"Okay, people, one more time. One, two, three—"
Music poured forth from the garage of a well-to-do home in southeast Wisconsin. The surprisingly little-known alt-alt-rock band, "Final Movement," was holding what would mercifully be its last group rehearsal before Christmas.
One's first reaction to the cacophony would have been to immediately stuff the nearest soft and/or insulating object into their ear and go about their business; however, upon further inspection, the only saving grace of the music was its melodious keyboard tones, which somehow managed to outstrip even the murderous wailing of the lead guitar in terms of memorability. In fact, one could say that if all other elements were removed from the ill-advised attempt at songwriting, the keyboard part alone could be quite a serviceable melody, all things considered.
This fact, of course, did not sit well with the band's de facto leader, a staunch believer in the old axiom: "when in doubt, guitar solo." After a few more bars of simulating an angry cat attempting to claw a chalkboard, the young man cut the rehearsal short.
"Okay, dude," he said, whirling around to face the keyboardist, "seriously, what is your problem? I already told you, keyboard is supposed to be in the background!"
The keyboardist, a tall, blond young man whose given name was unknown to a large majority of people, fired back: "Well, maybe some of us like making actual music every now and then, eh?"
The frontman gritted his teeth. "I told you a thousand times, man. People don't wanna hear you playing your little scales and arpeggicles—arpertures—"
"Arpeggios," corrected the keyboardist wearily.
"Whatever, Piano Boy. They don't wanna hear that. They wanna hear guitar, and a lot of it. That's what it's all about, know what I mean?"
The kid sighed. He'd had this fight before, and no matter what, he could never get through to the guy. You'd think he'd be a bit more gracious; after all, his parents didn't have to let them use their garage to practice every week while they were out of town. He was honestly beginning to question the mental state of all those artists who'd allegedly sold their souls for musical fame. If they'd had to deal with this, then he couldn't see how it was worth it.
The singer glared at Schroeder a bit longer, as if pretending to be an alpha male re-establishing dominance over the pack beta. At last he spoke:
"Right. I don't think we're gonna get it any better than that for now. We'll meet up again next week. We play at the Coliseum in two weeks, people. Get it together."
The other band members launched into action like someone had pressed fast forward. In a flash, they were packed up and driving away. Before long Schroeder was alone. He packed up his keyboard and went back inside, savoring his well-earned quiet.
How he suffered for his art.
He'd never really been one for the showiness of the grand stage; he always preferred to play in a more low-key, calm atmosphere, where people weren't screaming or moshing or whatever it is they do at concerts. He'd only joined a band because, well, it seemed like the thing to do in high school. The marching band didn't have room for a keyboardist, and even if they had Schroeder knew that it was a terrible idea to march around with a large electronic keyboard attached to a strap on the shoulder. Even someone as devoted as he was wouldn't dare risk breaking a hip—or worse.
He proceeded through his home's kitchen to the main atrium, at the far end of which sat a baby grand piano. Schroeder had always admired the craftsmanship that went into these machines; this one, from a German company he'd never previously heard of, was exceptionally well-made.
As he sat at the bench in front of the piano, he was astonished at how much it reminded him of his old toy piano from his childhood. That old thing had worn out years ago, and yet his parents still hung on to it for whatever reason. Schroeder figured it was because they were practicing for the "empty nest" period that was rapidly approaching, especially since there were so many memories associated with that little piano. Memories of Beethoven, of friends, of Christmas pageants and dancing beagles…
Of her.
He'd been in contact with Lucy ever since he moved away, of course. They'd remained friends to this day, especially since Lucy had finally moved on from seeing him as an object of her affection. Probably for the best. Yet as he thought more about it, Schroeder couldn't help but wonder what might have happened if things had ended up differently, if he hadn't been so cold to her as a child. He almost wished she were here now, leaning against the back of the piano like she used to do, asking some good-naturedly inflammatory question about why he thought Beethoven was so great. It used to be annoying, but in retrospect, maybe it had been more of an inspiration than anything. A call to prove her wrong, perhaps. Whatever the method, there was no doubt that she'd been the reason he still even bothered to play.
As he continued thinking about these things, his fingers began to depress the keys, softly, but with the delicate emphasis that comes with years of experience. As he became surer of himself, he molded the notes into a tender, familiar melody. It was a refrain he'd played countless times in the past, yet still returned fresh to his ears every time he sat down to play. In that instant, there was nothing but him and the music; it had swept him away, and he and it were one.
At last, he played the final notes. They lingered there for a moment in the echoing room, before fading to silence. He took a deep breath. Maybe he'd been misguided all along. Maybe it wasn't really about fame after all, but art instead. And maybe, just maybe, he didn't need a band to make music.
He cracked a smile as he punched in his soon to be ex-bandmate's number. Just like Beethoven would have wanted it.