Chapter7:Weekend-NightBassLessons—andSpBootCamp
Crash—!
Bythetimethestmeasure’sresiduefadediherehearsalroom,Cra’srightindexandmiddlefingersweretremblingslightly.
EventhoughElianhaddeliberatelyslowed*DoNothing/Bitchsp*downto100BPM,eventhoughshe’dusedonlybasigerstyletocatchtherootnotes,withoutthedestructivepunchofsp—thekindofattackthatcouldactuallycutthrough—herlowendsoundedlikeitwastrappeduer,pletelyuopiercethatviolentwallofguitarsanddouble-kick.
Elianloweredhisguitar.Helookedatherfiips,flushedredfromoverexertion.Hedidn’tugh—heonlyheldoutanuleofwater.
“Fiyle’tcarrythissong,it?”Histonehadlostsomeofitscockyedge.Thissoundedmorelikeonemusitalkingtoanother.“al’ssoulistreatingthebasslikeapercussioninstrument.Youneedsp.”
Cratookthewaterwithuing.Asascestudent,shewasgoodatohingaboveall:admittingobjectivefacts.
Shereallycouldn’tsp.
Orrather—herlight,agileJ-Rockapproachtoattadarticutioncouldn’tsurvivethethick,heavyLowBstringonafive-stringbass.
Butshedidn’tfeeldefeated.
Becauseinhersuffogschedule,Saturdaynightstillheldo,secretitem.
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7:30p.m.,sedfloorofatucked-awayinstrumentshopinTaipei
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