Undefined Blues

by hyreia

First published

Vinyl reminisces about the day of her first performance with her brother.

Heavily inspired by the song Undefined Blues by Julian Moon

I was an irresponsible partier who wanted to be a musician. You were trying your best to fulfill your musical dreams. Then I got kicked out of our parents' place and you took me in.

Art for cover by masemj

Don't Disappoint Your Fans

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“Vee. Wake up,” came your voice. At that moment, I cursed my consciousness. The beating in my head would've fit a trance song. The aches in my legs were like after a rave. My throat tasted like vomit and bourbon older than me.

“Vee. Come on, open your eyes,” your tone asked more of me. I regretted opening my eyes. I was fairly sure from the light outside the world beyond my blinds was on fire. I found a blanket to smother my eyes and croaked for a death that wouldn’t come.

Vee,” you persisted. “The show’s in less than two hours. We gotta go setup.” Over the drum and bass in my head I just managed to hear your words.

"The show's tonight," I protested.

“You slept all day, dork,” you snickered. It was this revelation that made me retry opening my eyes. Amidst the orange hellfire coming from my west-facing window was you with a glass of water floating next to you. You hovered the glass within my reach.

My pickled organs craved that water. I could barely lock on to the glass with my eyes, let alone my magic. Instead I found the energy to sit up, took it with two hooves and swallowed the whole thing down in one gulp.

I still felt like shit.

“Hay, Did... that mare get home okay?” I said while sliding down to wait for the room to stop spinning. I heard your record skip.

“You mean Cherry Strudel?” you questioned. “Yeah he woke up and we had lunch together. Real chill dude.”

“What? No. Cherry's- ...that explains the strap-on...”

You laughed. The volume made my ears flatten.

“Sorry, ha. You must've been pretty out of it last night,” you teased. There was a short silence. “...what were you on last night?” You weren't yelling. You weren't guilt tripping. You sounded worried.

I found where you were looking: on my night table next to the bottles, bong and an empty condom wrapper (Thank Celestia) were loose pills. I left them out.

“S-sorry” I covered my dry eyes.

“Hey, it’s cool. I'm not kicking you out. I knew you were a party animal when I said you could crash here. It’s okay to have days where you just drink and bake; I’m not against recreational stuff. But now’s not the time for recreation, procreation or masturbation! Now’s time for business. And you promised you’d perform with me."

“I can’t,” my voice scratched. “My everything hurts. I don’t like singing on a good day.”

“Aw, but you gotta get out of bed! You don’t wanna disappoint your fans!”

“I don’t have fans,” I whined and crawled back under my blanket. “I’m a nopony! They show up to hear you play.”

“How can you not have any fans..." you began, "...when I’m your biggest one?”

After a long beat I pulled the blanket off and shrugged to a sitting position.

“For my fans,” I agreed with an attempt for a smile.

“It won’t be so bad once we get going,” you promised. Your strong hoof took my shaking one and pulled me from my gloom. “First step: gotta get outta your room.”

When we got into the hallway I collapsed so I could shield her eyes. If Tartarus lay outside my blinds, the surface of the sun was outside our hall window. The intensity of my headache made me dry heave.

“I can’t! LP, please, just let me die,” I curled up to hold her eyes in my thumping head.

“What’s wrong?” LP asked concerned.

“The light! My eyes! I’m going to vomit.”

“Hmm,” you hummed. “One sec.”

Your trotting made my world vibrate. When you came back the world grew dark and I felt cool metal rest on my face. I opened my eyes. I was wearing your sunglasses.

“Looks good on ya! 'covers up the red eye too! You should get some of your own,” you smiled at me and rustled my white mane.

“Come on,” you offered a hoof. “We gotta go setup. Knowing Whistle, nothing’s gonna be ready when we get there.”

So I took your hoof and got off the floor.

That walk to the bar passed too quickly.

Wet Whistle surprised us with his new setup. Other musicians were starting to play there so house equipment made more sense so he had less dead time. Which left us with too much time to wait backstage. You curled up with a book you brought and I paced nervously.

“What if I fuck up?”

“You’ll do fine," you insisted. "They’re going to love your voice.”

"What if I throw up?"

"Well don't eat anything," you said followed by a beat and "But, uh, your nose is bleeding."

I wiped my nose. Then continued pacing.

"Vee, instead of pacing do some squats or something. It'll help you focus your nervousness."

I did. It helped. My nervousness was energy. It was mine to burn; mine to ride.

Then it was time to go on.


You did guitar and I sung your lines that I knew by heart. They loved us. I was so excited and you treated me to dinner that night. I rambled about us getting matching clothes and me dying my hair blue. Admittedly, the clothing idea was kinda lame but you encouraged me to dye my hair.

...Some days I wake up in my crappy apartment and feel worse than I did that morning. Some days the world seems so dark I don't wear my shades. Those days I just want to stay inside and work on music. Some days I still cry about you.

I don't sing anymore. Actually, I barely talk. I'm staying afloat... Next gig is in the rich part of town. I can't wait to blow those snobs away!

...still no special somepony though.

You taught me it's okay to party hard and feel those undefinable blues. But when it's showtime I have to pick myself up.

After all, I can't let down my biggest fan.