Every few years my family moved. Mother and father were highly employable, overqualified for anything they accepted. We preferred living in the suburbs.
I was the new kid, repeating another senior year. My sister, once again a freshman. She complained incessantly concerning our frequent relocations, being too young to understand. She would learn to accept it, just as I had. My parents were right: there really was no other way.
Les femmes made friends easily: naturally beautiful, with scarlet hair, porcelain skin, piercing green eyes, and burgundy lips intimating love. My mother and sister’s beauty usurped only by a worldly perspicacity, easily capturing the attention of both sexes. It was easy for them. Lacking the feminine art of persuasion, Les Hommes had to work for our daily eucharist. Dad’s brilliant mind opened every boardroom door and fortune. For me, it was music.
Proficiency on any instrument came naturally. At age three, starting with harpsichord and piano, before mastering the violin and cello at six. I played all instruments now. The electric guitar my current favorite. After relocating, I would find musicians adrift in need of navigation. Just my way to fit in and make friends.
My face had grown thinner of late, becoming my father’s. Spending summers naked to the sun did little to melt my snow-white tan. Framed in black curls with cobalt eyes: a technicolor print of a black and white painting. Artists, misfits, and of course musicians were drawn to me, wanting to be part of my picture.
During the second week of school an unknown classmate asked me if I played guitar. How could he know? Their lead guitar player disappeared mysteriously a month previous. Rumors ranged from suicide to an unplanned pregnancy. She was simply gone. Her missing person case, the first in decades, was the beginning of many. I nodded in affirmation. He stuttered, explaining he was a keyboard player in a cover band in need of a lead player.
I auditioned that very afternoon. I could feel their desires for success. They were ambitious to be sure. But the ends were always the same: money, sex, and power, never realizing their ambition was nothing more than misplaced desire for acceptance.
At the downbeat, I played singles notes harmonizing with the keyboard line. For the verse, I opted for arpeggios, to push the rhythm guitar, not discompose him. During my solo, I doubled timed an improvisation on the vocal melody, locking in with both the bass and drums: they knew I was listening. Lending harmony vocals to the third verse and final chorus, complimenting not competing with the lead vocalist. After soloing during the outro, I was in the band
Every musical endeavor sets out to change the world. From Paganini to the Rolling Stones, the artistic muse refrains. In the end though, all but a few resign themselves to playing the same music regardless on genre as every other to earn their daily bread. Originality is rare.
Soon I was familiar with all in our growing circle. First where the lone walks with each band member. They talked about strengths, only exposing weaknesses. After, knowing the heart of each, I would kiss them male and female. They were now part of something bigger. For a select few, the first kiss turned to an endless embrace.
Once a week, Mom insisted we meet as a clutch to “Catch up”. My sister was already popular, having late night study sessions with both the quarterback and homecoming queen. Dad shared that business at his new firm was brisk indeed, signing richer clients, with a partnership guaranteed for him by Christmas. Mom reported similar satisfactions, spending next weekend in Chicago advising the chairman of the States’ Democratic Committee.
In October the local Chamber of Commerce, with mom’s encouragement, decided to sponsor the first of many “All County Battle of the Bands”. The debut would be October 31st, Halloween. Coming in costume was encouraged. Vocalists playing acoustic guitars would be interspersed with local groups from the county. My band would close out the show.
It was the witching hour when I ascended the stage. The host of thousands quieted to vespers. As the stage lights dimmed, the hall darkened in eerie silence, the air electric. Audience waiting, eager to receive.
I struck the first unholy chord, reverberating in the dying peel of a church bell. Beyond the stage, all stared with vacant repose. Music played, unlike any experienced before, each instrument a symphony, giving all present what they wanted, needed. Their faces frozen in silent screams. My magical music transporting each soul to personal ecstasy, just as Cheron ferried the damned across the river Styx. Mankind reclining into mindless passivity, a reverie for slaughter. The lion to the lamb.
Mom was first, plunging her fangs into the neck of the quarterback she hungered for, lusted for, from his first appearance at our house. Dad preferred ingénues. He tore aside the bodice of a classmate donning a far from chaste pirate costume, drinking deeply from her breast, emptying the vassal, before throwing the lifeless body aside. Always the fickle one, dear sister skipped among them, tasting all, playing with her food. Tonight, a celebration of family and unique existence shared for over four hundred years
My music would lead a select few to the stage providing succor, my nourishment: the living blood. But only music satisfied my hunger. Soon there will be another concert, then another, and another, each more exhaustive than the last. Mankind would awaken with the dawn, without memory and resign itself once again to the quiet desperation of mortal existence.
Every few years my family moved. We were highly employable, and overqualified for anything we accepted. My parents were right: there really was no other way. As for the band? They are like me now, playing for eternity.
No ratings yet.
You must be logged in to rate this post.