“We’d just love to have a Chinese girl in the squad,” she had insisted.
Beth understood from that reiteration that, although the lights were on, perhaps Shelby was not fully at home.
Professor Cragg sported a mop of wild white hair and wore thick, black horn-rimmed glasses, and for the first couple of classes had spoken in an entirely monotone voice. Today he slightly changed the intonation as he announced an upcoming field trip to the White Mountains to study the geology in the area.
“Students, I am thrilled to announce that we have received funding for a three-day field trip to examine and construct reports on the magma intrusions and glaciation in this area. We will be camping out for two nights and hiking into parts of the National Park terrain that are off the regular trails. This will be a most memorable component of your Senior Year. The Marine Biology students are travelling with us and will be studying the river ecosystem for a comparison unit. I’m sending home your permission slips today so make sure that you return them as soon as possible.”
As he made his way around the room, Beth smelled the musty odor of mothballs exuding from his faded tweed jacket. He wore it every day, so unless he had a rotation of them in his closet, how was it ever long enough in the wardrobe to garner such a strong smell?
Marine Biology students, phew, thought Beth. At least that meant Toby would be along for the trip. Beth could not imagine having to spend three solid days with a constant dose of Shelby. There were at least two other cheerleaders that Beth knew of in Toby’s class, so Shelby would have some like-minded company on the field trip.
“I hope we can have four in a tent! Jemma and Ashley are in the fishy class and with you, we could make up an awesome foursome!”
“We’ll have to wait and see. Thanks for thinking of me though,” Beth replied as politely as possible. Although Shelby meant well, being trapped in a tent with three gossip hounds sounded like some kind of torture.
The rest of the lesson consisted of silent research and note taking on the White Mountains in preparation for the upcoming trip. The bell rang and Beth headed off to her favorite class, wishing there was a three-day field trip for Music. Three full days of Logan would be heaven sent. Entering the classroom, she found Likely already seated. He looked up from his book and Beth thought she could almost see the beginnings of a half-smile.
She smiled warmly at him. “Hey Likely, nice to see you.”
Logan entered the room carrying a stack of songbooks and papers, with the muscles in his arms tensed and pressing against the cotton fabric of his crisp, white shirt, and his tawny hair falling about his handsome face.
Melinda raced to the front of the classroom, knocking over a chair in her haste. “Mr. Yeats, let me help you with those,” she was batting her eyelids faster than a high-speed camera shutter.
When he had set them down on his table and Melinda had reluctantly headed back to her desk, he said, “Today I am setting your first composition project. I want you to choose a situation or memory that brings up a negative emotion: anger, fear, anxiety, jealousy, guilt…take your pick—there are loads to choose from. During the development of your song, you will work towards the resolution of the situation that causes that emotion. Don’t get too fussy with the overall structure, keep it really simple.” Logan scrawled the instructions over the white board adding, “This exercise is a brilliant example of music therapy. You will work in pairs with the person sharing your desk and that way you can bounce your ideas off each other. Is everyone clear on this?”
Melinda’s hand shot straight up. “But Maeve and I have completely opposite tastes. How will we be able to help each other’s composition when my musical theatre meets garage punk?”
Logan smiled. “Exactly, and that’s how some of the best songs are born, by mixing things up. Trust me, Melinda; you’ll bring to each other’s pieces a whole new shade of sound. Lyrics are optional with this work. You may choose to let the music completely tell your story or you may have a verbal message to go with it. Think freeform, there are no rules with song writing, it’s the most liberating expression of self in this world and you lot are lucky enough to have access to the excellent instruments and recording facilities here at SHS. I expect some masterpieces so get to writing, talking and composing!”
He handed out a pad of blank manuscript paper to each member of the class.
“See, you have a blank canvas here and each of you is the artist. Does it get any cooler than that?”
Beth sat in awe listening to him. “Wow, I finally get to write a song, well, attempt to write a song,” she mused. Likely had already begun to take some notes on his pad and an excited buzz was in the air.
“Remember the first thing you are going to do is go inside and find a situation or memory which causes a negative emotional reaction. Take some think time with this. Don’t rush it; just let everything or nothing come out on the page. Creativity can’t be forced. You have to just relax and let it come through you. I’m of the belief that creativity is in the ether. It may not have physical form to your eyes but it’s alive and has a will that is stronger than any physical force could ever be. I want you to all try this method today, close your eyes and ask your inner eye to show you the memory that needs your music.” Logan’s soothing voice had the whole class following his every instruction, without question. “When the memory presents, trust that it’s the one in need of a sound track. I want you to make sure you enter the memory dressed just as you are today. The easiest way to do that is to look down and check your shoes, freeze frame that memory, and while you’re in there, tell the you in that memory that you’re going to bring in some music that will help heal the emotion.”
If any other teacher had asked this of the class they would have been met with a few nervous giggles or groans of objection. However, every student did exactly as instructed. After a few minutes Logan asked them to open their eyes and begin.
Humming, tapping—of both feet and fingers, scribbling onto paper and shuffling the pages of their manuscript pads, the rest of the time in class flew by, the creative life-force that Logan had mentioned was on the move.
Beth started with the lyrics of her piece. The memory and emotions she had identified to work with, were a mixture of sadness and fear. Beth wrote the word “Dreams” at the top of the page. Her mind’s eye had taken her to the memory of the first time she had read E. B. White’s ‘Charlotte’s Web.’ She was very young, five or six years old and was lying on the camp stretcher in a sandy colored tent. She had just come to the part where Charlotte the spider dies and the tears were streaming from her eyes. Sobbing inconsolably, she had run through the campsite searching for her mother and father. The camp chef and a few of the dig site assistants were gathered around a barrel playing cards; they were all Mongolian and did not speak much English. One of the assistants raced after Beth holding out his arms to comfort her, but she was too quick for him and headed straight towards the square hole where her parents were working. Beth’s mother, Judy Harlow, hearing her cries, swiftly and nimbly climbed up the ladder and out onto the hot sand. Beth thrust herself into her arms.
“Darling whatever is the matter?” Judy asked her, looking over her shoulder at the assistant to see if he had any insights over the level of distress.
Beth’s sobbing made it difficult to understand her words. Her mother tried to interpret and thought she heard the word “spider”. Panic ensued, as spiders in this part of the desert could at times be the size of a dinner plate. Judy quickly checked all over Beth’s limbs,
“Is anywhere hurting? Have you been bitten?”
Beth shook her head.
“Can you go and check her tent please? I think there’s a spider in there,” she shrieked, making a crawling action with her fingers on the back of her hand to mimic a spider so that he could understand her request.
He ran back towards the group of men at the barrel, shouting the word “spider” in his language. The men picked up various implements from around t
he site including frying pans and shovels, then headed into Beth’s tent.
Beth looked up at her mother. She had calmed down enough now to speak. “No, you don’t understand,” Beth whispered, “the spider died…in my book.”
“Oh, darling girl,” she stroked Beth’s hair and rocked her soothingly; “I know you are sad but it was the spider’s time to go home. Dying is the right time to return home. You see, every living creature on this Earth has a time to be visiting here and a time for going home. With spiders I think that time is quite short, whereas we as humans and other creatures usually have a longer visit on Earth. It is only sad for those of us left behind because we miss the ones who go back home. But look at all the miracles that we are able to find from people who have been here before us and then died or returned to home.”
And that was how Judy Harlow explained death to a five-year-old.
Judy removed her broad-brimmed, beaten canvas hat and shook her blonde hair free from the topknot it had been in. “Okay, I might put tools down and come and listen to you read what happens next in your book. I think you’ll be very happy if you read through to the next part.”
Beth smiled, her awareness now back in the classroom, as she recalled the men exiting the tent empty-handed. Judy didn’t bother trying to explain the tragedy was in a book. She thanked them and quietly said to Beth, “Good practice in case there ever is a spider drama.”
Beth’s lyrics came easily onto the page and she reconfigured a couple of lines. Recalling conversations she and Judy had over the years about her seemingly constant state of day-dreaming, she recalled that Judy had always assured her that her imagination was a precious and rare gift and that someday, she would grow into it.
Likely was busy transcribing his piece and in what seemed like five minutes, the bell rang.
Logan announced as they were leaving the room, “You can have access to the Music Room and Studios at lunchtime and after school over the next week to bring your ideas to life.”
CHAPTER 11
Tunes
“Music is the shorthand of emotion”
– LEO TOLSTOY
The week leading up to the field trip was hectic as the scheduled classes for the Friday that was to be missed, had to be crammed into the other four days. Beth spent lunchtimes with Likely as he was helping her with the piano composition for her song. The first time Beth had overheard Likely playing his own piece she stood completely transfixed by the side of the stage as the music was so hauntingly tragic that she felt an enormous lump in her throat, goose bumps running up her arms as he reached a dramatic crescendo and then faded back out with a graceful end. How those mighty fingers were able to play with such dexterity was incredible. He was unaware that he had an audience and stopped the minute he saw Beth, closing the lid of the piano. Beth approached him her eyes brimming with tears.
“Likely that was absolutely breathtaking! Have you considered a title for this composition?”
His expression remained unchanged as he wrote in large scrawl with a fine black pen at the top of the manuscript the words, “Serpent’s Lament”.
It was an incredible piece of music and left you feeling that the story within was one that would require deep healing.
Beth’s little song had progressed to a sweet-sounding ballad. Alongside the piano, Likely had cleverly incorporated some strings and gentle percussion. Toby had been pestering her to come in while they recorded it and assist with the mixing desk.
“I don’t know how I feel about that Toby, it’s a bit awkward. My first song and I’m meant to be singing. Much as I love hanging out with you, I don’t know whether your presence would be a help or a hindrance. With Likely I can guarantee he keeps his thoughts to himself. He’ll write me a note with any feedback as he’s been doing during our sessions and I feel quite nervous enough as it is.”
“Come on, let me in, I’ll be the Sound Master, you know I love all the tech in the Studio. I may not play an instrument but I know my way around a Sound Desk better than anyone. Please, please, please! You will be in the vocal booth, you don’t even have to look at me, you can face the other way.” Toby pleaded unremittingly.
Beth let out a long sigh. “Okay, enough with the nagging, you can be the Sound Engineer. You can record Likely’s piece first; it is so unbelievably majestic that whatever mine comes out like, I’ll be forgiven because you’ll be reeling from his.”
“Excellent! Oh, I forgot to tell you I’ve been working on a ‘T.L.T. Tobify Life Trax’ for you. You’re gonna love it. I have about a million songs in my D.J.ing collection, a heap of old vinyls that my cousins from Ireland sent over to my brother, some from decades ago, and I’ve been putting together a Lady MacBeth mix.” Toby’s enthusiasm was infectious.
Beth smiled. “You and your funny Tobyisms! I wonder what tunes you’ll have in store for me.”
“Hey, I take this very seriously! I do T.L.T.s intuitively.” Toby continued, “I’m yet to mess one up. You wait and see the most amazing things happen—I’ll bump it on your phone and you’ll have background music for every occasion. I started making them a few years ago for Ronan as I felt music was the greatest gift for him in Afghanistan. He used to joke with me that I was sending him music to die to! Yet after he received about the fourth one he emailed me and said that every time he received one it had exactly the tunes he needed to get through whatever hell he was navigating at the time.”
“I’ll take your word for it Toby. I just need to remember to bring my phone along so I can listen to them. Come on, we had better go to the studio and see if Likely is ready. Has he ever performed at an assembly or anything during your other years at high school?” Beth asked.
“To tell you the truth when you said that Likely was in your Music class I was surprised. I’d never known him to have any interest in it. Mind you, before you came along, Beth, I just made peripheral observations, even of my fellow Rim and Pith dwellers. I kind of just kept to myself. I don’t know how, but you being here has made me look a bit deeper into shite…and I like it. I feel being your buddy has brought a whole new dimension to my world.” Toby’s voice petered out to a whisper, before seeming to catch himself being too soppy, and finishing on a much stronger tone, he added, “enough of that mushy shite, let’s get on with the recording of these masterpieces!”
“Don’t know about mine being a masterpiece but believe me, you are going to be blown away when you hear Likely play.” Beth led the way into the recording studio. Likely was already seated on the piano stool by the glossy black baby grand piano. The lid was down, and he looked up and nodded at them as they came in. His sheet music stood, neatly arranged on the music rack. His handwritten transposition of the notes was so incredibly precise it looked like a bought one.
Toby positioned the black condenser mic on its stand above the opening of the piano. Likely moved it a little to the left and looked sternly at Toby as if to remind him that this equipment wasn’t to be mucked about with.
“It’s all right buddy, you, like Beth, are going to have to trust me, even though I’m no muso I know the tech gear side—I promise!”
Toby went in behind the mixing console and started adjusting the levels. Beth watched from the side, amazed at the array of sliding buttons and gadgets.
“Okay, Likely, you can warm up a bit if you like. I’ll be ready in a minute or two. Watch for my hand signal, I’ll give you a thumbs up when I’m good to go.” Toby continued fiddling with the levels while Likely played some dynamic scales up and down the keys. After a few minutes Toby gave the sign and the masterpiece unfolded before their ears. The evocative C sharp minor key opened the piece with a slow and sustained building of depth with counterpoint movements joining in around it. Toby looked over at Beth and simply mouthed “Wow!”
The music then unexpectedly changed key whilst building to a crescendo. The piece then changed back to finish with the initial C sharp minor movement and a decrescendo to its ultimate finish.
Likely let th
e last chords ring out and gently closed the lid of the piano. He looked over at Toby to await any further instructions. Toby bounced out from behind the console and landed next to him. “Man, I had no idea you could play, let alone play like a freakin’ genius.”
Likley’s expression looked as close to a smile as they had ever seen. Beth had broken into a loud applause and wiped the tears that came down her cheeks. “I told you Toby, isn’t he absolutely amazing!”
Toby nodded in agreement. “You’re what we call a one take wonder. That’s a wrap. I’ll mix it down and that is ready. Stay there though, Likely, as we will get Beth into the recording booth now. Are you right to go straight into her song? Do you need the sheet music?”
“I think you’ll find that’s a no, as he composed most of the music for me around my simple words. I worked alongside him but he really owns the notes and phrasing, I just hummed my lyrics and the vocal line that I had worked on to him and he turned it into what you’re about to hear.” Beth stepped into the recording booth and Toby came in behind, giving her directions on where to stand and adjusted her mic, then handed her some large padded black vocal headphones.
“Now you can face the other way if you’re too nervous but it’ll be easier if you face me so I can give you cues, okay?” Toby added, “and try and relax, okay. From what you’ve told me it’s a ballad so think sweet thoughts and just chill.”
He closed the door behind him and Beth smiled through the glass at Likely who was sitting patiently on the piano stool looking unperturbed as usual. He gave her a thumbs up and then looked down at the keys and nimbly ran through some scales. Beth put herself through the series of warm up vocal exercises that Logan had taught them. It helped to clear her throat and her nerves as she concentrated on making the various sounds and mouth shapes.
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