InsaneJournal

Who: Euterpe & Open
Where: Lexington Avenue Station, subway platform
When: Early Evening

It had been a lovely reception, and Melody was very pleased with the musical progress her string quartet was making. She had pushed for something other than the traditional arrangements, bringing in some things she’d written herself, and while initially they’d been hesitant, they had given in. The response they had received today while performing had sold them on the idea of incorporating more.

It was a first step. The next one would be to get the viola player to get over his shyness and introduce the arrangements he’d composed. He’d confessed to Melody that the music was inside his head and he simply had to get the notes down on paper, and once she’d cajoled him into showing her what he had done, she knew he should be doing bigger things than a quartet that played at wedding receptions and bar mitzvahs. So she was going to help him.

It had been a good day, and she was pleased with how well things were going. The only downside was that she was now lugging home a cello. On the subway. That was always a bit of a hassle, since the thing was unwieldy, no matter how you looked at it. She’d bumped into a couple people and gotten dirty looks for it when she’d gotten off at this station, so Melody was doing her best to avoid clumps and crowds as she made her way down the stairs to catch the connecting train.

But it was impossible to ignore the gathering of people that stood listening to one of the performers on the platform. It wasn’t at all uncommon to see down here, somebody with a hat and a harmonica, a violin case set open at the feet of an unshaven man, the electronic beat of a keyboard pulsing softly under a smoky melody, trying to make a few dollars for their talent. For the most part, they were decent enough at the small library of music they performed. But once in a while, there was someone that was truly amazing, and it was impossible not to wonder how they had ended up playing in the subway for spare change.

Such was the case with the young man skillfully plucking the strings of a guitar that had obviously seen better days. So had the young man. But despite appearances, though the body of the instrument was scratched and gouged, battered beyond the point of restoration, the sounds coming from it were sweet and harmonious. He did not simply strum the strings, he was plucking out intricate runs with delicate precision, the notes almost shimmering in the air. Melody was impressed and transfixed.

When he began playing an old folk ballad that she recognized because she had given the inspiration that caused the author to pen the song, she could not contain her excitement. Though she had little enough energy to spare, the muse in her could not resist, and some of her precious store of power was released to feed the talent of the guitarist. Without understanding, or perhaps even realizing, his playing improved that much more. She waited for him to begin singing the words that went with the song, but the sound never came.

She frowned, listening for half a measure before she was certain that he had not missed the cue. No, he simply wasn’t going to sing. And to her way of thinking, that meant that only half the song was being performed. Melody could not allow that to happen. Before she’d even had time to consider, a deep breath was pulled in, filling her lungs, pushing her diaphragm down. And then she released it.

Pure and true, the mezzo soprano voice soared over the deeper notes humming down the strings of the guitar. The young man shot her a startled look, then a slight glare that said without words that he was not sharing his earnings with her. But he relaxed when he saw her face, saw somebody who was singing for the joy of the sound. Just as he played for the happiness it brought him. Until he’d needed the money. But in that moment, when voice and instrument blended into melody and harmony, he could almost forget that part.

The addition of a vocalist to an already notable performance drew even more attention, and the crowd grew. Had she been aware of it, Melody would have been pleased to be sharing music with that many people. Lost in the thrall of the sound they were producing, the young man didn’t notice right away either, or he would have been pleased as well. Bigger crowds meant more money. But for the moment, he simply played.

He played very, very well.