Oriphiel

“Horseshit!” yelled Logan, as he threw his guitar full-force to the side, sending it crashing into the drummer’s kit. All at once, the rest of the musicians ceased playing, and the studio fell silent, save for the brief yet glorious sound of the drummer’s hi-hat falling over onto the keyboard.
“What the fuck?” asked the bassist, peering at Logan through large sunglasses and raising his hands in the air.
“It’s not right. It’s not pure. It’s… it’s horseshit,” Logan replied, wiping back his hair as he began to pace back and forth.
“Here we fucking go again…” groaned the keyboardist, as she lifted up the drummer’s hi-hat.

The door opened, and a man in a dark red suit walked in. He stood there for a moment, hands on his hips, staring at Logan, before shaking his head and laughing. “Still not right?” he asked, stepping closer to Logan and putting a hand on his shoulder.
Logan cleared his nose and took a deep breath, replying “God, I’m going out of my fucking mind. It all sounds so… fake. So clean. So old. I’m so fucking tired of doing this same shit, over and fucking over.”
The man smiled, and replied “Hey, fucking relax man. You’ll find it again. You’ve just gotta keep at it.”
Logan pushed the man’s hand off of his shoulder, saying “I’ve fucking tried. For years, I’ve tried, but it’s no use. It’s gone. I want something new. Something real. But I just… I can’t make it work. Not like I used to. Not like we used to. You know? It all used to be so fucking easy…”
The man in the suit laughed. “Yeah,” he said, looking to the side, “I know. I remember. A bunch of art majors with fuck-all experience, murdering songs with a half-broken guitar we got from your brother, a snare that we stole from some stupid fuck that left it on his porch, and that beat up fuckin’ moog I found at a yard sale…”

“Oh god, that fucking moog! You tried so fucking hard to get it to work right, but it always sounded like a robot taking a shit,” said Logan, feeling a tired laugh escape him as he reminisced with his friend.
“Jesus,” said the man between laughs, “those were good times. We were horrible, but they were good times.”
Logan looked at him, still smiling, and replied “We were pioneers. Remember when we saved up enough for those brand new synths, and Cynthia and Jeff took them up to their flat to learn how to play them? They went up there with a keg, a grocery bag filled with coke, and a loaf of bread, and they didn’t come back out for a week. And then, when they did come out, and we played that gig at The Sidewinder, those drunk fucks couldn’t believe what they were hearing!”
His friend, almost overcome with laughter, added “And that one guy on acid started losing his shit, when Cynthia started playing that synth real low and heavy and Jeff was, like, growling, or some shit. That crazy fuck started pointing at Jeff, shouting ‘Satan! Devil! Demon!’, completely out of his mind!”

“Hey, I hate to interrupt you old fucks on your stroll down memory lane, but are we gonna do this shit or what?” asked the keyboardist, nursing a headache.
The man in the suit smiled and waved a hand, saying “You guys can go ahead and head out if you want. We’ve only got like twenty before the interview anyway. ” As the musicians filed out of the room, the man looked at the drummer, and added “Oh, and Tommy, I’m sorry about Logan throwing his guitar at you.”
Tommy, who had been doing his best to keep his head down and avoid causing a fuss, simply replied “Sure,” on his way out the door.

Now alone together, the man’s smile faded away as he looked hard at Logan. Logan looked back at him for a moment before turning away, saying “I know, I know. I can tell you’re pissed off. You’ve got that look, like when you found out that I fucked your sister in your dorm room. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to fuck up the session.”
The man looked even harder at him, replying “You can’t keep wasting sessions like this. We’ve gone over as it is. The studio wants-“
Logan rolled his eyes and cut the man off, saying “Fuck the studio,” as he turned away.
“Is that what you think you’re doing?” asked the man. “Fucking the studio? Fucking the man? Well you’re not. You’re fucking me. I took a chance on you. I set up the contract. I promised the studio that I could get you into shape. When you pull shit like this, I’m the one that gets fucked.”

Raising his hands and turning to face the man, Logan replied “You’re right. It’s not fair to you. I’ll… I’ll just find a way to make this shit work. I’ll finish this fucking album, even if it fucking kills me, which it damn well may if I have to keep putting up with that fucking cunt on the keys.”
The man laughed through his nose and shook his head, before replying “Just try. For me. Okay? That’s all I ask. I swear, I love you man, but I don’t know how the fuck Regina's put up with you for thirty fucking years.”


“So,” continued the interviewer, a young college student with a half-shaved head, “it’s been ten years since your last album, hasn’t it?”
Logan shrugged, replying “More or less, yeah.”
The interviewer smiled and carried on. “And that last album, along with your three other solo albums, unfortunately failed to chart, despite the success of your work with The Neon Stilettos. Why do you think that was?”
Logan shrugged again, answering “I suppose I was struggling to find my own sound.”
“And have you found it now? Your own sound, I mean.”
“Well, yeah. I guess I’d have to have a handle on it by now, considering I’ve had ten years to figure it out.”
“So, what’s changed?”
Logan shifted in his seat. “What do you mean?”
The interviewer shrugged. “I mean, what’s different about this album, compared to the last? What’s new?”
Logan thought for a moment. In all honesty, he couldn’t come up with a legitimate answer. However, unwilling to embarrass his friend by ruining yet another interview, he bullshitted as best he could. “Well… I think, being a bit more mature now, my perspective has changed. My view of the world. While those last albums lacked direction, I feel like now I actually have something that I want to say. Something I want to contribute to the world.” Good one, he thought, laughing internally.
“Mm, well, here’s hoping the world wants your contribution. Anyway, changing topics a bit, I wanted to ask you a bit about your wife, Regina, who used to play the saxophone and later the theremin for the Neon Stilettos. Lately, there’ve been rumors of her maybe recording a solo album of her own. Can you give us a confirmation, or any details?”
God, I hate this bastard. Smug little fucking prick. “Ha, no, I’m afraid I can give neither. She’s sworn me to secrecy.”
“What has she been up to, though? I mean, since that collab she did with Cynthia. Can you tell me anything at all?”
Yes, I do know what she’s been up to. She’s been fucking pricks like you while I’ve been in the studio. “Again, sworn to secrecy.”
“You two must have a close relationship, then, being such confidantes. So, changing the subject yet again…”
Logan nodded and listened with his ears, but not with his mind. Within him, there was a deafening sound, a wind of frustration that ceaselessly howled around him. The interviewer asked him a question, and he gave another bullshit answer. His thoughts, however, were locked on the question he had been asked earlier. It echoed throughout him like a jagged vibration: ‘So, what’s changed?’ His heart sank further every time he repeated it to himself. Nothing had changed, and, as he looked within himself, he knew that nothing ever would. But he was wrong, for it was there, in the depths of hopelessness, that he found the change that he had been searching for. He saw his wife, embracing him as she had done when they had both been young and utterly enamored with each other. Their love was a pulse, a vibration, a red sound that shook his imaginings. And there, standing before him, they both grew old, and their love warped, until it was a painful yet vibrant sound that cut into him like a sonic knife. And yet, different as it seemed, at it’s core it still bore a resemblance to what it had once been. It was beautiful. He smiled.


Closing the door behind him, Logan set down a large bag and felt for the lightswitch. Though he had lived in this house for the past twenty years, he still had trouble remembering the exact placements of everything. Having found the switch in the darkness, he flipped it, and sloppily kicked off his sneakers. He then retrieved a smaller bag from the large bag, and walked through the living room and the kitchen, making his way to the basement. He opened the door and stood there for awhile, staring down into the inky blackness of the stairwell, thinking. Before long, however, he stepped forward and flipped the lightswitch, before making his way down the stairs. At the bottom were two doors, the one on his right being well worn, as it led to the laundry room. The door on the left, however, was relatively clean, with unchipped paint and a bright knob, for it had been neither touched nor opened in years. Logan took hold of the knob and turned it slowly, as though this was a sort of homecoming that he was determined to savor. Stepping into the room, he gingerly flipped the switch beside him, illuminating his small, humble, home studio. He walked through it, wiping away dust and turning on his cheap yet trusty equipment, setting everything up for a new voyage in sound.

He spent the next few hours down there, feverishly composing a hellish symphony with his synthesizer, and layering jagged guitars on top of it, until it was an almost incoherent blanket of noise. But, incoherent as it seemed, to him it was beautiful, and honest. And for the first time in years, he felt the hands of inspiration guiding his own, practically forcing him to complete what would have normally taken him months of effort to create. He was no longer making music as a favor for his friend; he was making it for himself. The interview returned to his thoughts in flashes, here and there. ‘I actually have something I want to say,’ rang out in his mind, as though it were a mantra that, through it’s repetition, would reveal something ancient and powerful. For the finishing touch, he pulled a folded up tarp out of the small bag he had been carrying, setting it down carefully. Suddenly, he heard the front door open and close above him, and the clattering of hard-soled shoes on the hardwood floor.

“Logan?” Regina called out. Though she didn’t see him, she knew that he was here. The lights had already been turned on, and his shoes were by the door. As she took off her jacket, she noticed the bag on the floor. Leaning forward, she peered curiously down into it, expecting something bizarre and ridiculous, the kinds of things that Logan often brought home only to leave lying about. Sadly, however, it was merely filled with cleaning supplies, and other things of that sort. Regina shrugged, somewhat disappointed. Taking off her constraining shoes, she sighed and stepped forward at a tired pace, throwing her purse on the living room couch. “Hey,” said Logan, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen.
“Hey to you,” replied Regina, as she prepared to fulfill the proud American tradition of falling asleep whilst watching television.

Logan stepped into the living room, and said “I’ve got something I want to show you.”
Holding back a groan, Regina stepped away from the couch and raised her hands up to her neck, massaging it. “What is it this time?” she asked, with a tired smile. Though he could tell she was annoyed, her voice still had a ring of caring and sincerity to it. It always had, even during the most trying times of their marriage. That was one of the things that he loved most about her; her voice.
“I’ve been working on this project, in the basement. You know, in my studio.”
Looking to the side, with her smile widening, she replied “Christ, I thought you hadn’t been down there in, what, fifteen years? Hell, we haven’t even spoken about it in at least five.”
Logan smiled back, saying “I know. I’m sorry about not offloading all that junk like you wanted me to. But it’s paid off. I’ve been messing around with the equipment, and I think I’ve really stumbled onto something. Something new.”

Still smiling, Regina shook her head and bit her lip. “Look,” she said, “Clement told me all about your… outbursts in the studio.”
Logan rolled his eyes, saying “Clement’s an asshole. He doesn’t know shit.”
Regina stepped forward and put her hands on his shoulders, saying “He told me all about it. Told me you’re a lazy fuck who isn’t even trying. But he doesn’t know you like I do. I know how much this means to you. How much it kills you when you can’t get in the groove of things. Other people look at you, and see an aging musician who doesn’t give a fuck anymore. But I see you. The real you. The one that’s trying harder than anyone can imagine. And I’ll support you til the day I die, no matter how things turn out between us.”
Logan looked down, before smiling and saying “Thanks.”
Regina turned towards the couch, adding “But I’m tired as fuck, so it’ll have to wait till tomorrow.”

As she picked up the remote, and prepared to collapse onto the couch, Logan looked at her and said “I’ve found it. My sound. The thing I’ve been missing. The authenticity. It’s…” he looked down and smiled, before continuing, “It’s like the Stils again. It’s real.”
Regina looked back at him, and saw the happiness in his eyes. She couldn’t help but smile. Letting out a sigh, she said “Alright, fine. Lead the way. This better be some profound shit, though.” Logan laughed joyfully, leading her through the kitchen, and down into the basement.

“Alright, what the fuck is all this?” asked Regina cheerfully as she stepped onto the tarp.
“It’s for you,” answered Logan, as he shut the door and locked it.
Regina turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. “Okay, seriously Logan… what the fuck is all this?” she asked again, though this time with less humor in her voice.
Logan walked past her, and stood in front of his equipment, breathing deeply as he looked down upon it. “I want to tell you something,” he said, still looking down.
Her heart beginning to pound, Regina shuffled her feet uncomfortably on the tarp, replying “Logan…”
Turning around, Logan looked at her and smiled. “I love you,” he said. “I realized that today. I thought that I hated you. After I found out, about your… affairs. I thought that I despised you. That I wanted to punish you.” Taking a step backwards, Regina said his name again, this time in an almost pleading tone.

“But I don’t,” continued Logan. “I love you. I love everything about you. The way you talk, the way you smile… the way you aren’t afraid to go after what you want. I should have been a better husband for you. I should have been there for you, giving you all the love that you deserved, instead of constantly running off and making a fucking mess of myself. I don’t hate you for cheating on me. I hate myself, because the truth is that I betrayed you long before that ever happened. You didn’t give up on me. I gave up on you. That’s what I realized today. And I want to thank you.”

Though his words were sweet, Regina sensed something deeply wrong with Logan. She looked down at the tarp again. ‘For you,’ she heard him say in her head. Backing up to the door, she gripped the knob tightly and fought with it for a moment, before letting her hand fall from it and looking at Logan defiantly. “Give me the key,” she said. “You’re scaring me.”
Logan smiled, and replied “I want to give you a gift.”
As hot tears began to run down her cheeks, Regina shouted “Let me go!”
Logan turned to face his equipment again, pressing a series of buttons. “I want to give you immortality,” he said. With that, he turned on the microphones placed around the room. In his mind, he could hear his masterpiece playing, crying out for him to add the final touch to it, to breath life into it. Turning, he stepped towards Regina with balled fists. “I love you,” he whispered almost inaudibly. Regina began to scream. And before the sun had risen, his masterpiece had been given it’s soul.

“Oh, that is fucking brutal!” said the man in the suit, although today his suit was blue rather than red. Through his car’s speakers, Logan’s masterpiece played at an excessive volume, Regina’s screams mixed and synthesized until they had become an inseparable part of the aural chaos. “It’s been a long god damn time since I heard something that hit as hard as this. God damn!” continued the man, as he drummed his hands on the steering wheel.
Logan laughed, replying “I’m glad you like it.”
The man glanced over at Logan, and said “So, you made this shit on your own? In that tiny fucking studio in your basement? That’s… surprising, man. I mean, this shit sounds better than most of what comes outta the label’s studio, and we’re talkin’ about hundreds of thousands of dollars of equipment, you know? But damn if this shit doesn’t sound raw. And new.”

Logan smiled. For a man who valued the past as much as he, he nevertheless adored that word. ‘New’. It was the word that he had longed to hear the most. And, as the warm light of the sun shone down on his face through the car’s windows, he closed his eyes, and let the music envelop him, perfectly content. He had finally fulfilled his lifelong goal. He had found something ‘new’. Something ‘original’. Something ‘real’. He was a pioneer of sound, who had cut away the bramble of his frustration and past failures, and discovered a virgin world of beautiful darkness. “You know,” said the man, “now that I think about it, this kinda reminds me of Van Burace. No offense.”
Lost in thought and contentment, and still smiling, Logan apathetically replied “Mm?”
“Oh, you know,” said the man, “That guy from the ‘70s. Psycho fuck. Damn shame about what happened. But that last song of his, the one that was banned, you know, after the investigation… if you can find a bootleg… man. It kills. Like this.”
“Damn shame about what?” asked Logan.
“Don’t you remember?” asked the man. “Hell, it was huge back in the ‘70s.” Logan shook his head. The man smiled, saying “You really don’t remember? Then I guess I’ll have to refresh your fucking memory. He killed his wife, just beat the hell out of her, and recorded it. After that, he mixed it into a song, his last song.”

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