Nicholson Baker - Traveling Sprinkler

She held her hands up. “I only sing Beatles songs.”

“Let’s hear one,” I said.

“Oh, I’m out of practice.”

“At least do ‘Blackbird,’” said Raymond.

Nan sang, “Blackbird singing in the dead of night, Take these broken wings and learn to fly.” I felt a strange lump in my throat. She finished and we all sat there.

“Damn!” I said. “Really. Damn.”

“That was really good, Mom,” said Raymond.

Nan wiped something from her eye. “I guess we should be going,” she said. “Thank you for dinner.”

I shook Raymond’s hand and pointed at him. “Keep going with those songs,” I told him. “You’ve got the touch.”

• • •

I SPENT THE MORNING downloading Logic from Apple, which takes a long time because there are many gigabytes of sampled instruments. I also bought the Beatles doing “Blackbird,” because Nan had sung it so well and I wanted to remember how Paul McCartney did it, also some Kanye West songs and three by Radiohead. I spent two hours watching how-to videos on YouTube and ordering a manual. Logic is not self-explanatory. It’s ticklish. It does unexpected things. But, as everyone on YouTube said, once you get into it, it’s very powerful. Finally I created an instrumental track and set it to Steinway Hall Piano. Each note of a real Steinway is sampled, i.e., recorded, five or six or seven times at varying volumes and loaded into something called the EXS24 Sampler. I played a B flat chord with my headphones on, using the shift-lock keyboard, which allows you to play using the letter keys of the computer, and I was stunned by how big and true it sounded. I felt like Alfred Brendel playing Mussorgsky’s “The Old Castle,” coaxing the licorice goodness out of a vastly expensive instrument. I felt like Maurice Ravel playing “Sad Birds.” But obviously I needed a real keyboard.

I went to the music department at Best Buy and stood there for a while. “Any questions at all?” said the salesman. He was a young, friendly bass player who was going to Berklee College of Music in Boston.

I said I wanted a MIDI keyboard to hook up with Logic.

“What size are you thinking?”

“I guess the traditional eighty-eight keys, because that’s the number I’m used to.”

He showed me some eighty-eight-key MIDI keyboards. They cost a fortune.

“Thanks, let me study these,” I said. Two children were plinking loudly and tunelessly on some portable clavichords in a different aisle. Eventually the noise began to get to me, and I went into a small glass-walled room filled with drum sets and maracas where it was quiet. Did I want to spend a vast sum for a full eighty-eight-key keyboard, a real piano-size keyboard, or did I want to get something smaller and less expensive? I decided I didn’t need all eighty-eight keys, because honestly I never liked the very low and very high notes on the piano anyway — both extremes are harsh in different ways. I walked back out into the noise.

“On second thought, I think I want something more compact,” I said. The salesman tapped on a box that held the Axiom forty-nine-key keyboard. “I have an Axiom 61 and I love it,” he said. “It’s a real workhorse. The classes at Berklee use the Axiom 49 and they’ve never had any problems.”

So I bought it. I also bought a big book of Prince songs. I almost bought a Blue microphone as well, which had a lovely retro design. It was on display under glass near the cash register, but I restrained myself. The keyboard was enough for now. It had “aftertouch,” something that real wooden pianos don’t have. After you play a note, if you press down harder on the key it will detect your increased finger pressure. The keyboard was a hundred times less expensive than a Steinway Hall piano, and it was made of plastic, but it had aftertouch.

• • •

HEY THERE, PEOPLE, and welcome. This is the Poetry Pebble Tumble, and I’m your host, Paul. Tonight we convene by the light of a small, very round moon that has things to tell us, with a star near it like a pasted-on beauty mark.

I’m smoking a limited-edition Viaje Summerfest cigar. Wow, is it strong. Strong and full of brown tuneful certainty. It’s sold with loose weedy leaves poking out the end, which makes it seem exotic until you wrench them off with a turn of the wrist and roast the tip. It’s my ganja. Here’s to you, Bob Marley, you reconciler of opposites, you peacemaker. “One love.” You said it all in a single phrase.

I’m totally stoned on this Viaje cigar. Man! Why do people need medical marijuana when there are these tightly wrapped cylinders of bliss from Latin America? I could get high thinking about the word “intrinsic.”

Once in music school I was out in a Frisbee field with two friends, a clarinet player and a bassoonist. I was starting to be full of the desire to write poems, and I thought real poets talked about words all the time, so I asked a pretentious question, as poets are permitted to do. I said: Offhand, what’s your favorite word? The clarinetist said, I don’t know, what’s yours?

“Inscrutable,” I said. I gave it a big throat-wiggle of inscrutability when I said it. My two friends said, No, “inscrutable” is not that great. I was stung by their dismissal, but I didn’t say so, and when my friend the bassoonist said that “cash” was his favorite word, I said, Oh yeah, cash, legal tender is the night, baby. And when the clarinet player said “kegger,” I said, Oh yeah, “kegger,” that’s very good. I’m not going to be a naysayer of other people’s pet words. That’s not my role. Plus “inscrutable” isn’t as good as their two. It would be nice to record the particular clunk that a Frisbee makes when it angles hard into the grass and use it in a rhythm track. Prince uses those great damped piano thumps in “Let’s Go Crazy.”

My role is to be here in the side yard when the moon is swimming in the deep end of the sky with the treeshapes near it. It’s a full twelve feet deep under the nightpool and there’s a moon ring down there, and I’m swimming down toward it and I hear the high vacuumacious sound in my eardrums and I feel the tautness pulling between my toes and I’m thankful that all my thoughts are nonsexual, and that I can sit here with my mouth open and my eyes slitted.

There are only so many nights like this. The middle of summertime, and even though it’s late, a cricket like a bartender with a rag in his hand is mopping the surfaces of sound. Just one. The rest of the crickets are silent. Their abdomens are sore and chafed and they don’t want to chirp anymore, they want to rest. As do I. Even this one that I’m listening to is getting drowsy. He goes: chert chert chert . And then there’s a long pause while he sits and lets things droop, wondering if anyone’s listening. And then chert chert chert chert chert. And then another long pause. Birds by day, crickets by night, singing away.

I’m staring right at the fucking moon and I don’t care who knows it. I’ve heard so many different Logic sounds come from my computer and through my headphones I almost can’t stand it. I’m drunk with sound, like the thirteen-year-old Brazilian girl. If I want to write something with marimba I can have marimba. If I want Balinese gamelan there’s gamelan. Chinese guzheng zither? It’s there. Japanese shakuhachi flute? Sure. There are innumerable kick drums, some real and some synthesized, and as for electric guitar — I’ve got Twangy Guitar, and New Surf Lead Guitar, and Nice Crunch Guitar, and Dirty Rotor Guitar, and dozens of others. Too much, almost. Everything’s beautifully sampled. Debussy would have gone batshit if he’d had Logic on his computer. The history of music would have been completely different.