, sitting down on the ground. “That’s a shame.”

“It’s a terrible shame,” the musician replied. “It was a real tragedy when Deep Voice passed away.”

Dainty was shocked. He had never come across the mention of death in this world before, and the pony before him was clearly affected by this. “Deep Voice?”

“The legendary singer and lyricist of The Town Troop, and an idol to many,” he said. “You don’t know much about them, do you?”

“Yeah, I seriously don’t,” Dainty replied, supposing this was a big embarrassment. “I’m… not extremely familiar with that style of music. I liked it, though.”

“You should look out for their stuff, then. You’ll probably like it.” He plucked his guitar a little more, and then looked back at Dainty. “The name is Steel Strings, by the way.”

“I’m Dainty Tunes. It’s nice to meet you.” He looked around, starting to wonder if Steel Strings was really in the mood for any further conversation. “So… why don’t you play the song you tried before, now that there’s no one here to complain?”

Steel Strings shrugged. “I guess, if you’re interested…”

In a few seconds, he played the arpeggios as before, and launched into the lyrics. His playing was a little softer this time, probably because he wasn’t competing with the crowd. Oddly enough, that made the song feel more affecting and powerful, like the musician was confessing something very personal. The lyrics were mysterious and oblique, but Dainty couldn’t help but feel they meant something important. No other songs he knew were like that.

The song ended with an almost sombre, haunting tone, and Steel Strings played it with a casualness that made it even more unsettling for Dainty. The sadness and anguish in this song sounded like it couldn’t be fixed; it was just a fact of life, something you couldn’t avoid.

“Wow,” he said. “That really is a great song.”

“It’s one of the best ever written,” Steel Strings replied, and sighed. “Shame so many ponies don’t seem to care.”

“Well, you know,” Dainty said, tentatively, “I guess different ponies just have different tastes. You can’t expect everypony to like the same things.”

“I know, but do they need to be so nasty about what they don’t like? It’s like, ‘oh, disliking this band is cool, look how cool I am.’ I think that’s silly.”

Dainty Tunes shrugged. “Maybe it is… but we can’t do much about it, I guess.”

Steel Strings shook his head. “They say music brings us together, but it seems it splits everypony apart, sometimes.”

“But we still do it regardless, right? What matters is that we play what we like.”

“You’re a musician too?”

“Yeah, I… I am, actually,” Dainty said, with sudden shyness. “I also make music.”

“Then you must know how frustrating it is when ponies just don’t want to listen to you,” Steel Strings replied.

“Well, I… I haven’t actually gone out to try to get heard, really,” Dainty said. “I just think that things will start happening when the time is right. I’ll find my audience someday.”

“You gotta try to make a name for yourself, Dainty Tunes. People just won’t come knocking on your door to hear what you do. You have to go out and play.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Dainty said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Someday, I guess…” He suddenly stood up, a little embarrassed. “Well, my friends must think I forgot about them! I… guess I should go back to my table, but it… it was really nice to talk to you.”

“Yeah, same, buddy,” Steel Strings replied, turning his attention back to his guitar.

Hesitating a little, Dainty went back to the front door and entered the pub, feeling the harsh contrast of the warm, messy, noisy atmosphere inside. The same trio from before were still playing, and, by now, nopony seemed to be giving much attention to the music—it was only background noise. Dainty headed back to his table.

“Hey, pal, you got lost in the woods?” Iron Bolt said.

Dainty gave a sheepish smile. “Well, you know, the moon was so beautiful outside, I just lost track of time.”

“Well, since you’re here,” Jack Hammer said, handing him the empty bottle.

Dainty knew what to do: he prepared his embouchure again and blew on the opening, a little stronger this time, to overcome all the noise. The whistle was much higher and more piercing than before.

The voice of the lady was faintly heard: “In a moment!”

The trio chuckled.

---

During the weekend, Dainty Tunes would often find himself remembering that song. He hadn’t memorised the entire melody or the lyrics, but he remembered the chords. He would often find himself repeating those chords on his piano and improvising on top of it, trying to remember some fragments of the song.

He wished to know more. He had to know more. If they had been such a popular band, they would have released way more songs than that one. He needed to hear them.

Ponyville had only one record store, and that seemed to be his only hope. During his lunch break on Monday, he rushed to the store. It was a cosy, nicely decorated place with posters of famous composers and popular groups, and a fair amount of bins filled with records, ready to be browsed. He had no time to go through all of them, so he headed towards the counter, where a young stallion stood. He had a pale blue coat, and his brown mane was carefully combed, but not too stylishly. Just enough to cause an impression.

“Um, good afternoon, there,” Dainty said.

“Hi there, fella!” the store clerk said. “Do you need help?”

“Yeah, I do, actually. I wanted to know if you have any records by The Town Troop.”

The clerk furrowed his brow and stared towards the ceiling, his jaw hanging a little open. He tilted his head, as in deep pondering. “Aren’t they, like, a really old band?”

Dainty Tunes looked to the side, a little embarrassed. “Um, I think so, yeah. But I just guessed that you’d still have some of their records around here.”

“If we have any, they must be in the used record bin,” the clerk said, pointing towards the opposite corner of the store.

Dainty quickly nodded. “Well, I hope so. I’ll give it a check,” he said, turning around.

“Take your time!”

The used bin was noticeably isolated from the other ones, and it had a chunk of several dozen records. The record on the top of the pile looked very beaten down, with the edges worn off, and it looked like a selection of easy listening recordings. Without much hope, Dainty started to flip through the records, getting less and less hopeful as he went. He reached the very last item on the pile, only to find a record of field recordings of traditional music from the Frozen North.
Dainty sighed, but figured he’d grab that record anyway, just not to leave the story empty hooved—and hey, those field recordings could turn out to be cool. He made his way back to the counter to pay for his purchase, and put the record away in his saddlebag before he headed for the exit.

“Enjoy your record!” the pony behind the counter said. “Have a good day!”

“The same to you, my friend,” Dainty replied.

At least the clerk didn’t make any funny faces at his odd choice of record, so he only had the disappointment of not finding what he hoped for.

As the shift went on, he wondered if he had any hopes of finding scores for the songs. If he could find them anywhere, it would be in the bookshop. He had purchased some scores there before.

Dainty went there after the shift. The store was just about to close, and the last ponies were finishing their purchases. Dainty headed to one of the clerks, a mare with a light brown coat and blond mane with a formal hairdo.

“Good afternoon,” Dainty said, feeling a little intimidated. “I’m, uh, looking for musical scores for songs by a band called The Town Troop. Do you happen to have them.”

The clerk made a slightly surprised expression. “Oh, I’m sorry, but we don’t work with that kind of music. We specialise in traditional and concert music.”

Dainty tried not to look too dejected. “Oh, alright, I see. Well, glad to know that; whenever I need any of that, I know where to find it,” he said, just out of politeness. “So… thank you for now, alright?”

“No problem, sir,” the lady replied.

When he got home, he put his new record to play and sat on the bed. He couldn’t believe there was nothing about this band around. He just felt the urge to listen to that song again, and to whatever else they had—or at least to know a little about this band, their story, who their members were. As he heard the scratchy, poor quality recordings of music made with rudimentary flutes and simple percussion, he pondered that the bookshop could have a book about that; but it would be hard to find. Unless they had a book specifically about the band, he didn’t know what to look for.

On his lunch break the next day, he rushed to the bookshop, heading to the section with music books. It wasn’t a large section, but it had enough items to keep him busy for a while. Most of them were about music theory, methods for learning instruments, treatises on musical practices, but, eventually, he reached the part about history.

There was nothing about the band. There were books about specific composers, but nothing on Deep Voice either. Some books seemed to detail the history of specific musical movements, but he had no idea where The Town Troop would fit.

He pondered for a second: maybe he could check the index of the books.

Dainty Tunes started to pick books that had promising titles and went straight to the last pages, scouring the index for Town Troop or Deep Voice. He looked for about eight books, and his hopes were beginning to fade.

The next book to check had a curious cover: a bunch of ponies with shabby clothes, crazy hairstyles and mean faces in some unfriendly looking alley. The title read Rockin’ the Town! The Story of Rock Music in Manehattan. That made him raise an eyebrow, and he went to the index.

Bingo!

It had a whole chapter on the band. It wasn’t particularly long, but the book seemed to spend more pages on that band than on any other. This would have to do for now.

He headed towards the counter and paid for the book, and hurried back to work.

The very first thing he did once he got home in the evening was lie in bed and open his book, right on the first page about The Town Troop. He surely wished to read the rest as well, but he had his priorities.

The book confirmed the things that Steel Strings had mentioned about them: their origin dated back almost forty years, and they formed in a particularly dull district of Baltimare, where these bunches of bored teenagers started to pick up instruments and make noise to spend their time. They were sick of the music their parents listened to and that played on the radio, and wanted something more exciting. Deep Voice was among those teenagers, and he started to play bass, write songs and sing in a band he formed with a few other buddies.

However, the band ended just a few years later, and Deep Voice wanted to make a different kind of music: not as noisy and amateurish as before, but still energetic and fierce. And so, he enlisted the help of another group of friends: Cymbal Crash was called to play drums, and Shimmering Chord was brought in to supply guitar. Finally, Deep Voice decided he didn’t want to play bass anymore, and passed the duty to Rocky Rumble. And so, the formation of The Town Troop was complete.

Dainty found himself staring at a picture of the quartet, and gazed deeply at their faces and their expressions. Deep Voice looked absolutely unassuming, a young fellow with thick, curly black mane and light purple coat, a wide snout and small, but expressive eyes behind a pair of glasses with small, rectangular lenses. One would probably ignore him if walking by him on the street, but the look in his eyes, the lines in his face, suggested something hidden and profound, layers and layers of knowledge and sentiment just ready to burst. Shimmering Chord had this sharp, straight face, narrow eyes and a well combed dark mane. He looked serious and determined, like he knew exactly why he was there. Rocky Rumble was objective, practical, ready for the job. His eyes were round, his mane was dark and extremely short, and he had a dark grey coat. Cymbal Crash, with his wandering eyes, soft expression and blond mane styled over a blue, almost violet coat, looked almost like he was somewhere else, imagining things; perhaps some piece of music only he could hear.

Even though the band was formed on Baltimare, it was in Manehattan where they hit it big. They travelled there to start recording their songs, and fame arrived quickly. They started to play huge concerts, going to other towns as well, but Manehattan remained their home, so to speak. Rocky Rumble eventually left the band, leaving them as a trio, which lasted all the way to the end. Shimmering Chord opened a record store, which was also a record label, releasing music from up and coming bands.

Eventually, Deep Voice started to get very sick, and stopped leaving his house altogether. He passed away, leaving fans stunned and devastated for days. And, since then, the other band members never played those songs again.

The book didn’t give deep details on who the band members were and how the band progressed over the years, but then again, that wasn’t the focus of the book. Still, it seemed clear to him: if he wanted to know more about the band, he’d probably have to go to Manehattan.

The idea made him nervous: he was just getting acquainted with his modest life in Ponyville, and now he was thinking of going straight to the big city. There was something scary about it. On the other hoof, it was feasible: he had a few days of paid vacation he could take, and he had enough savings to make such a journey. He could spend a few days there, visit the record stores and bookshops and get his hooves on everything he could find about the band: records, books, scores. If Shimmering Chord’s shop still existed, it had to have something.

Comments

[Dashie04]

Alright, so I admit, I presume that The Town Troop is a real band, or at least a version of one. I presume that they are the band you mentioned in your blog post.

I’ve personally never heard of them. I also can’t find anything when I look them up. They probably just aren’t popular in America, and I’m used to American bands and artists (and of course, the British Invasion, that was an American event too).

That being said, I’m excited to see where this goes.

[Fernie Canto]

10862681
Thank you for the interest in the story! I hope it stays exciting as it goes along. This is a story that sprouted spontaneously, with very little planning ahead, so I hope it's as fun to read as it was fun for me to write.

The real life band actually existed in Brazil, which is where I live. I didn't want to give away too much right off the bat, as I thought it would be fun if eventual Brazilian readers would put the pieces together on their own (and if you've never seen how a Brazilian reacts whenever they find a compatriot online, trust me, it's a lot of fun. ) In either case, this is the song that's played in this chapter. "The Town Troop" is a horse pun on the band's name.