The story is a bit long (it was written for Creative Writing Class where the minimum is 10 pages) but I would adore any time of feedback. Thanks for reading!

The Boys In The Band

A few notes put together can become a beautiful chord or a discordant mess of noise. Some bands understand the difference between noise and music. The school band, for instance, has a good grasp of musicality. For the most part. Then of course, there are the garage bands. Don’t get me started on garage bands.

I’m a garage band guitarist, but I try not to let this define me. In the school band I play string bass, then after school on Monday and Wednesday I head over to Bryan’s house and practice with the guys in Bryan‘s room. Bryan’s parents have not returned from work by that point, so the only ones who hear us are Bryan’s elderly cat and the stay-at-home Mom down the street.

“And a one, and a two--” started Connor Mitchell, the overzealous drummer.

“Connor!” yelled Bryan--the bassist-- and our singer, Jordan.

Jordan walked over to Connor at the drumset and snatched the drumsticks out of his bandmate’s hands. “We’re not starting yet. If you were listening at all to what Bryan was saying, we need to work on the music for ‘Girl From Manhattan’.”

“That song sucks. Let’s do another song.”

“No. We’re fixing this one first.”

“Fine. Be lame.”

This kind of fighting went on all the time at almost every practice. It was no wonder I had no patience with garage bands anymore. “You two fight like an old married couple,” I complained.

Both Connor and Jordan looked over at me, sitting on my stool with my Gibson guitar resting across my knees. Neither coming up with a good enough comeback, they ignored me and returned to their senseless fighting.

“I never get to play my solo in our good song,” said Connor.

Jordan asked, “What song?”

“The one I wrote.”

“That was a ten minute drum solo, not a song!”

I sighed and checked my watch. Usually these pointless fights lasted anywhere from five to twenty minutes. Since I couldn’t accomplish anything, there was nothing I could do in this time. I carefully leaned my guitar against Bryan‘s bed. I dug through my backpack and took out the book I was currently reading. Propping the book’s spine on my knee, I opened to where my bookmark was.

I was able to read undisturbed for some time until Connor, who’d apparently been looking around for another set of drumsticks, suddenly asked, “What are you doing, Tony?”

Not bothering to look up from the book, I said, “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m ignoring you guys until you decide to do something productive.”

“Alright,” said Jordan. “Let’s just warm up with ‘Musings’.” The band grudgingly
agreed, and I plugged my guitar into the amp and quickly tuned.

Although Jordan’s song titles were interesting, his music was not. The band seemed to like the simplest rock music, if you could even call it that. It was more like punk--loud drums that hardly kept a consistent beat, screaming vocals, and incredibly simple power chords for guitar playing with heavy distortion. Loud was the key word. I used to try to introduce some new styles for the band to inspire some originality.

Months back--this is painful to recall--I brought a Mozart CD to band practice. I played the first song, telling the guys to pay attention to the complexity of the song. When the last violins of the symphony faded, all three of them laughed at me.

“They just don’t understand real music when they hear it, Anthony” said a friend of mine from the school band named Cassie. She tucked a strand of her short blonde hair behind her ear and gave me that coy smile. She had even less patience for garage bands. She thought they were stupid, but forgave me for being in one because she thought I could teach these guys what real music was.

I saw Cassie the day after the latest terrible practice. I had gotten out of English early after a test and went to the band room. I heard the soft notes of the flute before I reached the door. I came inside, saw Cassie at her usual seat where the flute section would be, and silently sat next to her. She was playing a particularly challenging sounding section from “Into the Raging River”. Cassie ceased her playing and looked up at me.

I smiled. “You were a little flat on that last A,” I told her.

‘Because I suddenly realized I was being watched,” she said.

There’s one thing about Cassie that shocks me. She is the most talented flute player in the band but she chokes when someone else is listening to her play. Though she could be first, she’s twelfth out of twenty flute players.

“Here to practice your string bass?” she asked. I could see what she was doing. She was trying to find an excuse to leave and not have to play around me.

“Actually no,” I told her truthfully. “I’ve got to sign a paper so I can borrow a school string bass. Some freshman stepped on mine and broke the bridge.”

“Ouch,” she said, sympathizing.

“It can be repaired easily. Just another challenge to prove myself.”

“You got that from a book.”

“Actually, three books.”

She laughed and arranged the sheet music on her stand so she could begin playing from the beginning again. “Anthony, you are too smart for that garage band.”

“Maybe I’m sticking around to show them some culture?”

“Did you try them on any Haydn or the London Metropolitan Orchestra?”

“I still can’t live down the Mozart thing.”

“Keep at it,” she suggested. “With perseverance comes results.”

“You got that from a book,” I said, having the sense that this conversation was coming full circle.

“Nope. I got that from secretly practicing the flute and hoping nobody hears me until I’m ready. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to continue working on this until I get it perfect.”

I took the hint and got up to leave, but stopped. I sat back down and she stared at me as if waiting for me to speak again. I had an idea.

“I’m not leaving. You’re going to have to practice this with me right next to you.”

Cassie looked unsure. She looked from the silvery flute in her hands, at the sheets of music in front of her, and at me. I stubbornly refused to abandon my seat. Finally, she began to play; haltingly at first, but soon the notes were coming out. It wasn’t the same as it was before, but it was already better than usual. She made a mistake and started over again, and it improved further. When she stopped playing, I clapped like the dork that I am. She smiled appreciatively.

“I don’t think I could do that again,” she said.

“I think you can,” I told her.

With that solved, I wondered what to do about my feuding bandmates and our dismal music.
*
One day at lunch when I was sitting with Bryan and Cassie, Jordan and Connor came over with some news. “You are never going to believe this,” said Jordan. “We are going to be performing at the local coffeehouse, the Blake Street Cafe.” Jordan took out a flyer from the café that advertised that Freestyle was playing on Friday night, March 12. Freestyle was our band name.

“How did you manage that?” Bryan asked.

“My aunt is the manager, remember?” Jordan said.

This was what I was worried about. Getting a gig based on the sympathy of someone we knew rather than talent.

Jordan and Connor left. I rested my head in my hands.

“Not the good news you were expecting,” Cassie commented.

“We’re not ready to perform for an audience,” I told her.

“I hate to say it, but you’re right,” Bryan added. “I mean, I can improvise anything with my bass, but a good bass line isn’t going to count for anything if the song is terrible.”

“Jordan doesn’t want to change the lyrics and Connor still thinks loud is what makes music.”

“We’ve got problems, that’s for sure,” Bryan said. “All Connor seems to be good at anymore is complaining that things aren’t going his way.”

I turned to Cassie. “Will you come and see our embarrassment? I could probably use a sympathetic audience member.”

Cassie took the flyer from my hands and frowned at the date. “I have tickets to the college orchestra on the twelfth, sorry.”

So it was settled. We were to face our utter embarrassment on the thirteenth of April. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any rotten tomatoes available in the coffeehouse.
* * *
I sat at home, brooding about the upcoming performance at the coffeehouse. In my room, I put away my electric guitar and picked up the acoustic guitar that belonged to my aunt before she passed away. Using my sleeve, I wiped away the dust that was so persistent in covering the instrument. I remember getting this guitar five years ago on my
twelfth birthday, and it was then that my interest in guitar playing began. After a couple years, I got my first electric guitar and my friends had begun entertaining the notion of starting a band. When we started getting serious about the band idea, I made sure to never bring the acoustic. Acoustic music had no place in Connor’s and Jordan’s idea of rock.

It was Jordan and Connor who officially started the band, so they became the self-appointed leaders. That’s when everything started going downhill. The band became less and less like a group collaboration, and Bryan and I were left out of many decisions. We were rushed by the two other guys to come up with song after song. Jordan had heard somewhere that music was popular for quantity rather than quality, so we’d need to have a bunch of songs ready. There was no time for any real creativity.

Thinking of all this, I strummed a few easy chords on the acoustic guitar, relishing in its particular feel and sound. I set the guitar on my bed and knelt down on the ground to pull out a large plastic box. In the box were piles of papers. Some of them were tabs, which are different than sheet music because they show finger configurations rather than notes. Some of these pages were lyrics. That right. This box was all mine. Some songs were finished, having both the music and lyrics. Every now and then I would turn on my keyboard and start working on another part: what the bass would play, what notes the singer should reach, etc. On one particular song, my favorite, I was working on a separate instrument part. I had the notes and everything figured out for it, I just had no idea what instrument would play it.

I had shown no one but Cassie this music. She got every copy of a finished song (which I’d rewrite with notes because she couldn’t understand guitar tabs) and she’d give
her comments.

I’d never gotten up the nerve to show Bryan or Jordan or Connor the music I wrote. I suppose in a way I was just like Cassie: afraid to express myself in front of others.
* * *
“Connor quit,” Jordan announced at lunch on the eleventh of March.

“The day before our performance?” Bryan asked, amazed.

“He said something about not getting enough say in what we do as a band,” Jordan explained, sighing. He looked up at me. “Tony? You’ve got some drum tracks that you created on your keyboard, right?”

“Yeah,” I answered, “for every song. I had a feeling that Connor would do something like this.”

“Bring those tapes and a backup guitar. We don’t need any more crises to happen on the day of the show.”

The only other guitar I had at the time that wasn’t in dire need of new strings was the acoustic. “Sure,” I said. “See you then, I guess.”
* * *
The place was packed. Apparently, the coffeehouse was running some sort of special during the time our band played. People were there most likely for free coffees rather than our music. Bryan, Jordan, and I sat at one of the small round tables near the small stage area. “You’ve got the tapes with the drum tracks, right?” Jordan asked for the fourth time. I nodded, and looked nervously around at the numerous people in Blake
Street Café. It would soon be 7 o‘ clock, the time when we would start playing. “I can’t believe Connor quit,” Jordan said in a daze.

I spotted someone familiar in the audience at another small table, somewhere in the middle of the cafe. I walked over to that table, weaving in between various people and tables to get there. “I didn’t think you’d come,” I told the blonde girl sitting there.

“Moral support,” Cassie explained. “The concert at the college doesn’t start till 8:30pm. Besides, I had errands to run anyway.” She indicated the small rectangular case on the table. “I have to bring my flute to the store down the street. The owner is going to get a couple dents out of it for me, and he said to come by his house at 8.”

“I notice you’re sitting kinda far away from the stage,” I commented.

“I know how loud you guys play. I must consider the safety of my poor eardrums.”

I was glad for the friendly face in the crowd, even if she was a little far from the stage. “I’m glad you came.”

Unfortunately, it was time for my friends and I to make some noise. At exactly seven o’ clock, we walked up the few steps to the stage and began setting up. I tuned my guitar, even knowing that I’d already tuned it before we came here. I was simply killing time. I looked at the back wall. There was the acoustic guitar, waiting to be taken out if drastic measures were needed.

Jordan readied the tape over by the DJ equipment next to the stage and as soon as the drum track started he hopped back onto the stage and we launched into the first song. It was going fine for a while. Nobody seemed to mess up. I had the power chords so well memorized I didn’t have to think about where to go next. The song ended, and Jordan ran over and paused the tape.

The reaction from the audience was….well, not all that exciting. Most people were more interested in the nutritional information on the back of a muffin wrapper. There was sporadic clapping throughout the place. Nobody cared.

I looked over at Cassie. She gave an “I know how you feel” look.

We went into the second song. The same reaction.

Midway through the third song, people were leaving.

“This is terrible,” Jordan whispered to me and Bryan as we pretended to prepare for the next song. “If we don’t start getting a better reaction, I don’t think we’ll even be paid for this.”

“Worse,” Bryan said. “We’ll never get another chance like this again.”

“Psst!” came a voice from the edge of the stage. Cassie had come over. I went over to her and repeated what the band was just discussing.

“Do you have any different songs?” she asked. “The audience may just not like the style being played.”

“All of our songs sound the same,” I told her.

Cassie contemplated this. “Well,” she said, finally coming to some realization. “Not all of them are the same.”

She was talking about my music. “I don’t know…” I said.

“Just try your favorite one. I’m sure Jordan will understand the need for some new music.”

Jordan had walked over. “New music? I’m willing to try anything at this point.”

“But…the instrumental track that I haven’t come up with yet…” I said. I realized it was just a coward’s way of trying to back out of it, and I hated trying to cop out.

Cassie grinned. “I think I can remedy that. I’ll be right back.”

I told Jordan which tape to use and I went and got my acoustic guitar ready to go. A couple more people had left from the audience during our talk. I stole the stool from the DJ stand and placed it in front of the singer’s microphone. I was going to have to play and sing, so I wanted to be able to sit for this. Bryan was already clued in that he would have to improvise his part, but he wasn’t concerned.

Cassie came back, her flute in her hand. “Don’t worry,” she told me. “I’ve actually been practicing this part for a while.”

“You’re not nervous?” I asked her.

“I’m flat-out terrified,” she said, getting up on the stage. I could tell how truthful that statement was. She kept shifting from foot to foot and biting her lip. She may have been scared to play in front of so many people, but she was willing to try. That was the kind of spirit that inspired me to keep going and try my song.

And so the song started. I sang the lyrics, not well I might add, and played the acoustic part. The drum track I picked had a simple slow beat. Bryan was able to play his bass along with the music, and Cassie did a beautiful flute solo, though she did almost lose her nerve and stop playing.

After the song, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. The nervousness had finally overcome me, and I waited in that space of time between song and audience reaction with bated breath. Soon, the clapping started. This time the audience meant it.