476 C.E. - Five: Cadenza
476 C.E.
Cadenza: an improvised or written-out ornamental passage played or sung by a soloist or soloists, usually in a "free" rhythmic style, and often allowing for virtuosic display.
To everyone's surprise, and especially out own, Grey and I turned out to be the song-writing powerhouse of the group. Not that the other guys were useless; they were anything but. When we all got together for our morning jam sessions, we would present song ideas, riffs, and motifs we had thought up. Opinions were shared, changes were made, many, many ideas were dropped entirely. We actually grew to work really goddamn well together in those weeks.
Most afternoons, the bassist and I would disappear into the recording studio, where we'd sit surrounded by sheets of paper, written on, scribbled out, and crumpled up and discarded. He did most of the lyrics, for sure, but I made some suggestions, and many were taken. When we had effectively written a poem, he'd grab a battered acoustic guitar and I'd fetch my keyboard, and we'd figure out the melody hiding behind the words. Perhaps it was a pretty typical process; perhaps it was atypical. All I know is that it worked for us, and we rarely went more than three days without coming up with a new idea.
Considering that January had finished out, and February had passed, that meant that we had plenty to sift through in the Jam sessions. Pretty soon it would be time to think about choosing a track listing for the album.
That afternoon in Early March, though, Grey and I were working on one last song. I could feel that it was going to be a slow, introspective piece. Grey had titled it Hate, and it seemed to be a piece that questioned all the violence in the world. I read over his shoulder as he wrote down lines in his neat print, then crossed them out, and rewrote them with one word different, or reordered the lines. He could spend hours doing that. I respected the Englishman for that; he was a perfectionist. Of course, I was, too. I'd spend just as long tinkering with the melody and harmonies, playing with chord progressions. By unspoken agreement, we sat out the other's process, and opinions were frequently asked.
"What do you think of this verse?" Grey asked suddenly, making me jump. He pointed to the text in question with his pen. I read over it several times, trying the lines with different inflections before I made up my mind.
"You've got some awkward phrasing in the third line," I commented, "The inversion doesn't really go with the rest of it."
"Yes, I was thinking the same thing," he said absently, already scribbling the line out and fixing it.
He showed me the revised verse, and I nodded in approval. "Much better." He made a few more adjustments to the various wordings, and finally, made a neat copy on a fresh sheet of lined paper.
"Done?" I asked, to which Grey nodded and handed me the paper. I glanced down it, still amazed that his handwriting could be so neat. It looked more like a computer font than something hand written. I told him as much, and he grinned and told me that he won penmanship awards in primary school.
"I'm just amazed that my elementary teachers could read anything I wrote. Hardy souls, all of them," I said, then got down to the serious work of looking the lyrics down. I had some experience setting other people's words to music, since my first music theory classes had had projects that involved just that. My I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud for piano, cello, and voice (lyrics by William Wordsworth) is still a legend among music majors at my old university.
I tried different melodic lines with the words as they sprung into my head, humming softly to myself, making sure to memorize the motifs I liked, but discarding many more. It would be hours before I was satisfied, but I think the nature of the piece was actually helping me along. I suddenly had a flash of inspiration.
"Dude, Grey, you know what this song needs?"
"What's that?" he asked.
"A cello," I answered excitedly. He considered for a long moment, looked over his own lyrics, and nodded, first slowly, then with more confidence.
"I can actually hear that really well with the theme," he said honestly, not just to be nice to the resident cellist.
The cello line wrote itself in my head, twining with the melody that was suddenly present, so tangible that I'd have sworn I could hear it in the distance. Quickly, I moved over to my keyboard, and began playing it out to help myself commit it to memory. Then, I frowned, and moved down the keyboard, changing the key from A-flat minor, the key of grumbling and suffocation, to D-sharp minor, the key of deepest distress, of anxiety and depression. It made for a much more poignant sound. I liked it.
I don't know how much time I spent with my keyboard, playing bits over and over again, changing pitches and rhythms here and there, developing block chords under the melody, and finally, working in harmonies, and my cello countermelody. I finally came out of my trance then, only to find that the sun had gone down. That didn't mean much, since we were in the Eastern part of the mountains, but it still indicated that a significant amount of time had gone by. Grey had fallen asleep on the couch, and I felt rather guilty about having done all that without asking his opinion even once.
I poked him in the temple to wake him up. Grey started, and glanced up in alarm. "Sorry about that," I said in regards to my unintentional ignoring of him, "I was…in the zone."
Grey smiled, and shook his hair out of his face. "I could tell. It was sounding great, and I trust your judgment on the matter."
"Wanna hear what I've worked out so far, then?" I asked excitedly.
"Definitely. Need me to play the chords?" That was a routine. He'd strum chords on his guitar, while I played the melodies on my keyboard. I nodded, and he reached over to pick up his instrument, and we went through the song slowly, me dictating the chords to him, then playing the line that went with that chord before telling him the next. We worked on it until he had the chords down confidently, then we did a run through where I sang the cello accompaniment and played the melody.
"So," I said when we both had the idea of the song. "Any suggestions for improvement?"
Grey smiled warmly, something he did too little of. "None at all. It was brilliant, Rome." I smiled at his approval. It was the fastest we had come up with a song, and I don't think I had been as happy with one before then.
The next morning, all five of us were gathering in the studio for our jam session.
"Hey, Grey," October said amiably as the bassist walked in, the last of us. "Rome said that you two have another bit of brilliance for us."
"Only if I can pull a cello out of my ass," I qualified.
"Do you have one of those hidden up there? Have anything else? I want a Ferrari!" Denmark said excitedly.
"Sorry, I'm fresh out," I said, and Denmark cried out in anguish and disappointment. Kenya giggled at the exchange.
October brought us back on track, "Anyway, I'm excited to hear it. Rome was very enthusiastic last night. If it's half as good as the other stuff you guys have been coming up with, a cello will be sprung for."
I sat up, missing the feel of a cello under my hands with a sudden acuteness. "You mean that? October, bro, I love you," I said without thinking. I managed to control my blush at my own words, though, and October took nothing amiss. He laughed lightly, and said, "Of course. You'll have to pick it out, though. I don't speak string instruments."
"You just made my day, nay, my life" I said honestly, half tempted to kneel and begin bowing down to the great October and his promises of cellodom.
Grey returned the conversation to the present by pulling out his guitar and saying, "Shall we?"
"We shall," I rejoined, and sat down in behind my keyboard. The other three gathered around Grey's lyrics sheet, and we played through it, with a few minor foibles from lack of practice. That had happened to all of us, though, and we were all good enough players to make sure it wouldn't happen by the time we were to tour. When the last note faded and Grey set his guitar back on its stand, October was nodding thoughtfully.
"That's fricking deep, man," Denmark said in a much more serious tone than I'd heard him use before. "I mean, if only all the hate would stop. The world would be so much better…and Felicia could come home." We all looked at him in sympathy. He colored, skin contrasting deeply with his now-purple hair. "And the music was nifty too."
"I loved it, too," October said, not needing to expand. "You, Kenya?"
"Definitely; it's great. I mean, wow. You guys have really outdone yourselves. You're like our very own John Lennon and Paul McCartney. One of you is even the right nationality!" I cracked a smile at that, grateful for Kenya's lightening the mood of the room.
We did some final work on the song, Denmark playing with the percussive rhythms under the melody. It would still take some refining, but within an hour or so, we had a pretty good idea of how the song would sound.
October did his band leader-y thing later, after we had taken a coffee break, and had us assemble in the living room. Grey sat on the floor, naturally, which left the whole couch for me to sprawl on.
"You know, sometimes it seems like we all just got here, and that's kind of true. It's only been a month and a half, but already we have about twenty excellent songs to pick from." He paused, glancing at me, and where Grey leaned against the couch near my knees. "I think we should start putting together the track listing for What it Means to be Human. Twelve sounds like a good number, to me… So… uh, begin the discussion!"
There was a moment of silence, and Denmark said firmly, "I think that the song Rome and Grey played for us today should make the final cut. For sure." He nodded to punctuate his statement.
There were comments of agreement, and I reached over to fist-bump Grey, who flashed me a grin as he met the gesture.
We spent the next thirty minutes in a surprisingly conflict-free discussion. It was obvious which songs were lackluster, and which were superior. Grey and I, for our part, were more critical of our own work than the songs the others had come up with. As the decision was made semi-official, though, we were the authors of two thirds of the selections, and had a part in writing the ninth song. After that, we discussed the order, which is actually a more delicate subject than I had originally thought. The best song can't be first, but the opener does have to be a good, strong choice. We didn't want to open with a ballad. In the end, we decided to open with an anthem-y sounding song that October and Kenya had come up with that featured some excellent guitar lines that I totally approved of. Hate was toward the end of the list, at ten, and the last song was a medium-tempo piece that Grey and I had written after he had gone on a walk through the woods. It was about appreciating the little things, and essentially how great life is, even if we don't see that all the time. We all agreed that it was a good note to end the album on, if a little cliché. But hey, clichés became clichés because they were good ideas to start with.
We decided to head out for lunch in celebration of our 'great achievement.' Actually, I think it was more the fact that the fridge held only a bottle of wine, a few bottles of beer, and some mustard. Someone had been neglecting the grocery shopping. Wait…that was all of us. So, Kenya called shotgun on the way out the door, and Denmark merely replied, "Bros before hos!" in a loud yell and dashed past her to jump into the passenger seat.
I had a very correct feeling that he would be facing the wrath of Kenya. She insisted on sitting behind him for the ride down into town so that she could subtly abuse him. I was crushed into the middle between her and Grey. I found myself in the middle on the majority of our outings, actually.
On the road down from the lodge we discussed food options and ended up choosing a locally owned Thai restaurant we had been to a few times previously. We arrived just after the usual lunch rush, and found ourselves promptly seated by the smiling middle aged owner of the café. She clearly remembered us. October was wearing the silly checked fedora that he always did on such expeditions, and his thick-rimmed glasses.
We were chattering aimlessly over our drinks when my phone rang, startling me since it so rarely did that. I checked the caller ID. It was my mom. I had a sinking feeling in my gut. My mom was the best, and I couldn't believe I had forgotten to call her for almost two months. Guiltily, I answered the phone, fully aware of the others staring at me.
"Hi, mom," I said sheepishly, earning a grin from Kenya that she tried to hide. Eavesdropper.
"Oh, thank goodness! You're alive! I so didn't want to be invasive; I know you young people value your privacy, but I was worried about you, Rome!" My mom gushed, and her relieved tones made me feel even worse.
"No, no, I'm so sorry mom. Life kinda…happened and I forgot to call," I explained. It was no excuse, but it was the truth. To keep from annoying my friends, I got up and started walking toward the door, only to hear Kenya call after me, "Say hi to your mom for us!"
"Who was that?" Mom asked curiously.
"Oh…" I began, stepping over the threshold. "That was my friend Kenya. I've got a pretty long story…"
"Well, I'm all ears, dear," she replied. I love my mom. She's the absolute best listener.
"Have you been watching So You Wanna be a Star? for the last few years?" I began.
"I don't see where you're going with this, but I do watch most episodes. Such talented young people," she said, wistfully. Mom had wanted to be a singer when she was young, but then she met Dad, and had London, and ended up working as a receptionist for a law firm.
"Then you'll recall October West, the one who won a while back? The one I knew from high school?" I asked.
"I do. He hasn't been in the media lately," she said, eager to hear the rest of my story.
"Well, it's still something of a secret right now, so shhhh," I said, cracking a smile, "But he's got a band together, and we're working on an album…"
"We're?" She said.
"Yeah. He called me in January…I'm kind of the keyboardist. My workplace had just burned down, so I was out of a job…It seemed like a golden opportunity that he called me that day."
"Oh, honey!" Mom exclaimed, "That's wonderful! Living the dream!"
I had to smile, so wide it hurt my face. "Not many moms would approve of their sons running off to be rock stars, especially after not calling for two months. That is why you are the absolute most awesome mom ever," I said honestly.
"I know I am. And I hate to ask…but are you handling things alright? You know…" I did know. She meant my issues.
"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm actually really enjoying this life so far. I'm sure there'll be stress when we're on tour or something, but the guys and Kenya are great, and I have a fancy keyboard and a grand piano at my disposal. And October's getting me a cello! This is the best I've been in a long time, actually," I rambled excitedly.
"I'm happy for you! I want to hear about your new friends! And I expect free tickets when you come to Maine!" Trust mom to still want to come to my concerts. She had never missed one when I was in junior and high school, and she had traveled to see a few of my college performances.
"You get backstage passes and free merchandise, mom. And the others really are wonderful," I began, and told her about my band mates. By the time we were wrapping up our conversation, I was sure the others had already finished and would be ready to go.
"I've missed you, Rome. I hope you can come home sometime," Mom said.
"I miss you, too. If I can, I will," I said sadly. "Maybe I'll be able to make it back for Christmas...or something…"
"I'd love that, if you can. But I can imagine you have a lot to do…" I kind of did need to get back inside.
"That's true… Is it alright if I go, for now? I promise I'll call you in a few days. It definitely won't be two months," I said earnestly.
"Of course, honey," Mom said, "I love you."
"Love you too, mom," I replied, and we said our final goodbyes. I hung up and went back inside.
To my surprise, it looked like the food was just arriving, and there was an untouched plate of curry rice and noodles at my place.
Kenya explained, "We held off ordering as long as we could. Grey remembered what you got last time, so we got that for you."
"Wow, thanks. You didn't have to do that," I said, awkwardly grateful as I slipped back into my chair.
"Eh, it was the least we could do for our favorite keyboardist," October said with a casual shrug, then stuffed a piece of chicken into his mouth.
I smiled, and quipped, "I'm your only keyboardist," and fell upon my food after drowning it in soy sauce.
When we had all finished eating, and October had paid the bill, we decided to go ahead and make a grocery run so that we wouldn't starve in the days to come. I veritably dashed out the door after calling shotgun, and for once managed to get it, much to Denmark's dismay.
Too bad it was for a one-block ride to the Wal-Mart down the street from the café.
It was the middle of the day, so the parking lot was naturally filled to capacity. We had to park Beautiful Pie at the very back edge by the road, not that it really mattered. When we were all out of the car, October locked it, and barely had time to pocket his keys before Kenya leapt on his back, demanding a piggyback ride into the store.
"Make that a piggy back race," Denmark proclaimed, as he attacked his third cousin with a force that nearly bowled him over. Grey managed to keep his feet, though, and surprised me by obliging Denmark's request, and awkwardly sprinting after October and Kenya. I didn't feel left out, since I was having too much fun watching the spectacle. I followed at a light jog, pausing to adopt a stray shopping cart that had been abandoned by a dented up Honda.
"Who won?" I asked when I joined the others with my cart.
"We did!" Kenya called in triumph, high fiving October, who grinned widely.
"Only because Grey tripped and almost threw me into a station wagon," Denmark said, glaring jovially at Grey, who shrugged.
"You were practically choking me to death," he replied simply, as though Denmark had deserved it. Which, in all honesty, he probably had.
"Aww, I missed it," I said regretfully, and we all turned to walk into the store. Immediately, Kenya and Denmark began acting like secret agents and snuck around the store, occasionally returning with items to drop into the basket. October and Grey stayed with the cart and me, and we made a more orderly progression through the aisles, picking up essentials, which began with, inevitably, eight bags of coffee. And none of that decaf shit. What's the point of that? Seriously.
We were loading the last bags of the Columbian ambrosia into the basket when October spoke.
"So, Grey, not to be racist or anything…but…why do you drink coffee? I thought all you British people were tea-holics."
Grey sighed, then got an odd smile. "I actually love tea. But you just can't get a decent cup of it in America. And I'll admit that I'm too impatient to make it myself. By the time I get bored and want to drink it, it's still too hot, or too weak... Hence I drink your bitter, bitter brew," he said, the last bit filled with an uncharacteristic drama.
"Wow," I chimed in, "I always knew you Brits took your tea very seriously, but I don't think I saw the fullness of it until now."
"Tea is serious business," Grey replied gravely.
"Just like coffee," I answered.
October joined in, "Rome, you hardly count as a coffee drinker. I think the amount of coffee in that sludge you drink can most accurately be measured in parts per million."
"Your point? There's coffee in it," I say. My coffee habits were often questioned. It had become something of a band joke, I suppose.
"Sometimes I wonder about that," October said, and smiled. I returned it easily. I did love when he would smile at me. Just then, Denmark burst on the scene, dropping in a carton of chocolate ice cream, and telling us that "this message will self-destruct in ten seconds." Then he was off again to get some other frivolous item, while leaving the 'boring shopping' to the rest of us.
We all watched his departure and, at once, laughed openly. I was definitely growing to feel more comfortable with those four than anyone else I had ever known. And, for the sole purpose of being cliché, we were going to make goddamn beautiful fucking music together.
Well, maybe the cliché doesn't go exactly like that, but that's what we were going to do. Both literally and metaphorically.