Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

This band was a three-piece, drums and guitar and what sounded like a keyboard holding the low end where a bass usually rooted down, though she didn’t see a keyboard onstage. The singer kept his eyes shut tight, gripping one arm with the other. He looked to be on the verge of tears, but when he opened his mouth, his voice came across controlled and intense, like a revival preacher’s. The first song had a biblical fervor, but not from any Bible she had read. “These are my notes from the great upload,” she caught on the second chorus. An interesting sound, but she wondered if a singer who didn’t ever attempt to make eye contact with anyone would remind viewers that they weren’t actually in the room with the band. His voice didn’t match his face, either. It was a big voice, suited for someone with more personal charisma, and the lyrics worked better when she imagined some disembodied voice rather than a real person with a real body talking about an upload.

Really, this wasn’t any better than StageHolo. With SHL she didn’t need to worry about heat or crowds. She could adjust the volume, turn it off when she’d heard enough. She pulled up her Hoodie to check for messages, but she had no reception, maybe because of the alcove. Realizing she’d be unable to call for help if she needed it sent a new panic through her. She concentrated on making herself small and unnoticeable, concentrated on breathing the warm and sticky air, concentrated on the band again to distract herself.

Where was the keyboard? There were two amps. The guitar was plugged into one; the other had a box plugged into it. Nothing else onstage.

The singer twitched and she spotted it: a single-octave keyboard tattooed inside his right forearm. The fingers of his left hand roved over it, pressed down. She looked for somebody to ask, but everyone was paying attention to the band. She pulled up her Hoodie again to record a short clip. Amazing how this one difference changed the nature of the whole performance—she wished she could rewind and watch him from the beginning.

The crowd shifted, cycled, but didn’t disperse, even when the band finished. She sat back down, and the singer with the playable tattoo walked over to her alcove with his own little case of vinyl records and CDs. Records and CDs! Rosemary’s parents had a machine that played both, except when it skipped and stuttered. She wouldn’t have thought anyone would bother, but a few people stopped to trade him cash for music, so more people must still own those devices than she thought. The singer caught her looking at him and flashed a grin. He had eyes after all. She wondered if his closed eyes while performing marked shyness or stage fright or a deliberate effect.

“What were you doing with your arm?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t some fad everyone here had, yet another question to make her look ignorant.

He held out his arm for her to examine. Flat implants lay underneath the tattoo, one for each key. “Triggers and a transmitter. They send to a box synthesizer plugged into my amp. You can touch if you want.”

Rosemary fought to keep her recoil internal, concentrated on the tech. “That’s okay. Did you design it?”

“The trigger system idea was, uh, a friend’s, but I designed the synthesizer. I’m working on a guitar fretboard next, but I can’t decide where to put it. Here, maybe.” He put his left hand to his chest and played an invisible riff. “Then a gyro in my right wrist to pick up the strum.”

“Why not play a guitar instead of going to all that trouble?” Rosemary asked.

The singer gave her a funny look. “It’s not trouble.”

He moved away, leaving her wondering. She’d seen Tina Simmons’s biometric tattoo and hadn’t thought twice about that modification. What was wrong with trying to become your own instrument? She left the question alone to contemplate at a later time.

“Quick level check?” asked the sound guy over a PA talk-back audible to the room.

“Nah,” said someone from the band moving onto the stage. “We’ll start and you can adjust as we go. Hi, uh, we’re the Coffee Cake Situation.”

Rosemary barely had time to think that was a weird band name, when feedback filled the room. She put her fingers to her ears, some instinct telling her that the next sound would be unbearable. Instead, the band caught the feedback like a pro surfer catching a wave, riding it but not taming it. The feedback was the song. It was deliberate. She leaped to her feet, knocking her head on the slanted alcove.

“Damn,” said the singer standing next to her. “Are you okay? That must’ve hurt.”

Rosemary waved him away. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

She rubbed the spot where a solid egg was already forming. It didn’t hurt; the noise pulled the pain away.

The band onstage had drums, bass, guitar, and cello. The cello ran through a distorted amplifier, long and low chords, bowed in such a way that they built to a crest and then crashed. The cello player had a mane of superhero-black hair with blue highlights, which fell over her face when she played.

Half an hour before, Rosemary would have thought closed eyes meant no connection with the audience. Now she realized it was a tool to draw the listener in, make the song more intimate. That cello player could wear a mask or a paper bag and people would still want to watch. There was something riveting about her confident hands, her posture, the sound she shaped and conducted.

After a minute or so, the guitar joined her, mimicking the cello but with its own distinct timbre. Drums and bass started rolling soon after, rising to meet the cello. The drummer, bassist, and guitarist were all women.

The cello player started singing. Rosemary hadn’t even noticed the cellist had a mic until then, she’d been so drawn in to the hands, the bow, the heavy, mysterious drape of hair. Her voice was low and strange, a growl, a moan, every bit as pained as the sounds coming from her instrument. The cello and the voice came up through the trembling floor, up through Rosemary’s bones. It was a physical sensation, a resonance taking place between her body and the instruments and the room. However long they played, it didn’t feel long enough.

As the band left the stage, Rosemary tried to turn off her gut’s instant reaction and picture them at the Bloom Bar. Would that bone-deep cello translate to SHL? Maybe they had some effect to approximate it. And was there some trend here for singers to hide their faces? All the SHL bands she’d researched were so perfect looking. Then again, maybe that was why she was here, to find some raw band and turn them over to the company. If she convinced SHL to take a look, they’d probably make the Coffee Cake Situation change their name. But that cello…

Luce appeared beside her. “Come on, Rosemary Laws. Our turn.”

Rosemary had been so focused she’d forgotten she was supposed to help Luce’s band. Blocked it out, maybe. She eyed the crowd. If possible, even more people had crammed into the space. “Are you sure you need me?”

“We can get by without you, but you’d make our set run smoother, and you did say you’d help.”

Luce walked away then turned back, waiting. Rosemary assessed the distance between alcove and stage. Twenty steps would take her across the whole room.

So many people. Dozens, maybe hundreds. No, impossible. She’d seen the space empty. But it was so hot now, and everyone stood so close to each other. How did you get from one place to another in a crowd like that? If they didn’t move, if they stood their ground, what happened to the person moving through? Worse yet, what if somebody else panicked while she was stranded in the middle of the sea of people? She’d be trapped, suffocated, crushed, trampled. Her breath caught in her throat.