<0012 A New Bass Guitar>
Friday, January 17, 2025, 3:50 p.m. The arrivals-level lobby at Louis Armstrong International Airport.
Cynthia came out through the airport exit with only a backpack on her back.
This time, there was no bass weighing down on her shoulder. The thick, tour-grade gig bag the band had issued her last week was sitting quietly back at her parents’ home in Brooklyn, along with the bass inside it.
Her body felt strangely light.
If anything, that made her uneasy.
“Cindy, over here.”
Cynthia looked up and saw Louise Devillis St.Claire standing just outside the exit.
“Hello, Ms. St.Claire!”
Before she knew it, Cynthia had hurried over to Louise with an excited spring in her step. Louise, by contrast, stood smiling with the same neat, composed posture she always carried.
Beside her stood a broad-shouldered middle-aged man in a gray suit, quiet and unobtrusive.
“This is Mr. Whitaker. He’ll be driving us today.”
The man inclined his head.
“A pleasure to see you again, Miss Lenosky.”
Cynthia reflexively bowed at the waist.
“Ah, hello. I saw you for a moment last week… the cool gentleman.”
“You flatter me.”
Mr. Whitaker answered without much of a smile, though his expression was not particularly stiff either.
A black Lincoln Continental was waiting in the parking lot.
It was nothing like Katty’s old Fiat, whose hinges rattled every time the doors opened. The Lincoln was long and spacious, and its doors opened quietly.
When Mr. Whitaker opened the rear door in front of her, Cynthia hesitated for a moment, unsure where she was supposed to sit.
The interior was dark and roomy, with the faint scent of well-cared-for leather rising from the seats.
Louise gave a short laugh.
“Move all the way in. There’s somewhere you and I need to stop before we go to the rehearsal studio.”
“Huh? Where?”
“Lydie told you, didn’t she? Once you landed, we were going to the music store first.”
“Oh. Yes. Yes.”
Cynthia hurried into the back seat of the Lincoln and gripped the straps of the backpack resting on her lap.
“Are we really buying it today?”
“Rather than buying it, we’re picking it up. You already discussed it with Lydia over messenger, didn’t you? You chose the model, and the band placed the order.”
“I still don’t know if it’s really all right for me to…”
Louise glanced at Cynthia, the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes.
“You’re the one who’ll be playing it. The band’s LLC is simply paying for it.”
With the two women in the back seat, the tenth-generation Lincoln Continental glided smoothly toward the city, almost silent and with barely any vibration.
A little while later, at a music store downtown.
The young clerk with a ponytail carefully laid the bass guitar down on a piece of purple velvet.
“It’s made in Mexico, but there’s hardly any difference in quality from the ones made at the U.S. factory. Go ahead and check it over.”
A standard four-string Jazz Bass from one of the most famous brands in the business.
The only unusual thing about its otherwise familiar configuration was that it was fretless.
Cynthia glanced at Louise, then cautiously ran her hands over the bass.
The neck felt a little thicker than the one she had left at home, and the instrument seemed heavier as well.
How would it sound?
Before Cynthia could even think about whether she ought to ask, the ponytailed clerk had already connected it to an amplifier.
He seemed to know exactly what went through the minds of musicians who came into his store.
Cynthia carefully plucked the strings.
Thum. Thum. Th-th-th-thum. Thum.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh… this one… the sound is…”
The ponytailed clerk smiled.
“How does it sound? Compared with the instrument you’ve been using?”
Cynthia hesitated in front of him, but gave her opinion plainly.
“Well… my old Ibanez sounded light and lively. This Fender is a little more… sly.”
The young man laughed and clapped his hands once.
“That’s a fascinating way to describe it! Could you explain what you mean a little more?”
“The Ibanez answered me the instant I played it. But this Fender…”
Cynthia pressed a string with the tip of her finger.
Thum.
“…feels like it looks the other way for just a split second before answering me. But… I like that little bit of attitude.”
The young man finally burst out laughing and applauded several more times.
“You’re the kind of player who lets an instrument have its own personality! If you try to force that bass, it’ll turn dull. Give it some room, and it’ll sing for you.”
Cynthia plucked the string again.
Thum.
It definitely was a little sly.
As the clerk placed the bass into the new gig bag they had ordered with it, he said,
“If you have even the slightest problem with it, bring it back here. My name’s Josh. I’m always here from late morning through the afternoon. At night, I play guitar and sing in a local band.”
“Oh… I knew you had to be a musician!”
Cynthia brightened, and Josh gave a self-deprecating laugh.
“Though we play alternative rock that’s completely out of step with the times.”
But Josh did not look embarrassed in the slightest.
If anything, he looked proud of it.
He carefully handed the gig bag to Cynthia.
“That bass ought to be happy too. It ended up with a player who’ll let it be itself.”
Cynthia carefully hugged the case to her chest.
As though the instrument inside were still breathing.
Very softly, she whispered,
“Let’s take good care of each other from now on.”
Thum.
She had not touched the strings.
And yet, from somewhere inside the case, Cynthia alone heard the faintest sound of the bass guitar resonating.
<0013 The Breath of Lager>
The rehearsal studio rented by Satin Crescent occupied a one-story building in the St. Claude area, east of downtown New Orleans.
Katty Fisher’s dark green 1964 Fiat 500 was parked out front.
A black Lincoln Continental pulled up beside it, its polished body gleaming softly.
Having Mr. Whitaker open the rear door every time she got out of the Lincoln still made Cynthia feel almost embarrassingly honored.
Louise gave Mr. Whitaker a slight nod of thanks as he held the door open. Beside her, Cynthia hurriedly bowed her head as well.
Mr. Whitaker bowed even more politely than either of them.
“Until you call for me again, Miss Louise.”
The black Lincoln Continental driven by Mr. Whitaker pulled away, leaving behind only a subdued engine note.
Cynthia drew a deep breath in front of the rehearsal studio door.
Last week, she had come here for an audition.
From today on, she would be coming here to rehearse with the band.
Holding the case containing her newly issued bass guitar against herself, Cynthia followed Louise inside.
Katty Fisher had arrived before them and was lying sprawled across the lounge sofa. Without even sitting up, she threw both arms into the air to welcome them.
“Welcome! Oh, Cindy. You’re dressed lighter today.”
Apparently, Katty remembered that Cynthia had arrived last week bundled up in a coat and scarf.
“Yes. The forecast said New Orleans would be warm. It was cold in New York, but when I got off the plane here, it really was warm.”
“That temperature swing must be rough on you too. Want an Abita beer?”
Katty sprang to her feet and reached for the refrigerator in the corner of the lounge.
Cynthia’s eyes widened, and she frantically waved both hands.
“No, I can’t drink beer! I’m still nineteen!”
“Kat. You heard her. She said she doesn’t want any. Don’t offer her alcohol.”
Louise folded her arms and gave Katty a stern look.
Katty scratched at her long, matte-white bleached hair.
“Oh, what does age have to do with it? Back when I was—”
“Ms. Katty—Marilyn—Fisher.”
Louise planted a hand on her hip and pronounced Katty’s full name with such severity that Katty abruptly snapped to attention.
“Y-yes, ma’am.”
“…Cindy, unlike you, is a model student. And she herself is telling you no.”
Under Louise’s stern reprimand, Katty visibly deflated.
“Ngh… yeah… I guess I can’t argue with that…”
She rummaged around in the refrigerator for another moment, then suddenly cheered.
“Oh! We’ve got root beer! This is nonalcoholic, so it’s fine.”
Katty cracked open a chilled can of Abita Root Beer and handed it to Cynthia, then opened an Abita Amber for herself.
Cynthia cautiously sipped at the root beer, rich with herbal aromas and sweetness.
Meanwhile, Katty drained her beer in no time at all.
Louise opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of sparkling water, and kept shooting sidelong looks at Katty.
Then Katty suddenly grinned.
She tilted her head back and opened her mouth toward the ceiling.
BUUUURRRRP.
Like a dragon breathing fire at the ceiling, Katty unleashed a long, thunderous belch.
Cynthia froze in place with the can of root beer still in her hand.
Katty turned toward the stunned Cynthia and murmured with an utterly serious expression,
“Dungeons. And. Dragons.”
“…?”
Cynthia could not answer.
She simply stood there staring.
Was this some kind of Southern joke?
Louise answered instead by lightly smacking Katty on the back of the head.
“Kat, you idiot!”
Katty let out an exaggerated shriek of delight.
“AIEEEE—!”
Cynthia finally realized that the two of them were clowning around to help her relax, and belatedly started laughing.
By the time Cynthia finally managed to finish the root beer, saturated with its herbal sweetness, the majestic rumble of a V8 engine came from the street outside the rehearsal studio.
Lydia’s Corvette.
A moment later, Lydia entered the studio, and everyone greeted her.
Lydia acknowledged them with a smiling nod, then held out the parcel she had tucked under one arm toward Cynthia.
“Cindy, the stage outfit we ordered for you has arrived.”
“What? Already?”
Cynthia’s eyes went wide before she even thought to take the package.
Lydia laughed and pressed it into Cynthia’s arms.
“We used our band’s standard stage-costume pattern and adjusted it to your measurements, so they were able to finish it quickly. Go try it on in that room.”
<0014 Like a Sailor Moon>
Cynthia stood awkwardly in front of the full-length mirror for a while.
It was the first stage costume she had ever worn in her life.
Once she actually had it on, though, it was easier to move in than she had expected.
That was thanks to the flexible performance fabric.
It even felt cool against her skin.
It almost felt like sportswear.
As Cynthia shifted her body this way and that, Lydia gave a faint laugh beside her.
“Fundamentally, it’s the same kind of thing figure skaters and rhythmic gymnasts wear. It just has more decoration.”
Cynthia took the fluttering hem of the short skirt between her fingers.
The skirt was short, but underneath it were fitted performance shorts.
The structure of the top made it impossible to wear a normal bra underneath, but bra cups and support padding were firmly built into the garment itself.
“You don’t have to worry about exposing yourself, and there’s nothing that should get in the way while you move around and play. It’s not quite what it looks like.”
“Yes. It doesn’t feel embarrassing, and it isn’t restrictive either. It’s just…”
Cynthia touched the hair tied high on either side of her head.
“Do I really have to wear my hair like this?”
“It’s to make your presence stand out onstage. The silhouette catches the eye immediately.”
“Hmm… and the high heels feel a little strange.”
“If they’re uncomfortable, we can lower the heels.”
“No. I just mean I’m not used to them. I think I’ll be fine once I’m standing there and concentrating on playing.”
Cynthia looked back into the mirror.
Her makeup had deliberately been applied heavily.
The foundation was vivid enough to keep her complexion from washing out beneath the stage lights, while highlighter had been added along her cheekbones and around her eyes where it would catch the light.
The colors around her eyes and on her cheeks were strong as well.
Lydia had said that those bold colors were a kind of gravity, something that pulled the audience’s eyes toward the stage.
‘Wow… I can look this… different.’
Behind her, Lydia folded her arms and nodded.
“I put several different ideas into this costume. Cancan dancers from the Moulin Rouge cabaret, Mardi Gras parade dancers, French maids. I mixed together elements that grab people’s attention.”
“But did the stage costume really have to be this flashy?”
“Yes. These days, it’s hard to get noticed just by playing music. You have to sell the visuals onstage too. The costume and makeup are tools for that.”
There was conviction in Lydia’s eyes as she said it.
Cynthia suddenly remembered.
Lydia had once been a mainstream pop star.
There were things she had seen and learned during those years.
And now she was applying them to the way she ran the band.
“But… I kind of feel like… Sailor Moon.”
The moment Cynthia said it, Louise and Katty both burst out laughing.
“We thought exactly the same thing the first time we put on the stage costumes Lydie ordered for us.”
Louise nodded.
Katty clapped her hands.
“Exactly. I asked Lydie if she was trying to make us cosplay anime characters. You know what this woman said to me back then?”
Katty shot Lydia a sidelong look.
Lydia met it without the slightest hesitation. If anything, she gave Katty a faint smirk before answering.
“There’s something I learned when I was a pop singer. Put a person under stage lights, and they become a visual form made up of color and shape. Fortunately, all of us are naturally good-looking people. So why wouldn’t we make maximum use of that? Facial contours. Skin tone. Where the audience’s eyes are drawn. You calculate all of it and present it to the crowd as deliberately and conspicuously as possible.”
Cynthia stared at Lydia in surprise.
Lydia was not speaking merely as the leader of a band.
She was speaking from the perspective of a thoroughly commercial music producer.
“Now that we’ve decided to aim for the mainstream, we should probably start looking for a professional stylist and makeup artist too. But until now, we’ve been a locally based indie band, so I’ve had no choice but to order the costumes myself and coordinate everyone’s makeup.”
“Oh, right. That was a thing.”
Katty scratched at her bleached-white hair and gave a small laugh.
“I remember that too.”
Louise closed her eyes with a faint smile.
It had been 2016, not long after the three of them had begun performing together as a trio.
The performers’ greenroom of a small club.
Lydia had applied a thin layer of foundation to Katty’s face, then added highlighter to the areas that would catch the stage lights, such as her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose.
Next, she selected and applied a lip color that suited Louise’s complexion.
She had also chosen a powder in advance to keep their entire faces from looking shiny beneath the lights.
Lydia even calculated how Katty’s eyes would read from the stage.
So she applied several coats of mascara to her lashes.
Katty sat still while Lydia worked on her face, but she continued muttering.
“Isn’t this way too much? Why do you keep trying to make my eyelashes twice as long?”
Louise kept her eyes closed as she allowed Lydia’s brush to move over her face.
“And why are you putting gold shimmer powder around my eyes?”
Lydia alternated between the two women, applying one cosmetic after another.
“Because of the visual composition onstage. Under dark club lighting, you need this much just to keep your faces alive.”
Katty let out a small sigh.
Then she lifted a white wig in both hands.
“And what the hell is this hot wig supposed to be? We’re not a K-pop girl group, and we’re not some cosplay club that got lost on the way to Comic-Con.”
Louise added quietly,
“…She does have a point.”
A brief silence followed.
Lydia put down her brush.
Then she stared at the two of them.
Her voice was low and calm.
“My point is that we need presence onstage. You both agreed to that. So should we give up the costumes and makeup that practically amount to theatrical styling and go with masks like Slipknot instead?”
Katty’s mouth fell open.
“Slipknot…?!”
Huge men wrapped in black industrial jumpsuits.
Grotesquely distorted masks pulled over their faces.
A band with nothing but chilling eyes flashing from behind them.
Katty went pale and shook her head.
“No. No. That’s even weirder. I’d rather wear makeup and one of these maid-looking dresses.”
Louise shook her head just as vigorously.
“…I also vote to maintain the current system.”
Lydia nodded.
“Thank you for your cooperation, ladies. To be fair, I wasn’t thinking of anything as grotesque as their masks. I was considering something more like opera masks. But I suppose showing off our natural faces is better for both the audience and us.”
Katty and Louise both suddenly had the same thought.
Wait.
Opera masks might actually have been fine.
Katty wiped the sweat from her scalp with a towel after wearing the wig and muttered,
“At this point, I’d rather just go to a salon and bleach my own hair.”
Louise murmured wearily,
“I think I’ll just keep wearing this silver wig…”