Well, maybe if I put the chord in second inversion, it then... no, wait, that'll screw up the phrasing in the basses... okay, but then I can just raise their harmony by a fifth here, but... no, damnit! Screw it, I'm getting nowhere. Move on to something else.
And with that, another twelve bars of Calvin's
Sonata for Sahndra
were reduced to empty staves. Her melody sang off the page with mediocrity, and the harmony was becoming just as obscure and forgettable with each new note. Progress had ceased long ago to make anything about Sahndra a lasting memory. Perhaps
Theme and Variations on Samuel
would yield better prospects tonight.
Alright, I can rewrite that later. Fine. But this phrase isn't right, either. The horns, maybe I can take their countermelody and put it in the bassoons too... yeah, that works, okay... no, now I can't hear the ostinato in the violas... wait, no, I need the bassoons for the reintroduction of Samuel's theme here... and I can use the clarinet for Sahndra's theme again... fuck, no, I can't. The meters are wrong. I don't have them in compatible meters? How the fuck did I manage that?!
Once again, Calvin highlighted a legion of bars and swiftly pressed Delete. Twenty four measures stared back at him now, their emptiness mocking him, a reminder his waning talent. This night was unusually counterproductive; he could usually write more than he deleted in an evening of work. To continue any further would undoubtedly result in deleting the entire project. He needed out.
"Forget it. I'm done. Fuck this; I'll deal with it in the morning. I... I just can't."
File, Save, Exit. No more. His laughable attempts at writing were more raucous with each night wasted in his studio. Fine, no more music for the night. What now? Calvin's inbox blinked its silent taunt, no doubt the producer again, demanding a status update, repeating a film deadline, restating contract bylaws, and more rhetoric that mattered not. No, the inbox and its incessant blink can be ignored. Start, Shut Down.
Writing film scores made sense five years ago. It gave Calvin a way to actually
use
his degree. Nobody can make a living from a composition otherwise. People don't commission symphonies, operas, concertos. The music
industry
had no room for creativity. The music
business
was an assembly line of faceless icons, shoved down the line as auto-tune assembled the various parts in to three minutes of airtime between commercials. But film? Sure, it is just another business, but at least it offers a chance for creativity, if it is only forgotten in the background to the moving pictures and partial nudity.
Calvin once had that creativity. The independent directors loved him for it. Calvin embellished the independence of the director's vision, the actors' talent. He had his outlet, and he had his paycheck. A month later, it was a new director, a new cast, and the same story told in a new way that was already old. But Calvin's music was always new, and creative, and
independent.
That's the word the industry tossed back to him with every rejection letter: independent. It was their way of reminding Calvin that, no, he will never be working for people with wealth.
Maybe if he looked like the rest of the corporate jack-offs someone would give him a chance. The
trendy
goatee and sideburns could go first, cleaning him up. Then he could go nuts, cutting off his ragged blonde hair to a short middle part. Ditch the gunmetal frames for contacts, trade T-shirts and boot cut jeans for dress shirts and khakis, finally buy shoes that cover his feet, and he'd be set; Calvin would be just another member of the faceless cast. Yeah, that's what holds him back: his looks, not his skill.
"Ugh, damn... when did I eat last?"
Noon? ...last Wednesday? Oh well, after a full day of rigorously writing a score, then rigorously deleting half of that score, perhaps a man does deserve a meal. Gino's has good chicken. Good wine, too. Except...
"...fuck."
When the hell did midnight get here? Had Calvin really wasted twelve hours in his studio with that passionless sonata? Fine, whatever. No Gino's. No wonderful chicken. He should have stopped writing sooner.
Much
sooner. Not only would he have a stomach full of over-priced food, but there would be much more music that would have survived the holocaust of Calvin's self-criticism. Who the hell is open after midnight? Right, it's a Friday: Jonny B's. It will do. Food is food, and cheap beer is better than another night spent sober. Coat, cap, keys, and out the door.
Jonny B's served Calvin on many overworked nights and on many more underworked nights. The freelance lifestyle lets him live like a child lives every weekend: sleeping in, no need for any habits or routine. But the world doesn't operate on a freelance schedule. The shiny land of fluorescent lights and warehouse ceilings was forbidden territory. The realm of the suburban elite was taboo. But bars and nightclubs, those catered to Calvin's life, Jonny B's especially. Of all the bars in the city, it was the closest.
Fuck, really cold out. I need a better coat. And a warmer city. Oh, an actual career while we're at it, too. How about just a better life? Yeah, I should do the trick. Ugh.
Calvin never liked the cold. Who the hell would? It's so damn... cold. Florida beaches, tropical sunshine, unchanging climate. That was the way to live. Not this wind and ice shit. Why the hell did he move north? Oh, right, Cassandra. Now
that
was among his bigger mistakes.
She
liked the north.
Her
family was in the north. And
he
was dumb enough to follow her north. Eh, well, she was very persuasive. And she had the money. And she was hot. Those were reason enough after college; it's not like he had anywhere better to be. Oh, yeah, and the love thing. That too.
A cigarette. That would make life better, for two minutes. Click, ignite, breathe deep. Much better, and not as cold. Thinking about Cassandra always sucked less when he smoked. Maybe it's because she hated when Calvin smoked. Defying her, even after two years, still felt good. Bitter. That's a good word for it. But she left him. He earned it. Struggling artist is not as glamorous as she wanted to believe it to be. Finally, she gave up trying, love be damned. Financial stability carries more honor than a soul mate. At least that's the summary of her reasons why Todd was better suited for her attention and affection. Whatever.
Damn. Cigarette's gone. Flick aside, embers die. Just one block left, and Jonny B's could warm him up again. Maybe just the chicken fingers tonight. Cheap and filling. No, the trash fries. A pile of potato, cheese, and bacon. Calories would make him feel better. Empty, meaningless calories. And beer. And a shot. Two shots. Fuck, it's going to be one of those nights, isn't it?
At least the city is gorgeous. Calvin would always concede to that point. Crap may always pile up, but walking downtown seemed to glaze over the crap if he walked long enough. The city, like all others, had a soul, its own themes and harmony. But it was better here. The best that Calvin had known. So why the hell did it have to be so damn cold? Still, this city has much culture, and so much life. During the day, at least, there was life. The nights were still, calm, silent. Silence had special meaning for him. In a life of constant noise and sound, someone quickly learns how beautiful silence can be.
That could solve his problems. A score of silence. Sahndra and Samuel could court to Calvin's silent serenades. Print off empty staves, hand them to the producer, and profit.
"Hah! Awesome plan."
Meh, whatever. Ten feet away are the neon sign, the solid oak door, and the recorded jazz echoing in to the street: Jonny B's had arrived before him. Salvation for the night. Friday, though; he'd have to fight for a seat at the bar. Maybe a booth wasn't a bad idea, anyway. Then he could hide from the world, out in plain sight. No patron feels the need to share woes and troubles when Calvin tucks himself in to a booth. But the beer would take longer. After two blocks of cold wind and familiar depressions, beer now mattered more than food. Funny how that works. A seat at the bar it is, thankfully uncrowded as it was.
"Coors Light, a shot, and some trash fries, when you're free, James."
Soon enough, he would have his heavy buzz, full stomach, and ears full of the same recorded jazz tracks. The jazz was a comfort to Calvin. It was a reminder that some people still enjoyed
real
music. Not a lot of people, though. Just enough to matter. It was the art of improvisation, that's what hooked him. It was lost to Calvin. He tried, he studied, he practiced. He wasn't great on piano, but was better than most. Improvisation, though? Never. Could not do it. He lacked the creativity for it.
Hmph, now isn't that just the perfect picture for the night? Lacking creativity. It's why I'm here, and not in the studio writing. Not one original thought left. Nothing left but stealing old ideas. Eh, I could do that; recycle old scores. They'd never know it if I did. It's not like anyone ever sees these damn movies, let alone listens to the scores. Not a damn soul would know.
Except Calvin. He would know. Despite the beneficial ease of this master plan, he knew he couldn't do it. It's true: not a damn soul in the world would ever know that all the harmonies, the motifs, the themes were all the same as the fluff he wrote for
Taking Back Solina
, or the crap he orchestrated for
Lost in the Twilight of Harvest
. The director would love his
originality
in the sound, the producer would shout how much he loved it. But Calvin would know. He would know that it was not an original score. He would know that he had finally tapped his finite resources. He would know that there was nothing left of himself.
"Thanks, James."
Finally, food and beer. Some of the last comforts left to Calvin. No matter how shitty the day had been, or how little work he had accomplished, a large plate of calorie-enriched food and a cold glass of alcohol could make the world a tranquil place once again. If only for fifteen minutes, the world surrendered to
his
