Saturday, May 16, 2009

Opus 5

As you may have guessed, it took me a long time to realize Yune was the one for me. Oh Videl, don't look so shocked! This is what love is all about, falling for the wrong guy just because he's...well..wrong, and then falling for the right guy when you finally figure it all out. Well it took me the whole of sophomore year and a very special Christmas gig.

(You might wanna get a refill of your drink, Videl, this story is going to take a while.)

Now where was I? Oh yes! I was fifteen, a sophomore, and I'd just discovered a passion for jazz. In those early days I didn't know much about the style, just that it sounded good and it felt right mulling over all those notes in a laidback, elegant manner as I waited for the saxophone to start his solo. But what I heard instead was a loud, boorish splutter. Naturally the rest of the band cracked up and stopped playing, all except the drummer and me, but I looked up to see who'd made the sound too. And that was when I first laid eyes on the wrongest guy for me you could imagine. (You look like you're enjoying this. Haha.) Andy Stuart. He was a good-looking fellow and he knew it. Used it to his advantage too. Couldn't solo on the trombone for his mother's pyjamas, but he could still play classical music. But even a basketball player like you would know that football skills aren't what you need on the basketball court. It's like that with jazz and classical music. Any'ay, I guess I fell for his looks like any other girl in Lafayette High did. I ignored the fact that he couldn't solo and only played at the heads. I ignored it when he didn't play at all and just mimed. When I think about it now, I don't think it could even be called ignoring. I just...didn't hear it. All I could think about was those forest green eyes and the sparkle of his gold plated trombone.

Since I was so deaf, dum and blind, I didn't notice when the newcomer arrived carrying an alto saxophone case. He wasn't drop-dead gorgeous like Andy, but there was something about his face that drew you in. To some his eyes may have been a dull light brown, but in the right light, you could see a glint of hazel flecked with green. Sorry, didn't I say I didn't notice?

So there we were, waiting for the next soloist. I was preparing myself for the trombone fart that Andy usually produced to make us laugh, but instead there was a silence. And then, the most beautiful saxophone melody I'd ever heard rippled out across the music room. A rich sonority, like warm honey overflowing into your veins and sending a shiver down your spine. When I heard it, I almost stopped playing from shock. And I didn't quite recover as my fingers started to stumble over themselves on my bass. I had to resist the urge to stop accompanying and just listen to those unfamiliar yet soothing tones coming out of his alto saxophone. He seemed to notice my dipsiness, for he turned his body slightly towards me and smiled behind his mouthpiece. It was a challenge. His soloing began to speed up, hardly giving me time to recuperate.

He was pushing for a bass solo.

It was like those dancing brown eyes were saying, "Come on Airi, show me what you got. You know your playing's been dead for months." And he was the only one who could drive some life into it. But I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready for this. Who did he think he was to barge into my comfort zone and ask for a bass solo - something I hadn't tried because of the lack of seriousness the band had developed. Did he think he could change all that with one blasted solo? I resisted, trying to slow the tempo down. But to my horror, the drum beat wouldn't respond to my pulling. I spun wildly and made eye contact with Henri. He looked back at me defiantly with the same statement in his eyes, and something else...a plea...a plea to change it all. The lack of seriousness, the sound, and the colour of our band.

Henri's permission was all I needed. Unlocking the closet, I pulled out all the riffs, hammer-ons, tapping, slapping and phrasing techniques I had long buried and gave that saxophonist what he wanted.

I didn't notice when the others stopped playing and we just continued. I didn't notice when Andy Stuart swore under his breath. All I can remember is the feeling that burned in my chest after we'd stopped.

This is music, this is sound. This is jazz.

Then he walked across the room and answered my unspoken question.

"My name's Yune." Taking my hand, "And damn, you sure can swing, Isaki."

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