My first attempt at composing was incredibly exciting. I’d always played songs by my favorite artists—like Stray Fish—by ear, and I’d never even thought about composing my own music. So, there was a certain joy in realizing I could take the song in any direction I wanted.
And I had Yasu’s guitar scores as a starting point, so I wasn’t completely on my own. Yasu had only written chords for a lot of it, but the parts he was most interested in were clearly notated, so I decided to add bass lines that matched the guitar rhythm.
For a while, I lost myself in composing. I had my own band back then, and I even played some of it for the other members. I had our guitarist play the part Yasu wrote, but it was so difficult she was in total agony. I’d almost forgotten Yasu was a pro musician. I was always listening to Stray Fish play, so I didn’t have a good grasp of how difficult any of it was.
It took about two weeks, but I finally finished my first original bass score.
Personally, I thought I’d taken a long time, but Yasu looked shocked when I handed it to him.
“Huh? You’re done already?!” He told me he’d expected it to take me at least a month or two. “That’s amazing. I wonder if it’s because you’re young…” He flipped through the score, an odd look on his face. Occasionally, he would say, “Ohh…” or “Hmm…” Then, he stood up and said, “Yeah, all right! You wanna try it out?”
My heart skipped a beat. “What? Now?”
“Yeah, why not? You wrote it to be played, didn’t you? It’d be a waste not to. Haven’t you practiced it?”
“Well, I played as I composed, so I shouldn’t have a problem, but…”
“Then we’re all good. Let’s go.”
I’d had fun composing, but playing something I’d written in front of Yasu made me really nervous.
Yasu gave me the cue, “One, two, three!” Then, we both started playing.
His sound was sharp and cool. The score only had chords written down, but his playing sounded so lively. I added more force to create a thicker sound, paying close attention, so I didn’t sound sloppy.
Yasu’s technique exploded during the guitar solo. I could hear hammer-ons, pull-offs, trills, choking, and much more. He flew through techniques so rapidly that, as an amateur, it was hard for me to identify them all.
He was so cool. I’d watched him play a lot, but today was different. He usually strove to complement his sound, but today Yasu was really pushing his own performance to the front. I’d never heard him play so boldly before.
I was overwhelmed, but I somehow managed to keep up. Then, it was my turn for a solo. After an awesome performance like that, my pride made me want to compete.
So far, I’d just followed Yasu, but now I played aggressively, really hitting the strings hard. As I played, our eyes met. He gave me an encouraging look, daring me to go further.
I felt myself smile, then I remembered something—he didn’t smile during solos.
Despite his impressive sound, he was always frowning. You might even say he looked pained.
What did he think about while he played? I began to get lost in thought, and my fingers slowed down. But I couldn’t stop my mind from spinning.
How would he play this solo? Would he produce an even cooler sound?
Soon, my solo was finished, and we were at the last part of the song. My bass and Yasu’s guitar wove together, and I felt a sense of excitement, like we were lifting each other up, as we played the final notes.
Then, there were a few seconds of silence.
“Yeah, that was good. It’s a fun song,” Yasu said, walking over to me. He tousled my hair vigorously with both hands. “You did a good job. It’s amazing you could make something like that on your first try.”
“It’s no big deal. Hey, stop doing that to my hair!”
“Ha-ha. This is my special technique for head patting. It means you did a damn fine job,” he said, emphasizing the last three words.
“You’re tangling my hair!”
“You’re like a big old dog, Risa. It’s cute.”
Yasu always said that to me. I knew he wasn’t trying to be mean, but I couldn’t imagine why he thought a teenage girl would take that as a compliment.
He sighed with satisfaction and sat down on one of the barstools.
“During your solo,” he began.
I felt my heart contract. He knows, I thought.
“Your sound changed, huh? What were you thinking about?” he asked. I hesitated. “Lemme guess. You were wondering how he’d play it, right?”
“…How did you know?” I flushed.
“’Cuz suddenly it wasn’t your sound anymore. I could see you hesitate. All of your sparkle disappeared.”
I knew he was right. Up until that point, I’d been enjoying myself, but then I got distracted and lost. Playing like that made me feel strange, like I was detached from the music.
“…That’s what’s bothering him right now,” Yasu said. His voice was gentle as always, but his expression scared me a little. “I wonder what it means to have your own sound. It shouldn’t be any more complicated than putting your emotions into the music. But…the more people are listening, the more you feel like you’ve gotta put on a show. That’s the fate of any artist, and their curse,” he said sadly. “Even if those around say, ‘Hey, you don’t have to show off,’ you’re in too deep before you know it. And then, after it’s too late, you finally remember what you were looking for, and then you’re full of regret.”
I couldn’t tell if he was talking about himself or about him. It probably applied to both of them equally. They’d been making music together for a long time, after all.
“Let’s have him play this song. Maybe it’ll help him return to his roots,” Yasu said with a smile. “Music saves people, ya know? I’m sure he wants to keep saving people.”
Yasu’s words made me feel warm inside. Music saves people. I believed that, too. It had brought so much brightness to my own life.
After that conversation, I waited eagerly for him to come back home. I wanted to hear him and Yasu play my song together and to compare our interpretations. I wondered how he’d play it, what expression he’d have…
But he never came home.
After a week away, he killed someone and got arrested.
My music didn’t save him.