Jace Coda, the cat from East Tontin, tapped his foot to the music, out of time with the rhythm.
He was the pianist, the only one in town with multi-coloured fur and a style just as creative. His nimble fingers zipped up and down the keyboard as though they had minds of their own. He watched his left hand bounce here, bounce there, climb up his favourite scale (dorian, of course) and descend. His right hand ran chromatically up the keyboard and teetered on the high notes, making them whistle like birds, then jumped back down into a chord. He had given his hands free reign to explore and express the energy of the moment. That was the joy of improvising - freedom for his instincts, a necessity for a cat. He could give voice to his emotions, strange as they were.
A wild emotion sprung through his right arm and his fingers flicked with the speed of a wasp wing. The piano sound yelped in delight. Jace couldn’t contain the smile as it quirked his lips. I’m on fire tonight, he thought.
He turned to Nils. The feline looked like he solved maths equations for a living, yet his command of the drum kit was unmatched. His sticks bounced on the hi-hat and struck the snare with flawless precision. The beat was so simple but ladden with groove. Jace could feel it in his bones. It made him want to get up and dance. Beside Nils, Cracker somehow strutted with his bass guitar even though he stood completely still. He wasn’t a big dog, and the bass guitar might have been taller than him if he stood it up, and yet the sound he produced belied his size. The bass line glued the music together, made it rock solid. Jace had invited these two tailfolk into his band for good reason: they were the best in Tontin.
And this was their first performance.
It was really happening. Finally! Excitement flashed through Jace’s body, fuelling the other emotions that were already present. His foot tapped faster, and his fingers darted about the keys with newfound electricity.
Cracker’s bass line reflected Jace’s growing energy. It had punch to it now, a punch that could do damage. But Nil’s beat was getting dangerously out of context, adding chaos to the music.
Jace’s heart pulsed like some wild thing. He watched his fingers with fervour in his eyes. They were getting desperate, trying to play more notes than they could handle. He tried to pull them away. To pull back the intensity. They moved sporadically as if in rebellion to his own will. It was like a musical paralysis, as if the emotions that gripped Jace needed to be expressed and witnessed and would do anything to have their way. He desperately tried to regain control, but his fingers were on a rampage.
He hit a wrong note. Then several more. His deeply rooted, crazy, anomalous emotions were too much for his ten fingers. He pried into that swollen tangle of feelings within his body, but it snarled back like a back-country hound with a bone. “Stop,” he heard himself say out of the woodwork of the wild music. It was no use. They didn’t stop. The music continued, if it could be called music at all. He didn’t know quite what it was, or how their groovy jam collapsed into such mayhem.
And then a giant dog stepped onto the platform. The drums stopped. Cracker’s bass bent its way out of the madness. Jace blinked, and in the confusion he managed to tear his hands away from the keyboard. It was like yanking magnets.
Pat, the owner of Quiet Bite, bristled. His restaurant spanned out behind him, caught in a stunned silence. All the diners stared at Jace.
“What in the name of Old George was that?” he growled, leaning toward Jace. His eyes bulged from their sockets. It was a wonder there was no steam trailing from his ears. Behind him, the diners hesitantly continued with their meals and conversations.
Jace spread his fingers out before him. His heart was still pulsing. “I’m sorry Pat. I’m… not sure what happened.”
“What do you mean you’re not sure what happened? What happened was that you played music that belongs in some smoky basement, and not in a fine dining restaurant!”
The big dog pulled back and sighed. A pained expression came upon his characteristically warm face. “I’m sorry Jace. I didn’t mean to get so angry. I do want to support you guys, but…” he surreptitiously looked over his shoulder, and then leaned in again, “look, I have an unexpected VIP guest - and I mean a very very important guest, dining here tonight. I just don’t think the music you just played isn’t suited for tonight. Please, just, tone it down, okay?”
Jace turned to Nils and Cracker. Nils was closely examining his snare drum, and Cracker was trying his best to hide behind his bass guitar. They are embarrassed. Jace formed a fist, but hid it beneath his Yarko keyboard and turned back to Pat.
“Okay Pat. We’ll play something a little less… crazy. Again, I’m really sorry.”
The big dog smiled. He was a friendly chap, and a keen patron of the Tontin music scene. “That’s what I like to hear Jace. Look, you are a very talented musician, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes music isn’t always about being in the spotlight. You have to know when to pull it back and be happy with simply providing the atmosphere.”
Jace ground his teeth. He worked hard to get where he was in the Tontin music scene specifically to be in the spotlight. It took several years of navigating the social alleyways of the music scene to be in a position to invite highly respected musicians like Nils and Cracker into his new musical endeavour, and it had finally come to fruition. This was meant to be his moment! He didn’t want to be in the background. Couldn’t the patrons enjoy a bit of local entertainment with their meal?
Pat continued: “Just take a minute to feel into the atmosphere of the restaurant, okay? And then you can play some more. I’m trusting you, Jace. I don’t want to be disappointed.”
“Sure,” Jace said. Pat nodded, adjusted his tie, and returned to attending his restaurant.
Jace felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Nils, reaching over the drum kit with a stick. He didn’t look very impressed. “Jace,” he said. “I get what you’re trying to do but, if I’m honest, it just isn’t working.”
Jace felt a stab in his gut. “It can work, we just need to be careful when the intensity picks up. What do you think, Cracker?”
The dog shuffled awkwardly. “Sorry Jace, but I’m with Nils on this one. It’s just… I think it’s too ambitious. What we just played is definitely not suited for a fine dining restaurant.”
Nils nodded. “Places like this want recognisable tunes, not musical gibberish.”
“Is that what you think it sounds like?” Jace asked, abashed. “Gibberish?”
“It’s just too different for this kind of restaurant, is what I’m saying.”
Jace turned away. He didn’t want to hear that from musicians he respected. These two were precisely who he needed to make his vision a reality - there was nobody else. This was a project to invent something new, something fiery to reinvigorate the Tontin music scene. The bitter truth was that the scene was dying, and somebody had to do something about it. This was Jace’s chance, to shock it back to life with new music. But gigs were few and far between these days, and Pat was the only one gracious enough to allow them to play in his establishment. Jace didn’t want to betray his trust.
He looked around Quiet Bite. The carpet was black, the high-back chairs red velvet, the curtains navy, the lighting low. The platform Jace’s band sat upon was in the corner, up from the romantically decorated tables where couples sat dining on the most exquisite dishes. Jace caught sight of a waitress gliding across the floor, head held high and eyes vigilant. Jace was a skilled waiter himself, but had recently left his job to pursue music full time. Most tailfolk believed that you couldn’t make a living as a musician, but he was adamant that it was possible, and that it was just a matter of hard work, discipline, and delicately manoeuvring through the social game. He was so close he could almost taste it. The waitress stopped at a table in the centre where a canine couple had just been seated. There was an air of supremacy about them, as if they owned the place. One of them must be the so-called ‘VIP’, Jace realised. The waitress presented a bottle of red wine and poured a drop into a glass. The male picked it up, swirled it, sniffed it, brought it to his lips. He waved the waitress and the bottle away. Jace shook his head. VIP Schme-i-p.
He turned back to his band. “Alright guys, I know that jam got a bit out of hand. But please, lets just give it one more go. More relaxed this time. I’m thinking something like track 4 on the record. Cool?”
Cracker blinked at him, his fingers braced and ready to play. “Alright Jace.”
“You’re telling us to play relaxed, but it was you that lost control there,” Nils said. “You need to be careful with what emotions you express.” He resigned into a playing position and readied his sticks. “We’ll give it one more go.”
Jace smiled. “Alright. Lets try to key of G Major.”
They nodded, and Nils tapped a tempo. Cracker closed his eyes, feeling the tempo, and then plucked at his bass strings. He started with a single note, then brought in another, bouncing between the two. Nils replaced his sticks with brushes and tapped his way into Cracker’s groove, starting slow and simple. Half time. Jace placed his hands on the keys and let the slow groove find its way into his body. And then he started playing, getting into the flow with chords in the key of G Major; chords he had worked out from the piano record ‘A Whale of a Time’ by Liquid Jones. It was music unlike anything he had heard before. They were chords that no other keyboard player in the Tontin scene had ever used. Granted, there weren’t whole lot of keyboard players or pianists in Tontin.
Jace relaxed into his chair and let his hands to the talking, making their steady movements across the keyboard. The music was smooth and gentle. It sounded like the process of leaves changing colour in Autumn. It was… slow. A little boring, perhaps. He felt into his emotions; they were stable, like Cracker’s bass line. Nils was right. He did need to be wary of those. His excitement was what derailed the previous jam. Emotions will always come to ruin a good thing, he thought.
He gazed out at the dining floor. There were plenty of diners. It was getting quite busy. And yet it was as if Jace and his band - three of the most skilled musicians in Tontin - didn’t exist at all, like they were merely a trio of spiders disregarded and waving their forelegs in their own little corner. He eyed the VIP guests, their heads turned slightly away from Jace and his band. It was not uncommon for tailfolk of Tontin’s upper class to dislike live music for whatever ridiculous reason. It was them with their intensive money-making campaigns who were killing the Tontin music scene by stealing the good venues, buying them out one at a time. Jace hardly noticed the anger that spiked its way from within and through his arms and into his fingers. He jabbed the keys. The VIP didn’t turn. Nor did anybody else. He turned to Nils and gestured with a pointed finger. Nils shook his head. ‘Double time swing,’ Jace mouthed. Nils shook his head. Jace glared at him. ‘Double time swing!’ he insisted with wider mouth movements. Nils furrowed his brow. He did as instructed.
A new liveliness lifted the jam. Cracker didn’t look impressed, but adjusted his bass line to keep up with Nils’ new beat. Jace turned back to his keyboard, a smug tingle to his whiskers. Now it’s time to show that VIP the meaning of music. He straightened his back and relaxed his hands. The force within him, the source of all his emotions, grabbed hold of the reins again and his fingers went from swaying aimlessly to moving with intent. His eyes darted to the VIP. The dog still didn’t turn to regard him and his new band. Come on. More fire! He gave his emotions more control. They grew thicker within him - the frustration of feeling forgotten in the corner, the anger at these co called ‘VIP’s for stealing the music scene from the good tailfolk of Tontin, the eagerness to be seen and to be heard!
His fingers became frantic, taking the music into avant-garde territory.
The VIP sipped his wine and puckered his lips.
Jace started hammering chords that didn’t fit, over and over and over.
Finally, the VIP turned. He had a blank look on his face. Jace loosened his grip on the chord and watched as the VIP stood from his chair and walked toward their little platform. He turned to the wall, bent down, and ripped the power chord from the socket.
The keyboard died. The bass died. The drums crashed on for another few seconds before halting. An awful silence followed.
But not within Jace.
“What are you doing?” he cried, standing so abruptly that his chair crashed against the floor.
The VIP came close, rotten anger sagging on his rotund canine face. “Me and my wife are trying to enjoy a night out, and you are making the experience unbearable!” he barked.
Jace was aghast. His emotions, now unable to surge through his hands, surged upward and through his mouth. “Hound! You can’t just turn the power off and stop the music!”
“I can, actually, and I did. The sound you are making is chaotic and distasteful. Either learn to play good music or get a real job.”
Jace’s emotions flared. “You… Who do you think you are? It’s because of mongrels like you that Tontin is losing its soul. All you care about is your money making machines that are burying real music. Live. Music!” His vision became hazy as the emotions billowed out of control.
“Do you know who you are calling mongrel, boy?” The dog loomed. He was bigger than Jace realised.
“You’re just another upper class hound,” Jace quipped.
“I am the Mayor of Tontin!”
Hands grabbed Jace from behind. He turned frantically, trying to swing with his arms but failing. An even bigger dog stood there, face grim, giant figure bearing down on him. The brute had been sitting at a table, another guest ignoring Jace’s new music. “Let go of me!” Jace commanded. The dog tightened his grip.
Pat stumbled over tables and chairs to reach the commotion. “Jace! This is absolutely disgraceful,” he boomed. “You are behaving like a feral kitten!” Pat turned to the Mayor, who had retreated back to his chair. His wife held him. “I am so very sorry sir. This behaviour, I don’t know what to say.”
Jace quivered as the emotions drained out of him, back into the abyss from which they came. That strange place he never understood. Only numbness remained, and only then did the extent of this disaster dawn on him.
Pat turned to him. “I let you into my restaurant, and this is what you do. I could lose my beloved business because of you.” His eyes were full of pain as he looked to the dog holding Jace in an arm lock. “Throw him out of here.” Jace didn’t struggle when he was picked up. What was the point? All was lost.
“The entire town will know of this, boy,” he heard the Mayor say from behind him as the back door grew closer. “Good luck getting a real job now. Freak show.”
The door was shoved open, and the cold wet ground rushed toward him, brutally unsympathetic as it knocked the wind from his lungs. His tail curled around him as if to protect against the drizzle of the unfriendly night. “Pitiful,” the dog spat before shutting the door. Jace glanced hopelessly after him, and saw Nils and Cracker come bursting out.
“I can’t believe you Jace,” Nils said. “You just killed the Tontin music scene.”
Jace raised his head. “What? No…” he mumbled. He couldn’t see their faces. His band mates just stood above him like strange, angry creatures. What have I done…
“Yes. The Mayor said that he’s done with gigs after seeing your tantrum.”
“My career is ruined because of you Jace,” Cracker said in a shaky voice. It sounded like he was about to cry. “I have bills to pay. I have a family to feed!”
The puddle splashed as his head fell back into it. His ‘band mates’ were reduced to the sounds of footsteps in the cold, dark alleyway, disappearing behind him.
This is the end. I’ve lost. I’ve lost everything, Jace thought. I’m pathetic! I’m worthless!
Another figure framed the back door of the restaurant. Jace turned to see the big dog again, this time hauling his keyboard. He hefted it out as if it was log of wood.
“No!” Jace cried, lunging for his Yarko. He caught it just in time, crashing into a mound of rubbish bags. It cushioned his fall, but one of the bags split in the process. He tumbled over it and rubbish gauged out, a foul mess of food waste of refuse. At least he saved his keyboard. And… the dog had put it back in its case, which was an odd relief.
After all of his efforts, all his plans and careful calculations, his years of practice, this is where he ended up, curled around his only keyboard, forgotten in a dark alleyway, stewing in a pile of trash. It really was the end. What was he meant to do now? He had just ruined everything. Everything! What gig could he possibly get? The two best musicians in Tontin had forsaken him. The very Mayor of Tontin had seen him for what he truly was: an emotional mess. A worthless, pitiful cat who couldn’t control his own emotions. He wouldn’t even be able to get a job. His reputation…
He rolled over and pushed himself to his knees. A crumpled paper laying beside him in the pile of trash caught his eye. It was soaked by the rain, and it flopped as he unfolded it.
On it was a picture of a beautiful white sand beach, crumpled between jungle and ocean. ’Live your dream, live the Island Life,’ it read, as if speaking directly to Jace. ‘Escape the hustle and bustle, escape the city! Paradise awaits.’ Jace blinked twice. And then blinked again. He brought his knees closer and crouched in the rain, trying to straighten the flyer out more. It tore like a biscuit dropped in a cup of tea. He pulled the lower half closer to his eyes. “Live and work on Pecan Island,” he read through his lips.
His hands were shaking. He folded the sodden piece of paper as delicately as he could and tucked it into his pocket. It was the worst moment of his life, and yet, it was the same moment he had found a way out; a way into the future he so desperately hoped for.
Out of the trash bag had come his salvation.
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