Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,25

strip of gaffer tape with The Mortals scratch tracks Property of Gray Dae written in white.

I unwound the filthy cable, plugged it in. From its paltry number of basic apps, I tapped one I’d never heard of: SongEdit Free. A barebones multitrack editor. I imagined Gray—the Gray I once knew—recording impromptu sessions in his bandmate’s van, or maybe backstage, or maybe right here in his bedroom late at night on a night like this.

I unplugged my headphones from the amp and plugged into the iPod, which looked comically thin and small and obsolete. But at this moment, it felt like an alien relic containing all the secrets of a lost society.

For now here were all the tracks the Mortals had ever performed, in various states of development. I already knew almost all of them. The ones I didn’t know were named Vocals Rough or Random Beats 08 or Untitled Project 32—scratch ideas full of stops and starts that could not even be called songs.

And there, at the very top of the list—meaning the most recent—was a file called Beauty Is Truth Final.

BEAUTY IS TRUTH IS BEAUTY IS TRUTH IS

I hit Play.

To understand my reaction to this track, it would help to understand the typical Mortals song, which like all power pop punk hewed to a precise click track and traditional song structure to produce something like:

VERSE 1 → CHORUS

VERSE 2 → CHORUS

BRIDGE → CHORUS

“Beauty Is Truth” did not hew to traditional structure. It did not hew to anything. It was seven minutes long—twice the length of a typical song. Its tempo fluctuated anywhere between anthem slow and mosh-pit fast. It jumped around all over the place, ignoring genre boundaries. Mapped out, it looked like this:

FREEFORM INTRO → VERSE 1 (ROCK) → CHORUS A

EDM BREAKDOWN → CHORUS B → VERSE 2 (ROCK)

BRIDGE 1 (TRAP) → VERSE 3 (ACOUSTIC) → BRIDGE 2 (A CAPELLA)

FINAL CHORUS → OUTRO (TECHNO)

I finished the track. I examined the iPod with amazement. I tightened the headphone band on my head.

And I listened again.

The song got better. I could not understand how it did that.

By the fourth listen, I knew enough of the lyrics to mouth along. As I did, I held the framed photo of me and Gray, and I discovered I wanted to cry a little.

As far as I knew, Gray worked on this song in secret during his senior year of high school. The song had never been performed onstage. It lived only on this forgotten device. Gray hadn’t told anyone about it. Why not? Did he think people wouldn’t like it?

Why hadn’t Gray ever told me about it?

The song ended—again—and I found myself shaking my head with wonder.

The song was the most Gray thing I had ever experienced. It was pure Gray.

Like characters in a game, all people are born endowed with specific magicks. Unlike games, however, that magic depletes over time without careful cultivation and care. Very few people possess the strength to hold on to the magic for very long. It gets even harder as the vine of magic grows thinner and thinner, eventually becoming as thin as a desiccated branch that breaks off with a snap.

Gray’s song—“Beauty Is Truth”—was magic.

I wished I could tell Gray that, but Gray didn’t seem to be listening to anyone right now.

Sleepy. I doffed the headphones, stood the guitar upright. Clicked off the amp.

BEAUTY IS TRUTH IS BEAUTY IS TRUTH IS

Did the wheel start with Beauty? Or Truth?

I went to my room and lay on my bed. I hadn’t put on my sleep cap or night guard or anything yet, but found I didn’t care right now about halitosis or proper cephalic thermoregulation or the perils of unchecked bruxism.

I just lay there missing Gray, even as he slept just two floors away. I looked at the orange-stained photo of us.

I took a tissue and carefully wiped as much of the orange off as I could, set the photo aside, and clap-clap, turned out the light.

Shame

Thursday. After school.

With fingers still sore from music practice, I adjusted my desk lamp and opened my notebook.

DIY FANTASY FX—SUNNY DAE

I took the tiny pen from the tiny knight and wrote Prop ideas.

I had ten minutes before it was time to head to Cirrus’s house before the football game, so I figured I would get some brainstorming done.

I spent the next four minutes doing nothing but tapping the pen.

Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

Cir-rus-Soh. Cir-rus-Soh.

I looked at the page. It was freckled with ink.

Knock-knock, went the door, and Dad poked his head