“How do you get it to sound so good?” I asked him one day. No matter how much I practiced and how calloused my hands got, I never felt like I was getting any closer to the sounds he made. His bass was powerful, beautiful, earth-shaking.
His music always felt like it was roaring.
It was completely different from the thin, hollow sounds I produced.
He sat on a bar stool, drinking a bottle of Heineken. “Hmmm. Maybe you need to be happier, or sadder, or angrier?” he said, then broke into a smile.
I didn’t understand what he meant. I felt like he wasn’t taking me seriously, and it frustrated me.
“Stop being random,” I said, annoyed.
He shrugged. “It’s not random. Strong emotions contribute to your sound. Risa, you’re still struggling to learn how to play, and you can’t convey emotions yet. But sound without emotion is nothing but a symbol.”
“What do you mean, a symbol?”
“Something anyone can write and understand.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I’d be worried if you did get it at your age. It’s okay if you don’t understand yet.”
“But I wanna get better.”
“Keep practicing, and you will. Just keep playing. Live your life,” he said, drinking his beer with satisfaction. “If you live your life, one day it’ll become music.”
Back then, I was too young to understand what he meant. I thought he was just making up a random answer, so I’d leave him alone.
But the older I got, the more sense it made.
When I was happy, my music had a lightness to it. When I was upset, it would sound rough. And when I wanted to cry, I would pick up my bass and play instead. On days like that, my music sounded somehow more solemn.
I gradually came to understand how emotions were connected to music.
And yet, his music remained a mystery to me.
What kind of emotions allowed him to play such powerful music? When he wasn’t playing the bass, he was just a helpless adult. He’d drink alcohol and snore as he slept. He couldn’t cook at all, and his partner took care of everything for him. He’d watch music shows on TV and complain, “This stuff is all garbage. Just superficial trash!” as if his way of making music was the only right one.
I’d get tired of his comments…but every time he played, I had to admit I liked his music the best.
Music was all he had. That was probably why his sound was so appealing.
But by the time I realized that…everything was already gone.
✦ ✦ ✦
I could hear the tapping of drumsticks against rubber downstairs. The rhythm was awkward, but it kept repeating. I could tell that the person making the sound was in deep concentration.
I lay on the living room sofa and played with my retractable box cutter, but in the end I put it away without doing anything.
The tapping made me restless.
It felt strange to hear the electronic drums that Etsuko, who was like an older sister to me, used to play.
I closed my eyes and listened to the shaky rhythm coming from downstairs. And as I listened, I felt myself drifting off to sleep.
As my consciousness faded, I remembered Etsuko’s pained smile as she said,
✦ ✦ ✦
“I guess it’s not enough to just have fun…”