Ever since that conversation with Etsuko, I was haunted by the question, “What’s the point of making music?” It was something I’d never even thought about before.
Maybe haunted is the wrong word—I wasn’t fretting over it or anything. But I kept thinking about it and came to the conclusion that I didn’t understand anything.
When I watched him play the bass, I didn’t simply lose myself in the music like I had before. I started to pay careful attention to his expressions, his mood, and the emotions he was conveying.
One day, he was trying to compose when he hit a wall and got really upset. He was about to slam his bass against the floor when Yasu—Atsushi Yasunaga, Stray Fish’s guitarist and his closest friend—stopped him. After that, he sat at the counter, sulking and drinking.
When he was in a good mood, he always used to say, “What’s the point of life if you can’t enjoy a drink?” But I noticed he drank more when he was in a bad mood.
Yasu leaned against the wall, idly playing arpeggios on his acoustic guitar. The sounds he made were calming, as if he was trying to soothe his friend’s frustration.
He gulped down his beer restlessly and stared at a fixed point in front of him. He continued this endlessly, his face etched with anger.
When I thought about it, I realized he really only talked when he was in a good mood and playing well.
Now, he was pouting like a child, looking like he wanted to say something, but refusing to open his mouth, stirring himself up into an even worse mood.
“Hey…What are you thinking about right now?” I asked.
Yasu stopped playing guitar and looked at me in surprise. But in the end, he just grinned at me and went back to playing.
He seemed surprised too, but he wasn’t able to wipe the sour look off his face and merely raised his eyebrows.
“What’s with the sudden question?” he muttered, his voice low. “I’m thinking about the song.”
“Well, if you’re so pissed off you’re ready to throw your instrument, you should probably quit for the day.”
“What’s quitting gonna do? I don’t have time to sulk in bed.”
“If you don’t have time to waste, what are you doing sitting around sulking and drinking?”
I heard Yasu snort, and he quickly turned and glared at him. Yasu just shrugged and continued to play.
“I think while I’m drinking!”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why I asked what you were thinking about.”
“I’m thinking about the song.”
“What about it?” I asked curiously.
“Huh?” he said, raising his voice like he was trying to intimidate me. But then, he looked around, like he wasn’t sure what to say. “Well…all kinds of stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Emotions, momentum, stuff like that. Ah, dammit!” He stood up in frustration, and grabbed the bass from its stand, where Yasu had returned it.
“Don’t go throwing it around and breaking it, okay?” Yasu said.
“Shut up!” he shot back as he touched the instrument’s strings.
He was intoxicated, his face flushed, but the moment he took the bass in his hands, he straightened up. Every time I witnessed that moment, I shivered with anticipation and drew in my breath.
When he plucked the strings with a sharp twang! it felt like the whole garage shook. How could he produce such a powerful sound with his amp unplugged? The note was sharp, but his expression remained calm. He appeared to be thinking, but at the same time, it was as though his head was empty. Despite being visibly grumpy moments before, his negative emotions seemed to vanish, and now he played with a flat expression on his face. It was like his essence had slipped out of his body and taken up residence in the bass.
He played a few random tunes, then quietly set it down.
“I thought I’d make more progress playing than thinking, but guess I was wrong,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically weak. Then, he stumbled toward the garage door, like he’d lost all interest. “I’m going to bed.”
“I thought you didn’t have time to sit in bed and pout,” I said.
“Shut up. I’m not gonna accomplish anything unless I get some sleep.”
He slammed the door, leaving Yasu and me alone in the garage. We exchanged glances, and then Yasu chuckled softly.
“Don’t take everything he says seriously. It’ll just wear you out,” he said, taking his guitar off his shoulder. “He means what he says, but his words can’t keep up with his emotions.”
“His words can’t keep up with his emotions,” I murmured, thinking over what Yasu had just said.
He nodded and glanced at the bass, now on its stand. “Yeah. That’s why it’s easier for him to express himself through his music.”
He and Yasu had been friends since high school, so Yasu must’ve known him a lot better than I did. Now that I thought about it, I’d never seen the two of them argue, though he bickered with Etsuko all the time.
Yasu was a hard person for me to understand. He always wore a vague smile, but it was hard to tell what he was really thinking. I guess they were similar in that way. But Yasu was kind to everyone, which was nothing like him. Yasu seemed so mature.
“I wonder what he thinks about when he plays,” I murmured, and Yasu chuckled.
“Who knows?” he said, glancing at me. “Are you curious because you want to know where he gets his sound?”
“Yeah.”
“Ha-ha. All you think about is music, Risa,” he said with a laugh. “Rather than him, you’re more interested in his sound, huh.”
“I want to be able to make music like his. And…Etsuko’s been really worried lately, so I’ve been thinking about that, too.”
“Hmm,” Yasu said. I’d brought up two topics at once, and he didn’t seem to know what to make of it. He gestured toward a barstool, so I sat down beside him. “First of all, I want to make this clear.” His voice was gentle, but what he said next shocked me. “No matter how much you practice, your music will never sound the same as his, Risa.”
“What?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“You love music,” he continued, “just like Etsuko does.”
He made it sound like Yasu and him were different.
“If you play music just because you enjoy it, you won’t be able to produce a sound like his,” he said firmly.
“How can you be so sure about that?” I said, starting to get worked up.
“No reason. I just feel it in my bones. There are plenty of other great bass players out there. But I’ve never heard anyone who can produce a sound like his.”
His gaze was soft and kind. “So…you should work on producing a sound unique to you.”
“My own sound…” I didn’t quite understand. I’d been trying to mimic his sound for as long as I could remember.
“And…about Etsuko being worried… Well, I guess everyone can see that.”
“She said the same thing to me.”
“Huh?”
“She said choosing music and having nothing but music are different, or something. I dunno, I didn’t really understand.”
Yasu’s eyes widened in surprise, and his gaze wavered for a moment like he was confused. Then, he brushed it off with a laugh. “Ha-ha. Etsuko said that, huh? Well, I guess she’s right—you definitely chose music, Risa.” He nodded a few times before sighing. “Well… If you wanna understand how Yuugo feels, maybe you should try composing.”
I blinked. “C-composing?”
“Yeah. Right now, he’s hit a wall. He used to be able to churn out song after song as easy as breathing, but suddenly he’s struggling. He’s confused. If you want to figure out how he’s feeling, maybe you should try putting yourself in his shoes.”
After making this suggestion, Yasu stood up and went over to the wall where he’d left his guitar case. He took a stack of papers from the case, then came back and held them out to me.
“I’ve got just the thing. I wrote out the guitar parts myself.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. Since he was stuck, I thought I’d give it a try, but he turned me down.”
“Oh…”
Yasu was smiling, but I felt sorry for him. He was really picky, and he hardly ever listened to other people’s opinions.
“Try coming up with a bass part for this song. If it turns out well, he might even play it.”
I imagined him playing a song I wrote. It sounded wonderful to me, though I couldn’t put into words how or why.
“Oh… Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.” Yasu looked at my face and quickly shook his head. “Don’t focus on him playing it. Think of playing it yourself.”
“…I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Sure ya can. Anyone who can hum a tune can make a song.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not! I really believe that. Humming a little tune to yourself and thinking, ‘Hey, I just made up a song!’ is the best way to make music. Once you have knowledge and technical skill, you start putting too much thought into it, and you lose all that freedom.” His tone was joking, but the last part seemed more directed at himself and him than at me. He let out a self-deprecating chuckle, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled sadly. “Don’t worry too much and just make a song. Enjoy playing the bass and making music,” he said, handing me the guitar scores.
I took them and nodded. “Okay. I’ll give it a try.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to seeing what kind of song you’ll come up with.”
“I doubt it’s gonna be anything amazing.”
“It doesn’t have to be amazing.” He smiled and ruffled my hair.