Playing Star Again
Playing Star Again
Admiral Biscuit
The rhythm of the coach is soporific.
If she listens carefully—not with her ears, but with her mind—she can feel the rhythm. The slight rocking movement. The steady pulse of the engine. The faint beat across expansion joints. Her head starts bobbing to the rhythm, but she is not conscious of this.
She hears it, but she doesn’t. Her mind is wandering. She’s in a sort-of trance. The trees flash by—a green blur, a steady background to her thoughts, occasionally interrupted by a bridge over an insignificant stream.
She’s half-asleep. Her eyes are open, but her thoughts are far away from the present. She knows she should be thinking about tonight’s gig, but it just won’t coalesce in her mind. Images of her manager flash through her mind. Manager. Waste of money. He has little interest in much else than her ass, anyway—she’s seen where his eyes focus when he’s talking about her next great opportunity.
But she doesn’t dwell on the past much. Only insofar as it serves as a guide to the future. Right now she’s stuck in this smelly coach, but one day she’ll have something better. She’ll be able to call the shots. She can see it. Her name will be a name spoken with reverence; she’ll be the one to pick the gigs, not her creepy manager.
A small town flashes by, its name not even worth remembering. She woke the morning before in a lousy hotel room, a warm body pressed up against her. She never even bothered to turn to see who it was—a fan, an agent, or one of her roadies; who knew? Fifteen minutes in the shower was long enough to cleanse her body, but her spirit might take a lifetime of lathering to improve. It is a thought which is best not considered. Like a thief in the the night, she skulked out of the room, never once looking back. The hotel room was not worth her consideration; what she may have done or not done the night before meant nothing.
Sixteen hours. Easy enough to say, but nearly an eternity when there’s nothing else to do. Like a legion of lovers, the towns and trees continue to flicker by.
She’s living in the past and the future. What was and what will be are not clear concepts. Her mind’s eye blends performance after performance together, and who can blame it? The flicker of the strobes, the susurration of the crowd, the omnipresent haze, the glowsticks that festoon her body: all those things blur together with a constant thudding of bass. Every crowd is the same crowd, their movements stretched out over time into a seismic event which seems significant to those in the now, but in the grand scheme of things is hardly worth mention—a mere footnote to history, that which is or was or will be or would have been.
Long trips are no good. They say you can rest and recover, but it isn't true. Your mind wanders, the way it always does. You just wish the trip was through.
She steps out of the coach. The plaintive sigh of the air brakes is enough to set her nerves on edge. Garish neon indicates the restaurant; if they spent half as much on the menu as they did on the sign, it might have been worth a visit. Her ears perk up at the loudly-voiced opinions of the regulars, but of course it’s the same as it always is. Her manager wants that look: androgyny is in right now, he said. If you want to sell tickets, you’ve got to have the look. It’s not what she wanted, but she can’t disagree with the success: a string of sold-out concerts, of packed auditoriums. Her name on billboards, a not-flattering picture advertising venues, sound systems, radio stations, and even pest-control solutions. Once upon a time, it would have been a compliment; now it’s just tiresome.
At least it’s warm. The heater in the coach might be malfunctioning, or else the grey monotony of the rain just makes her feel cold. Whichever it is, the bar is cozy, comfortable, and the food isn’t half-bad, either. She ignores the stares of the patrons, instead focusing on her food. She knows in a week she’ll have forgotten the name of the pub, the waitress, and even the town it was in. Such things are but fleeting memories, a flipbook of snapshots that skip by in a meaningless blur. If she ever wrote an autobiography—a thought as foreign as working in a law office—she would not ever remember the house dressing on the salad, or that the pie was made from scratch. Although she'll have no recollection after the fact, she's hunched over her plate, as if it might be stolen if her attention wanders. Her ears are cued to mentions of her name. She’s gotten the notoriety she’d wanted, but her heart aches for a conversation that doesn't begin with “Hey, aren’t you?”
Her tip is generous, but she knows that the monetary amount isn’t what the waitress will remember. She knows that the regulars will discuss her after she leaves: they have already started. She doesn’t know if it’s the shades that cover her eyes that make her simultaneously obvious and invisible or if it’s her fame, but the critique of her music and her lifestyle is not subdued; she can hear every single word from the old campaigner in the booth next to her. The waitress is rallying to his cause, and why shouldn't she? He’ll be there tomorrow, and she won’t. She’ll have moved on to a new town. It bothers her, but she grits her teeth. It’s a stand not worth taking; it’s the price to pay for fame.
A placid face fills her mind, as it usually does. Calm, cultured, unchanging, the way she cannot be. Hair styled just so, bow tie knotted in front of a starched white collar, an immovable rock in her tumultuous life. She knows what she wants, and she knows it’s unattainable. For all her fame, who is she to such an artist, such an uncompromised example of perfection?
Does she acknowledge her self-proclaimed number-one fans? Or does she just drift above it all, secure in her art and the perfection of herself? Those were the questions she asked, but they were not the question she really wanted an answer for. Does she know who I really am? was close, but not quite there.
She had gone to a single concert. Even though it wasn't her thing, she’d sat in the front row, watching every single movement, the way the bow drew across the strings; the dreamy half-asleep movements on the neck of the cello. Her traitorous mind imagined how it might sound with amplifiers and pin spots to set the mood, but she tried to block those thoughts. Such gimmicks would only cheapen the performance.
Even the reception had been too high-class. The hors-d'oeuvres were dainty, the plates small. The punch wasn't spiked, and there were no passed-out bodies in the corners of the room. The conversations were carried out in a funerary whisper. She got close, once, but did not have the courage to speak to her idol. One would think they were peers: fellow musicians and all that, but they were no more alike than a cat and dog. Her idol reeked of quiet sophistication, while she was no more than smoke and flash, there one moment and forgotten the next.
She’s on stage now. She can’t really say where her mind is, because she doesn’t know. The platters spin before her, and the roar of the audience washes though her. She’s there for them, even if she doesn’t know why. The woofers pulse with the crowd, giving it a predatory animalistic quality which is vaguely frightening. She’s pouring herself into them, responding to their cheers and applause. The night blurs by, one song after another, a constant beat with no more meaning than a falling leaf. Although she shouted out the name of the town at the beginning of her gig—to a thunderous response—she can no longer remember it. Tomorrow, she’ll wake up with a throbbing head and ringing ears, and she knows she’ll ask herself if it was worth it. She knows she won’t be able to answer that question honestly.
Her movements are automatic and thoughtless. She is trapped in a machine of her own making, a slave to her success. What have I done? The flashpots give her no answer. It is the most important question, but she might as well be grasping at the drifting smoke. She doesn’t know who she is any more; she doesn’t know if she’s achieved her goal or missed it by mere inches. It is of no importance, now; only the crowd matters. Every fragment of energy she has is fed to them, and a little bit more of herself leaches off into the hungry audience. She is them and they are her; she can no longer tell the difference. She knows in an hour or two, she will be back in a strange hotel room, soaked in sweat. She might take comfort in a bottle or in the embrace of a stranger, but neither will fill the vast emptiness she feels inside. She has finally grasped the fame she thought she wanted. She would trade it all for anonymity.
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So much of this could be taken from Bob Seger's Turn The Page.
2953303
Like the title?
That's exactly the song that was 50% of the inspiration for the fic, and the story somewhat follows the song.
I really liked this. Well done. I love the emotion in it and the feeling of "was it worth it" which is something more people ask themselves than I think really admit it. Bravo!
This honestly made me tear up. Well done.
This story's really sad and depressing, but it was really good too.
Probably my favorite story about vinyl I've read so far. Nicely done, full of emotion, I doubt I could ever ask for more. Keep up the good work.
Very emotional.
I can't say much more than that for a peice of this caliber.
Better than my "Not the Dentist" but not as good as some stories.
I don't remember the name, but it's twilights death. And spike is regretting it because he wasn't there in her final moments.
2953356>>2953369>>2953547>>2953551>>2953786
Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed it!
Loved it. I wished it wasn't over though.
Love the song, and loved this story.
3231134
Did you read the blog post? I do feel that way sometimes, and I'm not even a professional actor.
3231364
Well, it's not all that bad. I'm a pretty normal guy during the week.
I have noticed when we're doing gigs, though, it does get like that. When I worked tech, we disparagingly referred to actors as "flexi-props," and there's sadly a bit of truth in that.
At the same time, I have to say that writing is much like acting, and the high I feel when there's a standing ovation--or when a story hits the feature box--can make it all worthwhile!
I'm planning on writing a counterpoint to this story from Octavia's view. One of these days. . . .
I read the title and thought of this.
24.media.tumblr.com/a257ad5165644b1f79354634dfdee284/tumblr_mqo61uYbwk1rj6vd5o1_400.png
Very poignant story. For the audience it's a special, rare event to be remembered and savored; for the performer it's more often than not just a job. It's rare we're reminded of that.
Ah, and now I have seen such a story for both Vinyl AND Octavia.
Well-played.
5141725
Thank you! It's written largely from life (see the associated blog post, if you're interested what I drew from).
What's the one for Octavia, out of curiosity?
5141750
A Puppet to her Fame
5141750 I believe 5141791 just inadvertently compared you to Kaidan. Well done, Admiral Biscuit-Squirrel-Senpai.
~Corporal Waffle
5820159
Not entirely sure if that's a good or bad thing *isn't aware of hierarchical social standings within the site and where others place within it*
5820230 U wot m10
Swer on me mum i punch u in teh gabba
Swer on me mum m9
5820359
I swear I have heard that somewhere before...
5820496
5820505
Now I am just plain lost
5820745 GOOD.
This was less sad and more deep. By that I mean deep into the mind and soul of a successful musician. Vinyl's gradually grown to feel that her career is nothing more than routine, and it leaves her as a hollow shell. Every show, every town, every audience, is nothing more than a memory not even worth remembering. To me it appears that Vinyl's entire celebrity life has been a regretful experience. Her secret admiration of Octavia also reveals a side of herself that secretly despises her current lifestyle. Vinyl looks at the formal, elegant, sophisticated cellist and thinks that she's perfect. I sense a bit of envy here, but there's also an overwhelming feeling of idolization. It's understandable of course.
Like I said before, this story is not actually depressing. It's a dark and philosophical perspective, sure, but it won't easily bring tears to one's eyes, if it does at all. I personally did like the story though.
I hate that I am only now voicing this, but you are quite an excellent writer.
I really like the unique approach to Vinyl and Tavi's relationship here. It's one of a distant, unreachable, inspirational memory, which I think works better than a lot of stories that go for the romantic angle.
Deep. A tragic character study with a little philosophy thrown in, with a surprising lack of sadness. Well done.
I remember reading this a long while back, and ive read it again for what feels like the first time.
Very well done.
Her I am, here I am, here I am! I'm back at the crossroad again! Oh let me stand, let me stand, on top of the mountain again!
"Here I am" by "The Explosion"
Quite nice, even though I don't think the "tragedy" tag is appropriate. [On a side note I keep to the idea that she is mute]
9168461
It really depends on if you think she’s happy about her success or not, I guess.
[On a side note I keep to the idea that she is mute]
I tended to not be in favor of it until episode 100. Now I’ve changed my tune a bit, I think.
9169552
Well Tragedy indicates a definite and somewhat permanent downfall of the character, here while it's quite a low spot, nothing prevent an eventual happiness [and maybe my view is colored by ep 100 also.].
9169889
I suppose you could go either way on this one. I mean, obviously the story must take place well before episode 100; equally obviously there was no way I could have known what would come in episode 100 when I wrote this--so I guess in a way the show gave a happy ending to the story, and I suppose all readings of the story after that episode aired would sorta default to that.
The risk of writing fanfiction for a show that’s still active.
A LOT of people have a cover of this, couldn’t find the exact one I was looking for but this one’s good too.
I also remember a David Allen Coe song where his car breaks down & he gets a gig at a local bar to help pay his expenses & the waitress tells him “I’m sure you’ll make it -You sound a LOT like David Allen Coe”
9819246
Huh, I’ll have to look that one up. The only David Allen Coe song I know well is the perfect country and western song.
9819445
It’s been 30+ years, I’ve been confusing it with another but this is it
9819482
Huh, I hadn’t heard that one before.
9823997
THIS is the one I was looking for! I had a problem finding it because “Won’t You Stay” is the named part of it
Starts slow, speeds up about 3:40 in.
IMO, it captures Vinyl’s mood perfectly
9824160
You’re right . . . that’s a pretty cool song. I feel like I vaguely know it, but I might be misremembering.
I have always enjoyed Metallica's cover...
Out there in the spotlight, you're a million miles away
Every ounce of energy, you try and give away
As the sweat pours out your body, like the music that you play
Later in the evenin' as you lie awake in bed
With the echoes of the amplifiers ringin' in your head
You smoke the day's last cigarette
Rememberin' what she said
What she said...
9895232
It’s a good cover, I won’t deny it, but at least IMHO it doesn’t have quite the same feel as the original. There’s a difference between a wailing guitar and wailing saxophone.
Likewise, comparing Disturbed’s Sounds of Silence with Simon and Garfunkel's . . . both very excellent, and both have a very different feel.
In terms of the story, I suppose Vinyl is more of the Metallica version, and Octavia is more of the Bob Seger original.
Came here from the Octavia counterpart story. Looks like Vinyl has Octavia on something of a gilded pedestal so to speak.
If possible, I would like to offer an ear or shoulder to Vinyl if she ever wanted to have someone who she could even just for a few hours be just Vinyl rather than DJ P0N-3 or that famous Vinyl Scratch chick. I may not be perfect, but I can at least attempt to be a proper gentleman.
10926064
Of the two of them, Octavia looks like the more put-together pony. But of course who can say what she doesn’t show? Still waters run deep and all that.
Maybe I’m wrong ‘cause I’m no celebrity, but I think that treating her like a normal pony would be something she’d like. And I suppose (which wasn’t official when I wrote this) knowing sign language would also help. Every year, a deaf guy comes around selling roses for charity, and I always buy one even if I have no use for a rose, and I always sign “thank you” because that’s one of the few signs I know and I hope that helps make his day.
10927249
Yeah, I didn't think of that... I know a few letters in ASL, probably should look that up beforehand.
10927755
That’s something I really should learn better, but just never get around to.
10930504
Same, especially with my mom and stepdad showing signs of degrading hearing.
10930932
Yeah, that would make it more useful. My parents still have good hearing, luckily. Possibly better than mine, to be honest.
10931202
I went to an audiologist earlier this year...or was it last year...eh
I found out that I have "minor high-frequency hearing loss" and they scheduled me for a yearly check-up. What this means is that some softer letters like f's and p's can sometimes go unheard or misheard. I also have some minor tinnitus, which is a nuisance, but not to the point of "ruining my life" or anything. The main thing is that I don't do dumb things like blast music with headphones on and making sure I wear some hearing protection when I say mow the lawn and perhaps getting some ear-plugs when I'm doing dish-duty at work.