The Composer, as He Watches:
A fictional tale set in Bushwick based on a night out I had almost 7 years ago. (I wrote this at the time and revised it tonight, to prepare & share with you.)
He tolerates this cadenza because the violinist’s family has given a lot of money to the composer program. “Note to self,” the composer thinks as he watches and hears the debut of his new piece, “Don’t write in any improvisation opportunities for the musicians. Too stressful.” He tries not to be angry with himself for making this risky and, ultimately, poor decision. What he wants to say with this piece of music, which is Webern-meets-Taylor-Swift, what he wants to say, well, rather, what he wants to do, is blow open the expectations of his listeners here in Bushwick.
They’ve heard atonal stuff before. Music that finds resolution only insofar as the audience becomes resigned to the horror that the music will never resolve. Which is, in and of itself, a kind of terrible resolution, like walking in a poorly-made shoe that chafes a blister into your heel, with a pervading knowledge that you have consented to wear this shoe all day. A martyred sort of ecstasy. Like running an ultramarathon. Or raising a child.
His listeners are familiar with the structure, the tension and release of music like Bach’s and Mozart’s. But with this piece, he has taken themes from top 40 music and embedded them deep into his Webern-esque quartet. So that, just when his poor audience thinks the music will never release them, that they will navigate the quagmire of half tones and irregular rhythms forever, just then he’ll give them Taylor Swift’s “Shake it Off” with a couple of unexpected accidentals. It’s going to be awesome, once this movement is over. This movement, he now feels, was not his best. His mentor is present tonight and she will tell him that, no doubt. Also present is a former lover:
He looks to his left, over at beautiful Mio, with one cheek, her left one, that catches the beam of an increasingly broad spotlight racing toward the quartet, a flurry of dust particles dancing in the radiance and snowing toward and around her. In 4 measures comes a passage that she will like. Or will she? She’ll definitely like it. He grows excited: A mix of sexual pleasure and something a little better. Impressing her will be the ultimate vindication since she snubbed him last summer. Why has she come tonight?
He has each of the aforementioned thoughts in 1 measure, which leaves 3 left till the part that will turn Mio on or, better yet, impress her.
I’ve slowed time for you, I the narrator, who watched the composer watch his quartet, one humid spring night in Bushwick. But no more about me. Let us return to the composer, as he watches:
The composer watches Mio as she listens. She does respond to the transition, shifting her weight and inhaling. She’s energetically engaged, but is it because of the Webern/Taylor Swift thing? Is she understanding the piece as it’s meant to be understood? He imagined it might be a shared treasure between them, at minimum an inside joke, but no. She is having her own experience. He can’t control her. Oh God, the next cadenza. Why did he write these? No more improvisation. No more. He can’t stomach it.
Then a cockroach scuttles across the floor. Oh, this… is very bad. The adagio section is approaching just as a drunk audience member slams a red cup over the creature. It is too fast. She misses her hastening target and the cup topples noisily in what has proven to be a surprisingly acoustic space, flattering to the musicians and a damn shame for the drunk cockroach hunter: a waifish, titless hipster in a backless dress, now tittering into her hand.
The composer is, obviously, distracted, but the music waits for no one and he won’t miss the transition to the adagio section. He’s concerned about this part. He’s not at all certain how it will sound now, in front of an audience, though it sounded just perfect in his shower in his head when he first heard it, while reaching for his shampoo.
He was struck then by the quirky, offbeat musical phrase that the audience hears now. He heard it just as he saw his shampoo label. It’s a Revlon shampoo that protects his bleached platinum hair. It’s marketed to women. The composer is not at all queer, but his hair is.
I, the narrator, was not present in the composer’s shower when he first heard the notes of his future quartet, but I’ve been in the shower many a time as my own ideas struck, so trust me, this is how it happened:
As he popped the top of the shampoo he had a minor panic. Should he jump out of the shower now to record the phrase by humming it into his phone, or run to his staff paper to scribble the most essential notes and rhythms? Would he still have this phrase in hand by the end of his shower?
He hummed throughout shampooing and by the time he was toweling off he had not just this one phrase, but three variations on it and all of the cellist’s ostinato. It was a productive shower, but he felt terribly manic by the end of it. How soon could he get this piece out into the world: for Mio to hear? To send to competitions? To record and play for himself when he felt he was useless and a loser? His hands were shaking now from pre-shower coffee and no breakfast.
If he, the composer, weren’t so adrenalized now during this debut, he’d be attracted to Mio, profoundly distracted by her like he was that summer, but it’s about only the music tonight. The composer is here in Bushwick among friends, colleagues, family, competitors, a handful of (stealthy, polite) nemeses who have come to see him maybe fail, and his mentor, of course. He is here for one reason, to listen to his piece aloud in front of an audience and to learn from the experience. Tonight is not about Mio. Tonight is serious.
The cockroach wanders furtively behind the quartet members, taking cover behind an art installation, then emerging just as suddenly. The composer listens to the debut of his quartet and tries to ignore the cockroach. The cockroach was not a part of his initial vision, but here it is: Webern, Taylor Swift, Cockroach. An original work. An unfortunate collaboration with Untamable Fate, who was not invited, but always comes.
Mio may or may not be liking it. She continues to listen, left cheek aglow in the slanting luminosity and, midway through the adagio, she moves her arm.
She slips it around the waist of an adjacent man. With bleached platinum hair.
A man who is not the composer, as he watches.
This is really hilarious! I love your description of audience reaction to atonalism, the cockroach, the shower creative process, the denouement -- just the whole thing! One of your funniest and most entertaining!
Always love your writing, Emma!! :) I love how you can take the smallest detail.. the cockroach, the arm, the panic attack, and draw readers in…