John Mercury is a human that has landed in Equestria. Sorely missing his music, he decides to take the step and bring it back.
“What would it be like, to just be them.
Those legendary connoisseurs of the Blues and the British Invasion.
Too bad I’ll never find out.”
Little did John Mercury know that he just made a wish that changed the scope of his life forever. He wakes up in an unfamiliar place, with a chance to do just that. He doesn’t know this at first, though, but he gathers it with time and realizes what his Equestrian mission is.
All I know is that I was listening to my old Leadbelly album and I was just wondering what it’d be like to be those old Blues musicians. Sitting around with nothing but an acoustic guitar, and perhaps an upright bass and a drummer if you looked hard enough.
Next thing I know, I wake up in this world that is so brightly colored it’d melt my eyes. All the roofs are thatched, multicolored ponies.
Hold on...
Ponies?
Who the fuck gave me the LSD last night? Irene’s gone, broke up with me recently, so it couldn’t have been her.
Besides, I was wondering what it’d like to be Leadbelly, not wondering what shit The Beatles dropped while recording ‘I Am The Walrus’.
More pressingly, why do I have four feet?
I take a look at my feet, no, hooves. I am definitely a pony. A nice looking black one at that. At least compared to these almost insultingly Flash-animation quality ponies that look like a bag of Skittles, I got a good color.
I lift up my hand, no, hoof up to my head. There is a distinct point there. Cool, I’m a Unicorn. On a Newgrounds animation.
Why am I here, like seriously. What is this place?
Since no ponies seem to care about a pony who presumably just fell out of the damn sky, I stand up. I take a step and immediately fall, the entire center of balance is all screwed up and I don’t like it. I’m a distinctly non-human creature.
Also, where is my damn guitar? I had it right beside my bed. It’s nowhere to be seen. Not in my hooves, it wasn’t laying next to me. I mean, ponies can still play guitar right?
Oh yeah, because I am in this weird fucking world, I should probably go back to square one.
I am John Mercury, I think I have the coolest coincidence of a name ever. I’m not related to Freddie Mercury, nor am I named after John Lennon. I say that a guy with a name like that has a life of a musician ahead of him.
I took the incentive.
I’m the guitarist in a variety cover band, we’ve covered everything from Otis Redding to Metallica. The Beatles to Mumford & Sons, essentially we were an absolute Rock band.
Now I don’t have my phone with me to tell my bandmates,”Sorry I can’t make it to the next gig, I landed in a Newgrounds animation. I’m a Unicorn for the foreseeable future. Sorry. Find a different guitarist.”
Besides, it’s not like they would believe that. They would wonder what the heck I did.
I love music, I consider myself a listener of all well-known Rock tunes. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to be those legendary musicians. Last night was the first time I’d wished it aloud though. Irene just left me, our drummer quit when we started playing Progressive Rock. We tried playing 2112 once a couple nights ago, apparently it was too much for his two brain cells to handle, and I lost my Hey Jude/Revolution vinyl. Bad times all around.
I guess I just got overwhelmed. It’s one thing to play The Beatles, but being The Beatles? Again, it seems so cool.
So, here I am in this strange world. Figuring out my balance, I take a walk up the street. A pink pony, fluffy hair (mane?) comes up to me and gasps. VERY LOUDLY. In my face. She then takes off faster than Sonic the Hedgehog on crack.
OK, so all the ponies in this town also appear to be crazy. That was a neat observation. I literally just got here. Does that pink pony have like a radar for detecting new lifeforms that pop into the town?
Regardless, I take a walk up the street. I’m expecting to pass a sign that says like,”Welcome to Ponytown,” or something. Alas, my luck couldn’t be that fortunate. All I found was more ponies chatting amongst themselves. Not paying attention to the black Unicorn that doesn’t know how to walk properly because he’s a fucking human and humans are bipedal.
Regardless, I stumble my way up the street. Looking around for any sign of where I am.
When suddenly, something catches my eye. There’s a music store. It looks just as quaint as the rest of the town. Thatched rook, a small window to look though. However, my wandering eyes catch a glimpse of something amazing. Right in the window, is a nice acoustic guitar. Hickory, looks light, probably plays very well, too.
I walk into the store, and the clerk looks at me with a wide smile.
“Haven’t seen you around here, sir, what’s your name? Where are you from?”
“I’m John Mercury, I’m from America,” I say, wondering just how odd these ponies can get.
The clerk looks at me strange.
“Alright, Mercury, haven’t heard of America. Regardless, check out our stock, we hardly get any customers, so you must really want something.”
Well, that’s funny, they hardly get any customers. I thought these ponies would at least have a respect for music. It turns out that that pink lifeform detector isn’t the only crazy pony around here. Music is Worth Living For, as Andrew WK once said. I couldn’t agree more.
Speaking of which, wasn’t Andrew WK a fan of a very specific show? Wasn’t Weird Al as well? That show was called My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic wasn’t it?
I think I somehow, whatever god heard my plea, got moved into Equestria for a permanent vacation.
Oh God.
Oh well, walking over to a nice acoustic guitar, I take it off the shelf.
“That’ll be 50 bits for that, sir, if you want to buy that is.”
I sigh, and walk up the the clerk. I feel around for my debit card, but then realize that I’m a fucking pony and I wouldn’t sleep with my wallet anyways.
Besides, these bits probably aren’t American dollars. So, I’d want to enjoy the time I had with this guitar because I couldn’t afford it.
I lay my hoof on the fretboard and strum what should be an A Major chord. Instead, I get the single most dreaded sound a musician can hear. Complete and utter dissonance. “Aw, fuck,” I mumble under my breath.
The clerk seem to agree with me, he looks at me with a pained grin.
“Mercury, are you sure you know how to play a guitar.”
“Yes, I know how to play a guitar! In America, I was an amazing guitar player!” I retort.
I put my hoof on the fretboard again, then I realize something. Even though my hoof was still, well, a hoof, it was almost like I could feel my four fretting fingers laying on the fretboard.
Racking my brain for a song I’d knew I’d had to have memorized, as being a cover artist forces memorization on you. I remember the chord positions and start strumming out a mellow tune, a song that perfectly describes my roller-coaster feelings of the past couple of days.
I sang about Irene, how she’d always be in my dreams, chided her to stop doing harmful things such as gambling, and overall just wondering where she was. How she’d cope.
All this over a simple chord progression I knew my hooves could handle. It’s not like I’d start by whipping out One, especially not on an acoustic.
After I finish, I look up. The clerk is looking at me with the complete antithesis of what was on his face earlier. He’s in awe. His jaw is slacked open. It’s a bit creepy to be honest. Finally, he gets the courage to speak.
“What was that?” he inquires, clearly interested.
“Goodnight, Irene.” I respond,”you’ve never heard it?”
“I can tell ya buddy, I’ve never heard any song like that before in my life! You know what? For that performance of such a unique song, the guitar’s on me! This business is sinking anyways!” he exclaims.
Wondering how the owner of a music store hadn’t heard one of my personal favorite Blues songs, but out of money and not denying a free gift, I take the guitar.
“Say,” I ask the clerk right before I leave,”what’s the name of your business? This guitar is great!”
“It’s hoof-crafted. This business is known as Potbelly’s Music Emporium,” the clerk, presumably Potbelly, I mean, he was pretty heavy-set, says.
I thank him cordially before heading out, wondering what the heck just happened. Not knowing the Blues is very odd. With my new guitar in hand, I venture to unravel the mystery behind this place. But first, I’d need a radio.
So, I stumble out of Potbelly’s looking remarkably drunk. Holding an acoustic in my hoof.
Wait.
How am I holding an acoustic guitar in my fucking hoof?
My best guess is that my feeling of having four fretting fingers just extends to my hoof as well.
Oh well, I have better things to do than ponder how the hell weird pony biology works.
Well, at least the sun’s up, giving me a beautiful view of the glorified Newgrounds animation I landed in. Tree line the streets, ponies still chat amongst themselves, a mailmare (that’s what they’d be called, right?) delivering mail yet very clumsily running into mailboxes. She must be like Travis Miles in Fallout 4, the mailmare because no one else is. She obviously isn’t qualified.
There doesn’t appear to be a road. So, not only do these ponies not know the Blues, but they don’t understand how basic construction works. At least besides making the exact same house design several times over, which isn’t exactly how basic construction works either.
Focus, John. I need to find a radio to understand why exactly ponies don’t know the Blues. Especially not a classic such as Goodnight, Irene.
So, while I’m looking around taking in all the scenery, I seem to find a place that appears to be the main square.
There’s a staue of what I can only assume to be God-pony in the center. A fountain no less. This God-pony is a Unicorn and a Pegasus simultaneously, and appears to have long flowing hair and is on her rear legs in what I can only assume to be a victory pose.
I won’t try that because, I can barely walk, I hardly have a prayer of actually standing up. Hopefully, the ponies at least had upright basses so I could get someone else to play the classic basslines. God knows I can’t.
So, I’m so fixated on the God-pony fountain, surrounded by houses in almost tranquil peace that I donkt notice the dozens of ponies who were waiting there to jump me. I get closer to the fountain, hoping to sit and think about this pony anomaly for a while—
“SURPRISE!”
I’m just next to the fountain when every fucking pony in town gives me a heart attack. I drop my guitar, and it makes a weird noise. Did acoustic guitars have feedback in this world? Add that to the list of,”What the hell is going on”.
The pink lifeform detector leads the assault on my quiet thoughts.
How’d she get here? I don’t have time to think of anything else because she starts talking like Sonic the Hedgehog on crack. I think she was talking so fast she’d put Raining Blood’s ending to shame.
“Hello! You’re new here! My name is Pinkie Pie and welcome to your Ponyville welcome party! I wanted to throw it in your house but you don’t have one, so I move it to the main square so that we can all party in happiness! What’s your name?” she exclaims faster than a speeding bullet.
I blink a couple times, trying to comprehend what the hell that pink thing just said. So, her name’s Pinkie Pie, I’m in Ponyville, and she’s insane, well, two things I didn’t know weren’t bad I guess.
Blinking once more, I deadpan,”John Mercury.”
“Welcome to Ponyville, Mercury! We have a library a boutique a farm and a school!”
Wait, why do you need a—“ I try to butt in. Pinkie Pie (or so she says) interrupts my interruption. How rude.
“Nice to meet you! Where you from? Yakyakistan? The Crystal Empire? Canterlot? Oh, you’re probably from Canterlot!”
“Chicago,” I retort slowly.”In America. Also, why the fuck does everyone keep calling me Mercury? Oh yeah, do you have a radio?”
May I add that this entire time, Pinkie is staring directly at me. Making me uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. She has no respect for personal boundaries, I swear.
“One radio, coming right up!” Pinkie shrieks. She then proceeds to reach her hoof(!) in her hair and pull out an old transistor radio.
So, Pinkie can not only talk people’s ear off, plan parties, and detect any lifeform, but she also has a pocket dimension in her hair. Excuse me what the fuck.
The radio’s old, it’s beaten up. However, I turn it on and fiddle with the dial.
Finding a suitable radio station based in Canterlot (talk about a ridiculous range. I could barely get radio stations based in the other end of Chicago. Canterlot could be a hundred miles away for what I knew), I set it up and give it a listen.
“This is DJ Pon3,” the very feminine and raspy DJ says,”and you are listening to the best music of every era! Don’t turn the dial, next up, March of the Parasprites!”
Great, this is exactly what I needed. I crank the radio up and examine everything around me.
Pinkie really outdid herself in the half an hour from when I met her to now. There were festivities, a ton of cider, and just in general a lot of fucking ponies. Can’t say I’ve ever played ‘Pin The Tail on the Pony’, but the rest seemed alright. Of course, this was all set up in the plaza.
I’m a little concerned that I didn’t notice any of this before. But oh well.
“Now, Mercury, if you’re ready, let’s get ready to party!” Pinkie shrieks, and throws a ton of confetti that was apparently in her pocket dimension.
The party went on. I do have to say, for being planned by an insane creature, it was alright. However, something was very off about the radio. Despite DJ Pon3 claiming she played ‘music of all eras’, I heard no Bohemian Rhapsody, no Yesterday, no Come Together, not even any I Will Wait.
“So, Pinkie,” I say, not because I trusted her, but because she was the only pony who’s name I actually knew.
Upon my beck and call, she appears to warp directly next to me. Scaring me into dropping my drink. What the hell.
“Yes? As the person who this party is being planned for, you should get every question answered, of course!”
“So, where’s the Queen on the radio, where’s the Otis Redding, the Mumford & Sons, The Beatles?” I ask.
Pinkie stares directly at me and turns her head a full 90 degrees. Which looks very painful.
“Silly!” she says,”We don’t have those musicians! You can ask Twilight over there if you’re concerned.”
She points her hoof over to the corner where a lavender God-pony is reading a book by herself. I stumble over there.
“Hey, Twilight,” I say.”I have a quick question.”
Twilight screams as she drops her book from what appears to be a telekinetic grip. She looks at me like I’m something she’s never observed before.
“So, Pinkie directed me over here, I just have to ask. What’s with the music? Why is there no Queen, Beatles, ZZ Top, or whatever?”
Twilight appears to go into a state of complete and total inner panic.
“Oh Celestia, is there something that I don’t know? I’ve read all about Equestria’s music, did I miss something? What kind pf a Princess does that make me? One who doesn’t know her stuff? What about...”
“Calm, down,” I say, sternly.”This isn’t your fault.”
“But what if it is? What if I missed a book in my library?”
Another crazy pony and a complete lack of any leads on my music causes me to just release all of my pent-up anger.
“WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO MY MUSIC?!” I shout.
That gets everyone interested. Now, they all look at me like I’m about to give an urgent speech. I feel a bead of sweat drip down my nose.
“Well,” Twilight begins,”if you’re so mad about your music, why don’t you show us to see if we remember?”
That is actually a good idea. I dash back to get my guitar, and lay my hoof on the strings. Since it sufficed to impress Potbelly, I think that it could impress the entire damn town of Ponyville. I was about ready for my first Equestrian gig.
“So, I don’t know how the hell Pinkie managed to herd you all in here,” I begin, as if I had a microphone laying right in front of me,”but I have just come to the conclusion that nobody knows what the Blues are. So, I’m here to play Goodnight, Irene by Leadbelly.”
I launch into another faithful rendition of the song. This time, I include twice as much growl as I’ve ever done performing the song back on Earth.
After I’m finished, the entire town is dead silent. I think they’re speechless in awe, not because I did a bad job.
After excruciating seconds sweating in the hypothetical limelight, I hear a lone voice. A distinctive British one. Very posh. Looking down, I see that it belongs to a grey pony who even looks the part of the orchestral snob. She’ even wearing a bowtie collar!
“Mercury was it? Well, we have to get you to Canterlot right away. Vinyl will love that song.”
I don’t know who Vinyl is. However, I’ll accept that as praise.
It seems that everybody there agrees, as they stomp their hooves in response to the mare.
Twilight walks up to me,”We’re getting you on a train to Canterlot right now.”
Well, I know why Potbelly was so impressed. I’m also fairly certain that I know what my Equestrian calling is now. I need to remake the legendary music of the past. All of it. I might as well start with the Blues.
Before I know it, orchestra girl, Twilight, Pinkie, and I were on a train. I could’ve sworn that my entire equine body was just ripped from the party and teleported onto a train. Given Twilight’s visible strain, I’m saying that she just somehow broke the laws of space time to bring every individual molecule of my body and my guitar from point A to point B.
“Wait, ponies can do magic? Is it just the God-pony varieties? Where did I end up?” I wail.
“You really aren’t from around here, are you?” Pinkie says, long and drawn out.
“Considering that you are a Unicorn and I haven’t seen you pick up that guitar of yours with magic once,” Twilight adds,”I’m going to say that you don’t know how magic works. Did the place you’re from not have magic or anything?”
“I’m from America. Unicorns are a fucking myth and the only magic worked in my city was by the robbers who seemed to magically disappear from crime sites,” I state.
Twilight looks at me funny. I remember that I am a Unicorn. Unicorns can’t be a fucking myth if I am one. Well, to be fair, I am a human in Equestria, I didn’t sign up to be a Unicorn.
After a long and awkward pause, Twilight breaks the ice,”Well, magic is quite simple. Certain classes of Unicorns have certain types of magic, I’m of the upper tier, even when I was a Unicorn. I’m one of the few ponies that can do teleportation. So, it works off of one simple principle, you Imagine and you do. For example, with telekinesis, you envision picking something up in your aura, of which yours would be a nice blue color, Mercury, and then you channel your thoughts into picking it up...”
Fuck, a lecture, it’s like I’m back in college. College of which I dropped out of to avoid this sort of thing. The only thing I get from this lecture is that I should add ‘Imagine’ to the list of songs which I should totally cover.
I sigh.”How long will she be doing this?”
“Oh Mercury,” Pinkie says,”Twilight will be doing this for hours, and hours, and hours, and—“
“Alright I get it, she never stops. Orchestra girl, can you back the crazy pony up on this?”
“I’ll have you know that I have a name! Octavia Melody, Canterlot cellist. I had a show in Ponyville yesterday.”
“Alright Melody, Twilight will be doing this forever, right?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
I sigh again and settle in for a long trip.
Hours, and hours, and hours of Twilight shooting her lip off later, we finally arrive in Canterlot. As funny as it is to call a glorified Newgrounds animation beautiful, the towering cliffside castle does have a funny majesty to it. As do the several radio towers that litter the city. The castle overlooks what I can only presume to be sprawling suburbs.
I turn to Octavia.”So, where do we find this ‘Vinyl’, the record store perhaps? I’d love me a big ten-inch record right now.” I chuckle at my joke I know absolutely none of the ponies I’m with will get.
“Vinyl owns the most played radio station in Equestria. I love the girl, but her music’s dreadful, and she only ever buys records to scratch them. Since you appear to have no prior knowledge of the great Canterlot city, I’ll show you to where you can find my wife and her station.”
“You guys like Freddie Mercury and Jim Hutton?” I ask.
“I know not of who you speak. Let’s go to Vinyl’s station.” Octavia replies.
Octavia decides to take the scenic route. So she can act superior and show me around I guess. It’s either that Canterlot has a confusing city setup, or that we literally were going in circles, but everything looks exactly the same to me.
There’s a combination of fancy houses and stacked apartments, also fancy, on every street. There are several Unicorns in suits, which perplexes me, because they’re the first ponies here who actually seem to be wearing suits, or any clothes at all for that matter. I mean, Octavia has her bowtie collar, but that’s not a ‘suit’ to me. She’s wearing an accessory, like an earring or whatnot.
Also, Octavia feels the need to point out every single pony she knows and stadium or music venue of note. I’m guessing she played in several of them.
When finally, we walk what seems to be the entire fucking length of Canterlot, she leads me to a radio station.
“Vinyl should be in there. She’s always manning the console, love the girl, but she overworks herself. She’ll probably offer you ten bits to sing into a can, it’s just a joke, I don’t know where she gets it from,” Octavia says, pointing a hoof to the only radio station in a 5-mile radius.
Now, I know exactly where Vinyl gets it from. Of course, it’s from the movie accompaniment to one of the greatest Bluegrass albums of the 2000’s, O Brother Where Art Thou, but I presume Octavia doesn’t know it. That only makes this entire debacle even odder. Of course, that movie could exist under different pretenses and Octavia just hasn’t seen it, which is also very viable.
Octavia ushers me inside.
As I walk in, I see a girl with her back end to us. In the small room is also A bunch of gizmos and gadgets, a pile of records, a bunch of water bottles, and a black and white wall-painting job.
“This is DJ Pon3,” she says in the same feminine, raspy, DJ voice,”and you’re listening to the greatest Equestria music of all eras. If you excuse me, I think I have some visitors, so enjoy some Classical while I attend to this untimely interruption.” She presses a button, and I start to hear classical music fill the room.
Turning to me, I see a mare with a haircut that looks like it was cut at a fucking lumber mill and is an electric blue. She has sunglasses over her eyes. The nerve! Wearing sunglasses indoors!
Otherwise, she’s very white. I hope pony segregation doesn’t exist in this world.
“Well hello there Octy, odd black guy. What brings you to my station today?” she says clearly in her radio tone.
“Well, Mercury here has a song he wanted to sing for you. Isn’t that right?” Octavia says.
“Well, that’s awesome! I assume you’re playing guitar as well?” Vinyl asks.
“Yes, I do, and yes I am,” I say, simply.
“Great, I’ll pay you ten bits to sing it into that can there,” Vinyl says with a shit-eating grin, pointing her hoof to a tin can in the corner that’s suspended on a couple of ropes.
Oh God, this was exactly like O Brother Where Art Thou. It wouldn’t hurt to play her game for a while.
“That depends,” I reason,”will it record my singing and guitar playing?”
“Absolutely!” Vinyl confirms. Meanwhile, the Classical movement is still going on, she must’ve chosen something absurdly long for the song.
“Sound quality?” I stay with a smile.
“Terrible, insurmountably bad,” Octavia butts in,”you can’t even record a worthwhile Classical piece on that thing!”
“That sounds perfect!” I say, surprising everyone. Seeing their shocked glances, I add,”The Blues aren’t necessarily known for having splendid sound quality.”
“Alright then, that’s awesome! I’ll set you up, just wait a second.” She turns back to the DJ console and cuts the song short to cut to commercial.
“I want this to be recorded live on air, and I’m going to cut to commercial so you aren’t here all day. Wouldn’t want to waste your time,” Vinyl adds.
I sit impatiently. I think I’ve been holding my guitar the whole time, which is weird, as I’ve literally walked the length of a fucking capital. Whatever the case, I watch Vinyl connect some sort of Frankenstein-like wire splices and the can. I didn’t know what the hell she was doing, but I trusted her.
“There, all set. Let’s hear it!” Vinyl says, heading back to console and ending the commercials. As she’s on the air, I quietly take my position behind the tin can.
“Hello, my faithful listeners! DJ Pon3 is back! We’ve got a special guest on the air today who’ going to sing us an awesome song called...”
“Goodnight, Irene,” I whisper.
“Goodnight, Irene! Let’s hear it at home for Mercury with this song he says is a Blues classic.”
I pick up my guitar and strum out the accompaniment. I perform the version that everybody loved so much at Pinkie’s party, the one with the growl. It’s not like it was complicated to perform, it’s just that it sounds better if performed right.
After I’m finished, the room is silent for a couple seconds when Vinyl steps back up.
“That was Mercury with Goodnight, Irene, what a beautiful song. Also one you’ll only get on this station! Keep it tuned to DJ Pon3. Music of every era!” She turns on another Classical ballad.
“Awesome rendition! I have to attend to the station now, but you can go with Octy and I’ll meet you later. You will keep Mercury here at your house, right?”
“If I must, you don't happen to have a house to protect me from this burden, do you?”
“Not exactly, as I just got here this morning! Owned an apartment in Chicago, not in fucking Ponyville,” I respond.
Oh well, if Dear Vinyl wants me too, I’ll keep you. For reasons unknown,” Octavia says, with that last sentence dripping with malign.
“Great, see you both later!” Vinyl says, turning back to console.
So, I follow Octavia back to start my Equestria life as a musician.
A day later
In the darkness of Vinyl’s studio, right as she was about to put the station on autopilot, a pony walks in.
“Hey, you DJ Pon3?”
“Why yes, you’ve come to the right mare! Only the best station in Canterlot!”
“Do you know where that Mercury guy is?”
“Yeah, he was black with brown eyes, and a brown buzzcut mane. I remember him like the back of my hoof.”
“No, not who he is, where he is.”
“Oh yeah, why didn’t you say so! He’s staying staying with my wife Octy. I’ll lead you there. You want something?”
I wake up to a ferocious knocking at the door. Octavia had been nice enough to let me stay at her house for the time being, however, there was a catch. She only had one bed, and that was for her and Vinyl. Therefore, she’d only let me stay here if I slept on the couch. I obliged, and after all, when you ignored the back pain you would inevitably have in the morning, the couch wasn’t that bad.
Where was I? Oh right, knocking on the door, and waking everypony in the fucking apartment complex up.
“Hey! Octy! It’s me, Vinyl!” the rude interruption shouts.
Tired, I roll over to face Octavia.”Is she usually like this?” I ask?
“She usually doesn’t wake us up in the middle of the night when we could all be sleeping. She is loud and boisterous, yes.”
I roll off the couch and onto the carpeted floor with a thud. I stand up one leg at a time, as to not get unbalanced.
Octavia walks over and opens the door.
“Hello Octy, Mercury. Speaking of which, I got a totally cool record executive who wants to see you. He says he wants to sign you, whatever that means.”
“You’re a DJ, and you never knew that people got signed to release albums under a company banner? What kind of fucked-up, weird logic is that?” I snark.
“Hey, I just play the music, I don’t perform it,” Vinyl says.
“Bring this record executive in, let’s see if this is worth waking us up in the middle of the fucking night.” I say, very irritated.
The large record executive walks in, very classy pony. Red coat, black hair, wearing a nice suit, and blue eyes.
In a voice that sounds like Johnny Cash’s with a cold, he says,”So you’re Mercury. I expected more than a runty stallion with an acoustic guitar. Are you sure I have the right house?”
“I’d presume you have the right house. Unless Mercury got stolen and replaced by a sadistic Changeling, this is definitely him,” Octavia responds.
“Besides, this is an apartment,” I snark.
The large stallion lets out a sharp exhale. “Banter will not be tolerated, plain and simple. Sign the contract, and we’re done. I’ll set you up with a recording studio so you can record those so-called Blues.” He pulls a contract out from God-knows-where, and shows it to me. It seems as thick as Inheritance. Instead of reading the contract like any sane person would do, I say ‘fuck it’ and sign on the line. The massive record executive puts the contract back wherever it came from and promptly turns around.
“Canterlot train station, 12:00 PM sharp,” he says while leaving,”if you’re not there, there will be consequences.” With that ominous warning, he leaves and shuts the door behind him.
“Did I just making a deal with fucking pony Satan?” I ask.
Looking around at the two mares next to me, they simply shrug. I don’t know how, since they don’t have any discernible shoulders, but they definitely shrug.
“Should I have read that contract? I expected it to be like contracts back home, but I hope I didn’t just do some stupid move that’ll get me killed at 27,” I plead.
Octavia and Vinyl don’t answer.
“I’m going to sleep, wake me up in the morning.”
I return to my assigned couch and start my journey of going back to sleep.
Saturday morning at nine o’ clock, I woke up. Vinyl and Octavia didn’t wake me up. I have to meet with Ol’ Sketchy at 12:00.
Oh well, this day’s not going anywhere. I don’t know how long it takes a pony to get ready. However, I have to brainstorm and think up enough Blues songs to create an album.
I get off my assigned couch, and walk up a hallway to what I presume is Vinyl and Octavia’s room. I mean, it’s not the bathroom, therefore the only other door in the hallway probably is the door I’m looking for.
“Hey, OctaScratch, you got any paper?” I shout.
I don’t get an answer.
Well, I guess I’m finding it myself. I figured they wouldn’t be much help besides showing me around Canterlot anyways.
After several minutes of digging through paper on the coffee table in front of me. I find some junk mail, and I go grab a pencil from the nearby kitchen.
Thankfully, there is a clock hanging up in the living room, but I can’t exactly read it. The words are all vague symbols I don’t understand.
Eh, human time will do.
Picking up the pencil in my weird hoof-hand, I try to think up a few songs I’d need.
Well, I need Leadbelly, Robert Johnson, Lonnie Johnson, hey, Lightnin’ Hopkins wouldn’t hurt, J.B. Lenoir, Blind Lemon Jefferson, and whoever the hell made Catfish Blues.
Looking and my list and the artists I knew so well. I know that it’ll be enough songs to construct an album out of, especially since I have no band yet. I was used to doing covers day in, day out, so I know all these people. I know the lyrics, too. Or well, a vague recollection of them. Let’s hope that’s enough.
It’s around ten at this point, and Octavia and Vinyl scratch still aren’t up for some bizarre reason. Using this time wisely. I pick up my guitar and start strumming out some random chords in the Blues progression. It doesn’t actually sound that bad!
Despite how promising the song sounds, I decide to just leave right now in case I got lost in the expansive city of Canterlot.
I leave at approximately 10:30. I had a vague idea of how to get to the train station. However, Octavia’s directions certainly didn’t help. I mean, I could get by with some maps outside the pony arcade, but otherwise, I was lost.
Well, I stuck my hoof out in the direction I’d presume the station to be at and I walk that way.
Following the winding paths and getting lost a few more times, I do eventually reach the station. Ol’ Sketchy is waiting there, as promised.
“You’re sure cutting it close, Mercury,” he says.
“What, is it like 11:50 or something? I mean, Octavia isn’t exactly a reliable tour guide. I got here in a vague direction.”
“11:58,” He says, his speech dripping with poison.
Well, oops.
“However, I have no choice but to allow you in, so we’ve got this studio right here. Yes, it’s right by the tracks, make due with that what you please.”
Goddammit, now I ended up in Yesterday, is that how this story’s going to go? I’m just going to get trapped in every shitty music movie cliché I knew of? Regardless, I did like the idea. You had to start from somewhere right? Ol’ Shifty was certainly somewhere. If that somewhere was woefully misguided, of course. Besides, I could make my very own Tracks on the Tracks, and that was something.
“Hey, do I get a band?” I ask the said record producer.
“A band? Colt, you gotta prove your worth first, good luck.”
The way he chuckles at the end of that doesn’t bode well.
Well, he takes a hike. I don’t know where the studio is, but I guess I’ll have to find it.
The studio’s about an hour up the track. Fantastic. Walking as a pony is somehow more tiring than walking as a human, perhaps that’s just me.
Well, as promised, it’s certainly a recording studio. It has a four-track, very impressive for this point in the musical timeline, and I of course have my guitar. I always remember to bring that with me.
Now, the Blues probably won’t sound right without atrocious sound quality. So, I take a mic from a nearby wall, and I position it as far away as possible. Hold on, that won’t work, I’d just sound quiet. Well, if it has to be Blues with good recording quality, who am I to argue?
I decide to take the mic and put it right next to my guitar. I don’t bother grabbing another one, because that’s kind of how the songs were recorded.
I decide to start with Goodnight, Irene, because I so happened to know that one by heart. Playing the version I played at Pinkie’s party, I’m just about to hit the end... when a train passes. I have to start again.
“Goodnight, Irene, Leadbelly, take 2,” I say to nobody in particular.
That one goes on without a hitch. In the moment, I sit and reflect. It’s so quiet here, aside from the trains that occasionally went by, this place was awfully quiet. I suppose being the Blues artists of the past came with the crippling isolation of them, too.
Now, here comes a big fucking problem. Aside from a couple Leadbelly songs, I didn’t know how exactly these songs were arranged. Sure, I played them on my guitar, but I generally practiced for that. As is usual for gigs, I forgot exactly how the song was played until I heard it again. I knew the lyrics, but I didn’t know the instrumentation. I could take a guess, but I suppose I’d just be playing whatever sounded good.
Well, in that case, I might as well try some Robert Johnson songs.
He was well-known for his combination of lead, rhythm, bass, and percussion all while playing alone. I might as well get the hard songs out of the way first.
Sweet Home Chicago, one of my favorites, but again, very complicated. I take my hooves to the guitar and imagine the line. I don’t know how good it sounds, but I am able to sing while playing it. Lots of jumps and various other things to note there.
Listening to the tape, I decide that it’s good enough, so I use it.
Also, another Robert Johnson classic, Traveling Riverside Blues, now this one’s actually really complicated, almost to the point where I can’t play it, so I don’t really. I play the main melody, and a little bit of the bassline, I tap my hooves on the floor and overall it doesn’t sound half bad.
Another train passes by and I realize just how lonely it’s going to be. What happened if this album didn’t sell very well? What if Ol’ Shifty doesn’t trust me enough to give me a band?
Of course, that’s all probably bullshit because The Blues Don’t Like Nobody, but everybody likes the Blues. At least, that’s how it seemed when I was playing covers of them back home. I was the designated Blues singer because, according to my singer,”You sound like you’re eternally pissed off.”
Well, fuck him and the horse he rode in on.
I realize that since I have a four-track tape anyways, I might as well record the original Black Betty. Four prisoners singing about the titular Black Betty. Not sure if it’s a gun or a girl.
However, I don’t necessarily know how taps work, and I don’t have a George Martin sitting in a booth above me doing all that stuff for me. But, I guess I could try. I suppose it worked by singing on the recording and assigning it to a track.
So, I sing the first prisoner, then the second a half-step lower, then the third a half-step lower, then finally, the fourth, yet another half step lower.
Somehow in the middle of this, another train passes by. Canterlot trains must depart very frequently. Well, I keep it in because it fits well enough with the prison railroad aesthetic, I would’ve added in some rhythmic pickaxes somehow if I could figure out how to utilize this tape like The Beatles utilized theirs.
Aside from the quick break, I go back up and pick up my guitar to record a few new songs.
The rest of the recording session goes in much of the same way. I will note however, that I had to make creative use of stomping and clapping on Bring Me My Shotgun. But, I recorded all the songs with nothing but an acoustic guitar and a four-track. I got all the tapes saved, and I currently had an album.
I leave the studio about two hours after I enter and blink viciously because of the sunlight. I wasn’t expecting to actually leave the old studio. Ol’ Shifty was not with me, so I don’t know where to deposit my songs. But, they were all saved, and I already had a name in mind.
Ol’ Shifty is not at the train station, so I decide to walk back to Octavia and Vinyl’s apartment.
The two are waiting for me, thankfully awake.
“Hey, have you two seen that record executive?” I ask.
Vinyl looks up at me,”Yeah, that big red guy? He said something about how he’d return to the station himself and compile the tracks.”
Well, I don’t know what I expected, but I kind of wanted to name that thing Big Ten-Inch Record, because I know nobody here would get it.
Oh well, that fucker. I suppose I’d let bygones be bygones. No point in rushing over, I think Ol’ Shifty will release the album regardless.
Decca walks into the trackside recording studio. In it, he finds Mercury’s tapes.
“I think this will do quite nicely,” he murmurs to himself, compiling the tapes together to set an album up for release.
Vinyl and Octavia have managed to keep me for a while. I don’t know where this tolerance came from, but I have to admit, I was even getting used to the batshit insane one.
Though, it’s hard to tell which pony is more insane, everybody’s crazy here.
I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that they ate dandelion sandwiches, or the fact that the damn things actually were pretty good.
It’s been about a week since I recorded that album, and I haven’t heard anything about it since. I was also still a fucking pony. Because of course I was, because I couldn’t ever have any nice things.
Well, I’m casually sitting and talking with Octavia and Vinyl one day, on one of the few moments when Vinyl was actually off, when suddenly there’s a ferocious knock on the door.
“What the fuck?!” I shout, falling off the couch.”Why is this important?”
The knocking grows more frantic, and I stumble over to the door in a drunken fashion, though I haven’t drank anything alcoholic since I was human, but I could really go for some booze right now. Anyways, I open the door, and Ol’ Shifty’s there.
“This is the estate of Mercury, correct?” he asks in his nails-on-chalkboard voice.
“It’s not mine—“ I start, when Octavia butts in.
“Yes, this is where Mercury is currently staying,” she responds.
“Which one of you clowns is Mercury?” Ol’ Shifty demands.
“Me, Ol’— Sir,” I respond.
The red record executive looks at me like I just insulted his mother— hey, that’s actually a good idea. I’ll remember that for next time.
“I’ve come to deliver him his 10,000 bit compensation for actually making an album people like, as much as I regret giving him such payment. The album’s gone gold, so Equestrian law forces me to give him something.”
Presuming that Equestria has the same arbitrary limits on albums as the real world, gold would be 100,000 units. I do some quick math in my head. Presuming each album is ten bits...
“You gave me 1% of the album earnings?” I respond. “There were damn retail jobs that paid better than that in Chicago!”
I give him the staredown, and he stares at me right back.
“I’ll take the measly payments,” I respond as to-the-point as I can.
Ol’ Shifty gives me the 10,000 bits.
“So, why else did you want to come here? I know record executives, and I know they all have an agenda,” I say.
The record executive in questions makes some entitled huffing noise. “Mercury,” he states,”we need to get you out on tour.”
“I can do that,” I respond,”If you pay me more than 1% of the earnings from the tour. Let’s say, 5%.”
Ol’ Shifty looks down his snout at me. “I’ll think about it,” He says, coolly. He leaves the apartment.
“Get me my acoustic guitar,” I say to the girls,”I need to do some blue-note tuning.”
Octavia looks at me funny while Vinyl heads off, to get my guitar, presumably.”But, Mercury, how do you know he’ll take you on tour?”
“Because I know record executives,” I state,”and he wouldn’t drop one of the biggest new names on his label just because he asked for more money.”
Vinyl comes back holding my acoustic in her magic. How the hell magic works is still beyond me. I sit down and start tuning up, it’ll probably get knocked out of tune by tomorrow, but I could at least get a feel for which tunings I’d need to do by ear.
Another day, another knock on the door. That means I knew exactly who it was.
I trot over and open the door,”Why, if it isn’t my favorite damn person in the world!” I snark.
Indeed, Ol’ Shifty sits at the door, looking just as pissed off at me as he always has.
“Please refrain from the condolences until after the 4-album deal, if you’re wise, Mercury,” he says in deadpan.
Well, that just gave me something I didn’t know. A 4-album deal, huh? Not much, but it’ll have to do for now.
“Also, I’d like you to have your album, Mercury.”
He hands me a CD. Why did ponies have CDs but not vinyls? Why the fuck would I know. I take an examination of the CD cover.
On the cover, there’s my acoustic guitar, or at least a replica, standing up on what is likely a guitar rack. Emblazoned above the guitar is one single word, Mercury.
It’s kind of boring, but I suppose it works.
I flips the CD over, on the back was a tracklist, as expected. However, there is one slight addendum.
“All songs written and performed by Mercury of Red Estate Records.”
“I didn’t—“ I start, but Ol’ Shifty shuts me up.
“That being said, I have settled for the 5%,” He says.”All shows will be 30 bits. You will be performing a select amount of shows in Equestria. The first one is in 3 days at the Canterlot Theater, don’t be late or we will reconsider the deal.”
“Fantastic job you did on the cover, by the way,” I say in deadpan.”You’re already controlling my career, you could’ve topped it off with an embarrassing baby picture.”
“I’m just doing my job, Mercury. However, it seems like you aren’t in the Equestrian legal books, so unless you’re some past pony under an alias, I’m going to be keeping my eyes on you.”
“Oh, yeah,” I respond with an eyeroll,”I think you’re going to need to look for a Venus.”
“I have no time for this, Mercury,” he says, raising his voice for the first time I’ve ever heard. He turns around and shuts the door behind him.
“And it’s John Mercury!” I shout, but he doesn’t hear me.
So, I have three days to master the Blues. Challenge accepted. I hope I didn’t wake up the girls.
Wow, the Blues are a lot harder to master than I thought. Neither Octavia nor Vinyl know how to perform with the Blues spirit. Logically, because the Blues don’t exist here.
Except, I think that’s changing.
Regardless of if that was changing or not, the Blues were still really fucking difficult.
I think I’ve busted my hooves trying to play like Robert Johnson. It’s not as easy as Goodnight, Irene. Not to mention, all the blue notes that I had to figure out.
“God! Fuck it!” I shout, interrupting my line of thought. I just tore open my hoof again.
“Mercury,” Octavia consoles,”you’ve been getting all worked up over this. When did that record executive last come?”
“Ol’ Shifty?” I ask.
“I personally think that calling him such an uncouth name is unbecoming of an employee.”
I roll my eyes.”He was here about three days... ago...
“Goddammit!” I shout leaping up, nearly tripping over the chair Octavia’s talking to me from. “I’ve gotta get to the Canterlot Theater ASAFP!”
“ASAFP?” Octavia asks.
“As soon as fucking possible,” I clarify.”Octavia, I need to get there.”
“I’ll take you there,” Octavia says.”Don’t forget the guitar.”
I take the guitar with me, realizing I probably knocked it out of tune, and open the door. I let Octavia take the way and follow her out of the apartment complex.
“The Canterlot Theater is not that far away, actually, but I do want to pick up Dear Vinyl first,” Octavia says.
The rest of the walk was boring and not much happened. As she said she would, she stops by the DJ Pon3 Radio Tower.
“Vinyl~” she calls.
Inside the tower, I clearly hear Vinyl’s raspy voice. “Octy’s here, so I’ll put you on rest while you hear a word from our sponsors.”
“So,” Vinyl says, turning to Octavia,”what’s the news?”
“Well,” Octavia starts,”Mercury here has a concert very soon. It’s at the Canterlot Theater, tickets are 30 bits. I was wondering if you could be so lovely to play it over your broadcast?”
Vinyl winces.”Sorry Tavi, can’t do that, maybe next time. I don’t have any way to play sounds from the Canterlot Theater over air.”
Octavia leaves and I follow her.
“Well,” I say,”that was a waste.”
Octavia hushes me.
We get to the Canterlot Theater very soon afterwards. Thankfully, there aren’t any ponies there yet. However, I do see a busker right outside. He’s strumming an acoustic guitar.
I walk a little closer. The fucker’s singing Traveling Riverside Blues!
“So,” I say, walking up to him,”what’re you doing?”
“I’m singing a song I wrote, of course!” the pony says. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sold pawned watches.
I raise a quizzical eyebrow.”You mean, the song I wrote?”
I get a good look at the offender, he’s brown and appears to have a run-of-the-mill haircut and an acoustic guitar on his flank. Oh, so everybody here had butt tattoos?
“Hah, hah. Nope, Traveling Riverside Blues by Meadow Song...” he trails off.
“You do know I’m John Mercury, right?” I respond.
“Of course, I knew that... Mercury, sir...” he says, putting his guitar away. He appears to have no bits, because why would someone pay a stallion singing a song that was released a week ago and claiming it as his?
“Now I have a show here, I’ll let you get in if you promise to not steal any of my music ever again.”
“Yes, of course,” Meadow Song says.
“Now scram!” I yell.
Meadow Song comically gallops away.
I turn to Octavia, who seems very disappointed.
“Mercury, that’s not how you treat ponies,” Octavia says.
“Okay, fine,” I reply. “I have a feeling that that isn’t the last we’ll see of that one.”
We head inside, Ol’ Shifty appears to be there.
“You’re not late, good,” he says in his no-nonsense demeanor. “Let’s get you set up.”
So, it’s concert time now. Oh boy. I peek through the curtains and notice a good number of ponies there. They’re quietly talking amongst themselves. It’s a classic auditorium. There’s seats around, and ponies are sitting in them. Or rather, laying in them and taking up two, which seems a little inefficient. Some have popcorn, which is a bit unusual.
“You’re on,” Ol’ Shifty says to me.
I walk on-stage with my acoustic guitar. There’s merely a seat, a little three-leg one, and a microphone. Logically, I sit down. A spotlight is trained on me.
I chuckle a bit and strum my acoustic guitar. A little-out of tune, but it’ll have to do.
“So,” I say,”I guess you’re here because of the album. I’ll have to play a few songs for you.”
No response, and I think I hear someone clear their throat.
“Tough crowd,” I say, garnering the response of no one.”I suppose you want me to get right into it. Well...”
I strum the chords a bit, and I start singing a song to get these ponies all riled up.
Feeling a little bit awkward, I start singing Goodnight, Irene.
Waltz time, Rock foundation.
I deepen my voice and implement Leadbelly’s growl. I’m 25 and singing a song by a 40-year old. Of course.
I haven’t thought about home in a while, so I channel all the feelings of home I have. The heartbreak of ending up here, but hopefully getting to go soon, and Irene. The cute girl, Irene, with her long brown hair and her optimism, until the day we split.
Would you look at that, I got so lost in my thoughts that the song is already over. There isn’t much fanfare. They’ve probably already heard this song several times. Wanting to continue the Leadbelly roll, I start a new one.
Waltz time, slightly different Rock foundation. Just a dun dun dun, nothing else much. I’m glad Leadbelly’s easier to play.
The same feelings resurfaced. The affair. So many fractures of memory that are so painful to remember. I want to know what happened that night...
I let my voice project itself. The song’s over pretty fast.
I hear a small smattering of applause after that.
“What you may not know,” I say, strumming the guitar some more,”I’m from a place not around here, or really on this planet, I’m from a place called Chicago. Let me take you through this.”
Robert Johnson, always an easy go-to. Well, not easy, but it’s impressive. If the ponies weren’t excited after this song, then I don’t know what will get them riled up. There’s so many leaps and bounds, and this song’s where it’s at. Of course, I’m not Robert Johnson, or Eddie Van Halen, so it’s a bit simplified, but still.
Tap into my inner Delta Blues soul. Let’s see what happens.
Wait, how fast was the song again? I’m not quite sure... oh well.
Upon finishing, the ponies look a bit interested now. I hear a fair amount of clapping (or stomping)? But, these ponies aren’t quite as interested as I want them to be. There is one song though, we hardly every played it, House of the Rising Sun, by Leadbelly. It was never performed because The Animals’ version was always more popular.
“You ponies don’t make for a very good crowd. So, I’m just going to say that you better be prepared for this song. It’s a new song, you won’t hear it on the album.”
“A 1, 2, a 1 2 3 4!” I shout. This song was one of Leadbelly’s harder ones. In 4/4, interestingly, but a good song nonetheless. I’ve got to tap into the spirit of Rock. This song is more than your standard Delta Blues. It was fast.
By the time I’m done with the intro, some ponies are tapping their hooves on the floor!
“Yeah!” I yell.”Get up if you want! Groove and boogie!”
Some ponies follow my instructions. Most keep doing the hoof-tapping. I launch into the lyrics.
It’s like that for the rest of the song. Very fun times. When I’m done, I finally get a sizable round of applause.
“Now I got you wrapped around my finger,” I say, turned away from the microphone. I turn back. “Traveling Riverside Blues. I actually heard a pony playing this outside earlier.”
I, however, remembered this lick, and didn’t need to play it slower. I start off with a fun acoustic guitar riff.
At this point, I was having fun. There was no pain, the ponies were actually animated. However, I knew that once I finished, all the pain would return.
Well, I could do this for a bit longer.
“So, I think I’ll play a couple more songs for you,” I say, noticing how the guitar had gotten a bit detuned.”How many of you ponies can count here?”
I see a couple raised hooves.
“So, just, stomp on 1 and 3 and clap on 2 and 4. You think you can handle that?”
I launch into a more downtone guitar rhythm, and I start stomping.
The audience picks up the cue and starts going right away.
All the things I wish I could do to the cheaters in this world. This, paired with the very loud stomping and clapping, reminds me of the time I spent back in Chicago with my cover band. Bring me my shotgun indeed.
What a fantastic song that is. However, I want to get around to closing the show.
Upon finishing that song, I have one final trick up my sleeve.
“Okay, I have one final song. Everybody in the seats, sing along to this, as loud as you can. I’ll sing with you.”
For the first time tonight, I lay my guitar on the floor. Let’s see how the original Black Betty plays.
“Woah-oh Black Betty, bam-ba-lam,” I sing, gripping onto the microphone. Next, the audience joins in.
It’s only a couple minutes long, but it’s still a song worth doing. It encourages a lot of audience participation.
Upon finishing the song, I pick my guitar back up again. “This has been John Mercury, and well, I hope to see you again.”
With a smattering of applause, I head backstage. Ol’ Shifty and Octavia are waiting there.
“I thought you did pretty well out there, Mercury,” Octavia encourages.
“Meh,” Ol’ Shifty notes,”your stage presence was absolutely abysmal.”
“It was enough, wasn’t it?” I say.”The ponies liked me. You try speaking to a stone-faced audience with a spotlight trained on only you.”
Ol’ Shifty doesn’t reply to that particular statement.”Mercury, we’re taking you on tour, 15 stops. The next one should be in Ponyville, I’m loading up the tour carriage.”
“Can Octavia come with me?” I ask.
Octavia looks flabbergasted for a moment.”I could never— I couldn’t play that music. It’s so, just so... it’s unbefitting of a cellist!”
“Do you play upright bass?” I ask.
“Hardly— why do you ask?”
“Do you wish to? I’ll let you be the bassist, we can split the profits. Vinyl can come, too.”
“I’ll never get that mare off of her work,” Octavia says.”Besides, I don’t want to play that, what did you call it, Blues?”
“Delta, to be specific,” I nitpick.”But really, you’re just the closest thing to a friend I have.”
“Fine, I’ll try,” Octavia relents.
Ol” Shifty walks back in, he sees me and Octavia talking.
“We’re leaving in 2 hours, Mercury, be there,” he says.
“Go get Vinyl if you can, Octavia,” I say, and she heads out the door.
Walking outside, there’s a carriage which I suppose is for the tour.
Let me tell you, it’s sure weird sitting there with Ol’ Shifty for an hour waiting for Octavia to come back. We stand there in awkward silence. I don’t think we like each other, but he’s my executive, and I’m a rising star, so we have to tolerate each other.
On the plus side, it gives me a lot of time to think. Maybe I treated Meadow Song too harshly. I also claimed that the songs were mine, they weren’t, but what else was I going to say. Technically, they’re in the public domain! I guess I could use a guitarist’s help. Since Octavia isn’t here yet, I head around front. Meadow Song isn’t there, unfortunately. Oh well, I tried.
I return back to the carriage, and continue waiting.
A few minutes later, I notice an out-of-breath Octavia running toward the carriage. She’s carrying a big, large, case thing.
“Dear Vinyl isn’t coming, but I figured you could use some help,” she pants.
“I was wondering when you would arrive,” I respond.
Octavia looks at me like she regrets this decision already. However, she doesn’t leave.
Ol’ Shifty grumbles something about how he’ll have to pay two musicians now. He then clearly remarks,”Mercury, Miss Melody, I won’t be accompanying you for the rest of your trip. I still have artists to sign here.”
“Thank God,” I say.
“I’ll have you know that I am a married mare,” Octavia says.
Ol’ Shifty looks at us with a gaze that could freeze the Pacific. “Get. In. The. Carriage,” he remarks.
Me and Octavia oblige, and it starts moving.
After a bit of silence, I say,”So, where’d you learn to play the upright bass?”
Octavia looks at me. “Well, I was in, Jazz band.” She says that last part very quietly.
“Interesting,” I remark to nobody in particular.
Octavia starts rattling off some names,”We played songs such as The Mare From Appleoosa, Heartaches, Stardust...”
“Wait one fucking minute. You don’t have the Blues in this world, but you do have Jazz? What’s the deal?”
“I’m not quite sure what questions you’re asking,” Octavia says.”It’s always been here.”
I decide not to think any more about whatever the hell was going on with music in Equestria, and decide to enjoy the ride. The isolating, lonely ride.
“Have you ever been on a tour, Octavia?”
Octavia shakes her head.
“Well, this is what it is, a long ride so you can play same 15 songs you played a day ago. I was lucky to be in such a versatile cover band.”
“You were a musician?” Octavia asks.
“A cover one, in a past life, perhaps. A life which I’m looking forward to getting back to. Someday, maybe after the tour is done. I’m bringing back music, after all.”
“I’ve never heard a single song you’ve played,” Octavia says, frankly.
“I know,” I reply, and I sit in silence for the rest of the ride.
I’m jolted awake by a massive bump in the road, I’m not quite sure where we are. I can’t see anything because of this damn windowless carriage. However, the carriage soon comes to a rough stop.
“Your stop,” says the carriage puller. I hear some unhitching, the door opens, and I nearly fall out.
“The fuck?” I say.”I just got up.”
Octavia’s still asleep, so I knock on the interior wall of the carriage. This jolts her awake, and she laboriously drags her upright bass out. Looking up, her face takes on a look of abject horror. I look up with her.
The city’s still bright and colorful, but there’s something about the ponies around here that make it seem a bit sketchy. There’s shops which are designated as bars, and some which are even worse.
“Mercury, we’re in the bad part of Ponyville,” she notes. “Mr. Carriage Stallion, are you sure we’re in the right place?”
“That’s the instructions Decca gave me, heh heh,” he says in an annoyingly chipper voice.
Ol’ Shifty had a name. Interesting.
The carriage pony continues,”You’re holding a show in downtown Ponyville square. That’s about a half-mile, that way,” he says, gesturing vaguely North. He then hitches back up and heads to what is presumably a hotel.
Me with my acoustic guitar, and Octavia with her upright bass, are left standing there.
“So, wanna drop by a bar and get some booze?” I ask.
“Mercury!” Octavia scolds.
“You aren’t in charge of me, Octavia,” I reply.
She grumbles.”Fine, get yourself hammered before a show. I will not be joining you.”
I do the closest thing a pony can do to shrugging, and enter a nearby bar.
I walk on up to the bartender,”Hey bartender,” I say, quoting the only two words of a song I remembered for some reason.
The bartender looks at me.
“You one of those traveling musician types?” he asks, in a voice which I could only describe as if Marty Robbins was reincarnated as a pony.
“I suppose I am,” I recite in a faux Southern accent to match his.
“Would you like some drinks?” he asks.
“No, I came to a bar to talk,” I snark. “Of fucking course I want some drinks. Do you have some white wine?”
The bartender turns away and gets some white wine. I start drinking it.
“This stuff’s pretty good, how much for another glass?”
“5 bits per glass,” he says.
“Do you practice extortion, too?” I mumble. Regardless, I still have the money, so I pay up. Soon, I lose count.
“Whazzat?” I slur, jolting up in my seat. I listen around for where I am, everything was a bit fuzzy.
“There’s supposed to be a show by a hot new artist in about 30 minutes in downtown Ponyville,” I hear the bartender, bartender? Bartender. Say to a different customer.
“Oh my fuzking God!” I shout. I pick up my acoustic guitar and bolt out of the place, leaving 15 bits at the bar for some reason. I think it might’ve been a tip?
I shake myself awake, regretting doing that due to the pounding pain that is currently going on in my head. It feels like a jackhammer is going on in my head, reconfiguring it like it’s some construction project. I can’t walk properly. I’m stumbling over the cobblestones to the main square, clutching my head and dragging my guitar.
As the pounding in my head intensifies, I wince in pain, and notice a blurry grey pony trying to set her bass up on a stool. I think that’s Octavia.
A stumble and collapse onto the cobblestone near the fountain. The god-pony seems to be looking at me judgingly, as if I’ve just done something that pissed off every single pony in a mile radius.
There isn’t even an introductory reaction, everybody just stands there in abject horror. The silence is so thick you could cut it with a knife. Because of the pounding in my head, it may as well have been deafening, too.
“Mercury...” Octavia says.
“I know, I’m a fucking disaster,” I reply.
I sure hope nobody was taking pictures of me and putting them into Ponyville’s next hot tabloid.
“My, mind’s all scattered right now. So let’s start, relatively simple.”
I put down my acoustic guitar and it clatters to the ground.
“Woah-oh Black Betty...” I begin.
It’s not the upbeat work song of the original, it’s something mournful. The audience seems to catch my drift.
Right when the song ends, I sit there in silence for a while. The audience waits with baited breath, and I pick up my acoustic guitar in my hooves. The wood feels nice and cool in my hands, and I try and think of anything that I could remember.
I can only settle on House of The Rising Sun, but I only have bits and pieces. The jackhammer going on in my head, making me miserable, is preventing me from thinking of the Leadbelly one I played last show.
Uggh...
I strum a couple of blues chords.
Was it about a boy or a girl? What versions were I getting mixed up with each other? I mean, there was no way in hell I was singing the girl’s version. But.. which one was 1925? Maybe, I could just, try something a little new.
“I’ve... I’ve never played this one before, it’s... something new” I state.”Octavia, key of Eb minor.”
She nods.
I strum out a staggered acoustic rhythm. A little swung, but I simply can’t have my mind think of such a rhythm.
There is—
I clear my throat and try and get all the lyrics straight.
From that house in New Orleans. One called— the Rising Sun. It ruins more lives every day Great God and I for one.
There was a time my mother said— “Don’t you go that way.” But I was a young and foolish boy. And my mind led me astray.
Nowhere else would a gambler be, Cheaters and rounders, too. For in that House of the Rising Sun They take advantage of you.
For all my Delta family Don’t do as I have done. Stay far away from New Orleans And the House of the Rising Sun.
I strum out a final chord, and the ponies clap politely. What other songs were there?
“Let’s just play, Goodnight Irene again. Octavia. This one’s in 3/4. Just, G Major. I’ll try and do something.”
I start to strum out a 3/4 song, and start to emulate Lead Belly’s singing. All my words are slurred and I can’t think straight. It works, I guess.
After strumming out the final chord, I think long and hard— but that very act causes my head to scream out in pain. I look around, desperate for any source of inspiration.
Despite my head doing its very best to stab a sword in my brain, I notice a clothesline.
“Hey, everybody, have you ever wondered how many clothes a match box can hold?”
I start strumming out a very weird swing rhythm. Everybody in the village square looks at me like I finally lost it. Including Octavia.
I then launch into Match Box Blues. Most ponies recognized this song from my album, so they warm up to it. Octavia doesn’t play her bass and looks at me like I got even crazier.
The very complicated guitar rhythms at least give me something else to think about, but the insistent jackhammer is getting stronger. All this complexity just isn’t doing it for me.
After I finish, I hang my head.
“Mercury, you’ve completely lost it!” Octavia scolds.
I ignore her, and I’m about ready to just end it.”I really can’t think, right now. So I’m going to leave you all with one last song so I can have some alone time.”
I know which song I’m going to do, and I start Robert Johnson’s signature leaps. Octavia looks confused, so I stop.
“What, Octavia?” I groan.
“What key is this in?” she replies curtly.
I roll my eyes.”Fine, play it in E.”
I start playing Traveling Riverside Blues anyways. Octavia looks pissed, but I honestly just wanted to get this over and done with before my head started torturing me again.
After that, I walk off stage,”Come on, Octavia,” I say. She seems to be mad, but she follows me anyways.
Pushing through the crowd, I’m stopped by a young pony who appears to be female. I still need to get used to the fact that ponies have hair, at least it makes differentiating genders easier.
“I love your album Mr. Mercury, and I want to be a guitarist like you!” she says.
“That’s nice,” I say, completely moving on. I wanted to go home.
“Will you sign the album, for me?”
I continue ignoring her. I didn’t have time to be stopped by tiny ponies who wanted to be me.
As I head back to the carriage, I see the pony still waiting.
“The boss said the next stop’s in Appleoosa! We should arrive by daytime tomorrow.”
“So what? What’s she gonna do, tell the press?” I reply.
“Mercury, you really can’t play with fire! You aren’t even a huge star yet! Have some decency!”
“I’ve sold gold.”
“So? You haven’t sold platinum! You aren’t Songbird Serenade or Sweetie Belle.”
“Let the press ridicule me, Queen survived it.”
“You astound me.” Octavia snarks.”But I guess I’m stuck with you, and if you want to be stubborn, so be it. I’ll relay this to dear Vinyl when I get back.”
I sigh. It’d be a long night. I sit in silence as the carriage travels through the night.
When the overly chipper cab driver told me we were going to Appleoosa, I didn’t expect it to be smack dab in the middle of Tim-fucking-bucktu. The good news is that I had a nice nap and my head no longer hurts like hearing Anarcho-Punk at midnight.
Octavia was there too, of course. She was still sticking with me for whatever reason. But still, I’m looking out of the window and it’s just desert. I can see the tumbleweeds already. Still, at some point the landscape changes, and we’re in a stereotypical Southern town, with wooden houses and even a fucking saloon. Apparently, ponies like living on Clint Eastwood sets.
The ponies are even dressed in the most Southern clothes imaginable. Vests, ten gallon hats, the mares had braids. It’s straight out of a 60’s Western.
The cab comes to a gradual stop as I took my acoustic guitar out, and Octavia her double bass, as we’ve already done multiple times before. I swear, the moment I step out of that cab, I’m face-to-face with a yellow-pelted pony with simple hair. And of course, he’s wearing a vest and a hat. He also appears to be overly chipper.
“Howdy y’all, and welcome to APPLE-OOSA!”
The pony then leads me on a forceful tour of Appleoosa, where he showed me a few key points, all of which I didn’t give a fuck about.
Finally, I manage to break through, and finally say, “Hey, Chattin’ Hopkins, where are we performing?”
“That’s weird, all we have on the bill is a Mercury.”
“That’s me, I’m Mercury, John Mercury, and I’m here to perform for Appleoosa as part of my deal,” I say as simply as possible.
“I’m here too!” a huffy voice say from behind me.
“And Octavia’s here too,” I add.
“Why didn’t ya say so?” the ‘tour guide’ says. “You’ll be havin’ yer performance over where we hold the Wild West Dances! Ah’ll let ya go fer now! Get prepared and all that.”
I hope Octavia remembers where that is, because I sure as hell wasn’t paying attention.
I get myself away from that weird pony, and I head off.
“Mercury, you better not be getting a drink,” Octavia says sternly, once again from right behind me.
“I have no money,” I say, turning toward her.
Octavia rolls her eyes and mumbles, “I can’t believe that you aren’t buying a drink only because you can’t. Imagine what the press would think? You have to keep a good etiquette when you’re a musician, lest your reputation be ruined.”
I roll my eyes right back, and counter,”How about we get a paper and see who’s right? There were entire bands back on Earth that lived off of bad reputation, like The Stones.”
“I’m sorry Mercury, but this isn’t ‘Earth’, and us ponies care a little more about appearance in the public eye.”
“You perform what, Classical? You have no room to talk,” I respond.
Octavia rolls her eyes, clearly signaling the this conversation is over. I walk on down the road to find a hotel and maybe be able to crash there for free, and she follows me. However, it turns out that I have the chance to prove Octavia wrong, because there’s a paperboy on the corner, selling papers.
“Appleoosa papers! Best in Equestria! Exclusive stories you’ll find nowhere else! Get yer Appleoosa papers today!”
I take one, and read the headline. It seems to be talking about some new infrastructure development, I didn’t know that they improved this town ever beyond the 19th century, but it was proof.
“Octavia? Guess who’s wrong?” I state.
“Read the rest of the paper, Mercury,” Octavia says.
I sigh and open the paper, and right there on the second page is the headline New Star or Black Hole? I sigh, reading the subheadline, which reads The mysterious Mercury, friend or foe?
The article talks about everything I’ve supposedly done, which I suppose was fair, including blowing off that girl. However, Octavia was letting me have it. “This is no way for a star to go about composing himself, Mercury.”
I sigh, “Fine.” I reach for the guitar on my back and realize that I still have it with me.
“Hey Octavia, where’s your double bass?”
Octavia looks shocked for a second, then it looks like she darts off, presumably to find her bass. Well, at least I had alone time now. Alone time which I could use to find a hotel.
I walk up the streets of Appleoosa, and I eventually find a hotel. It’s named ‘The Hothead Hotel’, and the pony at the counter seems to fit the bill, he’s gruff, orange, and has a beard.
“Hello there, sir,” I say. “I was looking for a room, would you happen to have one?”
“Can ya pay?”
“No, as I was saying, do you have a room?”
“I’ll give ya a room when ya can pay for it!” the pony exclaims.
“I’ll have you know that I’m Mercury, and I’m the guest of honor tonight!” I yell right back.
“I don’t give a buck! If ya don’t have the bits, don’t bother asking!” the stallion is about ready to clobber me, and I throw my guitar aside and run right back at him.
The next thing I know, I’m being thrown out of the inn and find myself faceplanting in the dusty street. A few bystanders gasp, but eventually continue on their way when the scene dies down.
The inn pony was kind enough to throw my guitar out with me, and it now had a pretty sizable chip in it. It was out of tune, but I didn’t care.
I drag myself beside the inn and decide that I might as well sit and do nothing while waiting for Octavia.
I was busy tuning my guitar when the grey normal pony came walking up the street, dragging her double bass. When she finally pulls it up to me, she looks me square in the face, presumably noticing my dust-caked cheeks and black eye, as well as the chipped guitar.
“Mercury...” she begins.
“Can you believe that they actually charge for inns here? Fuckers,” I say.
Octavia rolls her eyes. “Do you think we should actually go and do something productive?”
I sigh, and get up. Picking up my guitar and putting it on my back again, I begin to trundle around town. I’m just looking for the venue place, and in the sunset light, I think that I’ve found it.
There’s a small makeshift stage set up with a lonely microphone and a stool. They seem to have a stage setup for my tour. I walk on stage and sit in the stool and brandish my guitar in front of me. I strum a slightly off-key E chord, and get to work on fixing it. By the time I’m done, the sun is basically done setting behind me and Octavia as ponies started to gather. Apparently, the news of my inn brawl hadn’t reached anybody.
I wait for the sun to fully set before deciding I’m just going to play to the ponies who had shown up already. Less than I wanted, but it was still ponies.
“Hello,” I say, “who’s ready to hear some Blues!”
A few ponies cheered, and I got the idea that most of them didn’t know what the ‘Blues’ were.
“We’re going to play some songs from my album, although I’m sure you all knew that already. I’d like to start this off with a song I haven’t performed live yet, Catfish Blues!”
I start strumming a basic chugging beat and Octavia catches on.
The audience cheers a little. It seems that the Appleoosian crowd was easier to make excited that the other crowds. I didn’t even need to perform any fancy songs like Leadbelly’s House of the Rising Sun to get this crowd cheering. They were practically eating out of the palm of my hand already.
After I finish with Catfish Blues, I immediately speed up and perform Leadbelly’s House of the Rising Sun anyways. This time, I can remember it, my mind not clouded by drinks tonight. Still, more ponies are arriving, and they are getting wrapped up in the performance, too.
When I start frantically picking the strings, the ponies seem to get up and move. I mean, it was a fast song, but I don’t think it requires movement. Still, if they were getting caught up in the song, I can’t complain.
After I finish and hear the sound of hoof stomping, I decide that the intense songs so far had to cool down. So, I did that.
“You’re the best audience I’ve ever had!” I exclaim, loving the attention. “So, I want you to sing along with this one, or rather, the phrase after each line. I’m sure you all know it. May I introduce, Black Betty!”
I instruct Octavia to leave her bass alone for now. I hit my guitar a few times and count to bring the people in.
Octavia knows that it’s coming this time, so she gets in and plays bass alongside my guitar picking. The ponies recognize the song, and wholeheartedly support it.
After the song is finished, and they’re done cheering, I want to play Sweet Home Chicago. I didn’t know the speed, but I assume that it’s in E and is a little on the slower side. Whatever it is, the audience would surely eat this up.
“Now, an ode to my hometown. I’m from Chicago, and this song is one I always come back to. Chicago is certainly a place to live after a breakup. Sweet Home Chicago.”
It’s always been my favorite Robert Johnson song, and when I get back home I will certainly listen to it again. I’m glad that the Appleoosians agreed with me.
I decide to play a song that I’ve always liked, but I feel like the ponies wouldn’t feel the same given the message. I start strumming my guitar with a certain rhythm and Octavia picks it up pretty quickly, though she seems irritated that I keep neglecting to tell her any key or rhythm. As long as she was doing her job, I didn’t really care too much.
After that’s finished, I take a look around and realize that the ponies are cocking their heads as if the song was completely irrelevant to anything they cared about. I take this to mean that people probably didn’t buy my album for Alabama Blues.
Realizing that I should probably finish the set with a bang while ponies are still paying attention. I close with a song that everypony seems to love, Goodnight Irene.
It’s a tough song, but I’m used to it by now. There’s a lot of intense strumming, but it’s generally just a waltz.
It’s nothing I haven’t done before, and when I’m finished, the ponies, finally liking my music again, stomp on the sand.
“That’s all the songs I have for you tonight,” I say. “This has been John Mercury, have a good night.”
The ponies stomp and clap, but I expect something more. It isn’t the uproarious applause I was used to, when my band mates left for half an hour and left me on stage to sing the Blues with nothing but me and my acoustic guitar, the people would usually clap very loudly after I was done with my block. The crowds were never very large, but they seemed excited.
These ponies seem to enjoy the music, but didn’t love it. I want these ponies to love the music. A couple of ponies take a few pictures of me, and I sling my guitar across my back to return to wherever that cab driver has gone. While Octavia is struggling with her double bass, I make my way through the crowd, and I find a small local reporter. She has glasses and red eyes, a coat of a dark purple, and hair the color of a constellation falling into place.
“Mercury,” she says, “you seem to be quite the rising star.”
“Thank you for noticing,” I reply.
“While we all love the music here, may I ask you, if this is music you’re singing from the soul, music you’ve written, where’s the feeling? I mean, the lyrics are fine, but the guitar and vocals seem to be well, lacking.”
She goes on, but it makes me stop dead in my tracks. She’s certainly a chatty reporter, but that unfortunately gives me time to reflect on what she said. Did ponies... not like my music?
“I—“ I begin.
“Where do these songs come from?” she asks.
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I respond quickly. It helps that Octavia is approaching behind me, giving me an excuse.
I make my way to the cab, coming up the street. Octavia gets in, but I decide to ask the cab pony a question.
“Hey, so how long does this tour last?”
“Well, 15 shows, of course! Decca said so! Next, we’ll head to Las Pegasus, to the casinos and inns located near the ground, then we’ll loop on up to Trotago, then...”
“Trotago?”
“Of course! The tour ends with a second show in Canterlot, Decca will be attending that one.”
“No, Trotago, as in Chicago?”
The cab pony cocks his head at me. “Chicago?”
I sigh, and clarify,”Skyscrapers, Jazz, and a lake across the way?”
The cab pony seems to have a moment of clarity, and nods, before saying,”That sounds about right!”
I get into the cab, but I simply couldn’t believe it. I’m going to finally play in my hometown.
