A02 – Friend
xxx_Frankie-Boi_76_xxx: That time in the bar - did you ask him what the idea was?
J2D4-inglz.1690: not in so many words
xxx_Frankie-Boi_76_xxx: Meaning what?
J2D4-inglz.1690: meaning that I did not ask him
xxx_Frankie-Boi_76_xxx: So what’d you say?
J2D4-inglz.1690: that I liked the juxtaposition
xxx_Frankie-Boi_76_xxx: www…./j0js
J2D4-inglz.1690: is that supposed to be funny?
xxx_Frankie-Boi_76_xxx: Supposedly so
B02 – Digital Is Better
Yesterday Jules and I went to the local park. It was a beautiful day. The sun was bright and warm.
A gentle breeze carried the smell of cut grass and flowers and what was probably dog poo.
For as long as we could remember, our idea of a nice afternoon has never changed.
Back when we were young, we used to run extension cords from the house into the garden so we could listen to music outside.
Later on, when record players became portable, or according to some were replaced by music cassettes and even compact discs, all that meant we were more flexible with regards to our night camps. A blanket to sit on, record player with a handful of batteries, maybe some books.
It wasn't enough for a party, there's only so much sound that can come out the little device whose main purpose was to play records.
Then again, we came out here for a pleasant afternoon, not a rock concert.
A short while after a group of youths settled in nearby. They weren't within hearing distance as far as talking to each other goes, but they made sure to bring equipment to bridge that gap.
They all carried around some kind of miniature Walkman, barely larger than a pack of smokes, and a couple of we assumed to be battery powered speakers.
The whole group would stare into their laps, occasionally argue over who gets to play a song next. Since they had available what translated into, from what we could make out, at least two separate independent sound systems, that battle was ongoing.
"Remember how I used to try and talk your old man into buying a second record player back in the day?" I asked Jules.
"I do.." she drifted off and started to smile before continuing.
“I also remember how frustrated you got when with every attempt, more elegant and thought out than last one, his response always remained same:
'Son - now I know you're not my son - but if you don't have time between two records, or two sides of one and the same, you am curious as to how you find the time to listen to any music at all.
That's what my gramps always used to tell me when I was a kid. And now I'm telling you...'"
"That was my least favourite part... even as I came to see it with his point of view... and even though I knew he made the whole thing up, as if the mere mention of a grandparents emphasises the point... we were so easily convinced back then, weren't we?"
Jules just giggled.
"Are kids still like that nowadays?
I have no idea.
Though it seems they got louder than we were. Must be all that electricity - it amps them up.
Maybe that also gives them the power to stand-up when their friend's father's trying to have them on.”
"You can go over there and ask them..."
"You know what?
I just might..." I got up and strolled over to the kids.
"Yo kids!" I figured that's a reasonable way to address them - but judging by their reaction one of the two words was out of place.
"I don't know much about music, especially the kind that you're listening to...
But it's very interesting to me how short some of the songs are...."
"They're not short." One looked at me as though I'd called the music he listens to the worst thing to ever reach my ears.
"We like to listen to the good bits..." another added.
"You know like a DJ doesn't play whole songs - just the best parts?" a third one chimed in, or maybe it was the first one. I couldn’t tell. I was focusing on the music and what the second guy said. Confused.
"So you are a DJ?" I tried to smile friendly.
"Naw. Just chillin'..."
I picked up one of their speaker-thingies. Sure seemed more handy than our setup.
"Hope you don't mind..."
"It's cool - just don't break it, man..."
I had no such desire.
"You know, my friend , and I were just talking about how much easier this seems compared to schlepping around a bag of vinyl.
Can you tell me how this all works?"
They were kind enough to explain how they would connect their mobile phones without cables to the speakers and take turns playing music.
Sometimes they would not even have the music on the device itself, but receive it through the phone connection so to speak, which could be a bit shit, they admitted, before shrugging it off as a matter of what-can-you-do.
And if the juice ran low, they brought these power banks they could hook up to either part of their sound system.
I thanked them for the information and told them that even though their solution seems a light version of ours it turned out to be a lot more complicated and ultimately not really better than what we already had.
"What you mean complicated, man?" one asked.
"What I mean is that it just really seems a terrible hassle."
They looked unconvinced.
"When we got here a while back, I slipped on a record, placed the needle and we had just about reached the end of the A-Side."
I saw Julie had flipped the disc over while I was over here.
"So?"
"Means she didn't have to deal with picking track by track and got to enjoy the music instead."
"Must be a good record then, eh?"
He sounded a bit too snarky for my liking, then again, he probably felt the same way about me.
I chose to ignore his remark, figuring they were not interested in me going on about Subtenegra’s latest record.
"My uncle used to tell me that unless I took the time to listen to music, I would not be able to appreciate it. And that if I could not do that, I shouldn’t bother.
The thing about my uncle, though, is that most of the time he was talking out of his arse...
So, there's that, too..."
"What's your point, man?"
"It's funny how in this situation we have three generations of music lovers with three different approaches.
And all three probably think their way is the best."
"Like he said, what's your point, dude?" Neither of boys seemed to find it particularly funny, if anything they seemed increasingly annoyed by my presence.
"I guess my point is there is no right or wrong way. As long as what you get out of it was you desire you probably do something right."
With the conversation having more than run its course, I made my way back over to Julie.
*
Later that day, when I got home, I did some research. I had put it off long enough.
Many years ago Julie had told us the story of her encounter with James.
I had at the time not paid much mind to him. It wasn't until I felt I met someone like him that I asked her to paint a picture of him. She refused.
That was the only other time I had asked her to paint something for me.
Months later she sent me a poem called “Reflection (and a black cat)”, she wrote it was the closest she ever got to finishing the painting.
At the end of the evening, I felt pretty confident about my detective work.
*
A few days later, I invited Julie for a cup of coffee and showed her the pencil sketch I had made.
"How?" she exclaimed. I had seen her surprised, confused, flabbergasted and perturbed.
But never in that combination of shocked and amazed.
"This makes no sense.... "
Julie was at a complete loss for words.
"Let's just say there's a reason the time we're living in is called the information era.
I trust you don't want to know any more."
"You are right. I do not."
I took out my lighter and let its flame eat away at the drawing. There was nothing else I could do.
At various points in life I had thought I was born in the wrong time. Centuries too late or just a few years too early. In this moment however I felt things lined up.
Maybe if I were younger, I would have insisted on telling Julie how by studying her herpal story I was able to deduce the identity of James. And that by mere chance I had found out about his fate.
I did consider telling T. the full story. Perhaps he would find solace in the fact that the asshole he insists fucked up his love life suffered what could be construed as karmic retribution.
Then again, would it change anything?
Epilogue
Many years after the events depicted in this book, I received a large envelope in the mail. There was no return address but from the postmark I could tell it travelled a long way to reach me.
Inside was a pencil drawing showing a mostly empty room I had never seen before. Nothing else.
To this day I have no idea who this was from and why it was sent to me.
But there was something I liked about it. So much so that I used it as a cover my latest novel.
Thanks
M. I. N.
For doing one hell of a job helping me edit this
D. O. G.
For the expertise
N. W. Kh.
For so much more than I care to list here
Special Thanks
Everyone who encouraged me to pursue a career in music journalism:
“Art is its own critic – everything else is just entertainment.”
Afterword
In a world where hyper-realism – whether it is an ultra-accurate visual representation or having every last of piece information revealed and explained – is almost inescapable, I set out to write a book that is as diametrically opposed as I could imagine.
There are a million things I could say here - none of it would answer your questions.
And even if - my answers would tell you nothing.
Instead - your questions will tell you about yourself.
Like
a reflection
of a reflection
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