In Harmony

by JN Welsh

  Gladys, who had already made her way to the celebrations with a few other musicians, locked arms with her and dragged her to the bar. “It’s about time you got here,” Gladys said and then addressed the handsome bartender in tuxedo. “The Veuve Clicquot Rose and a Hennessy neat, please.” Gladys ordered Nyah’s post-performance drink as easily as she’d ordered her own.

  When the bartender laid their drinks before them Nyah picked up the cognac. “Okay, give me the lowdown.”

  “So you know the Los Angeles Philharmonic will be playing here soon. Well, Cecelia N’backu is here.”

  Nyah gasped. “But she’s supposed to be in London interviewing candidates for the symphony. Did you know she was going to be here?”

  Gladys cocked her head. “Girl, no. That would definitely be something I couldn’t keep to myself. You know I have no lock on these lips.”

  The exact reason why Nyah kept her moonlighting under wraps. “What’s she doing here?”

  “I don’t know, but you and I have a date to become two large red blips on her freakin’ radar.” Gladys pushed more than dragged Nyah to the crowd hovering before CeCe.

  She and Gladys kindly waited their turn when CeCe’s eyes landed on Gladys. The woman gave Gladys an arms-length embrace. “Gladys. Good to see you again. It’s been a long time since Prague. I was just telling Martin how the orchestra delighted this evening.”

  “Yes,” Martin confirmed. “She compliments me as she tries to steal my principals for her symphony.” Martin teased but the truth threaded through his words.

  “Oh, Martin. It’s only for the summer season. At least to start,” CeCe noted. Then she glanced over at Nyah, who had been taking in the conversation like inventory for sale later. “You were gorgeous tonight as well, Nyah.”

  “Nyah has principal potential, once she applies herself.”

  She almost choked on the small sip of cognac and burned up her nostrils. Martin’s statement was news to her.

  “I quite agree with Martin.” CeCe’s narrowed eyes peered into Nyah’s soul, reading it like sheet music. “What are your aspirations, Nyah?”

  To play Artistique and bang out boss tracks. Nyah had to admit that her current goals related to her classical career were muddled, but honesty revealed that deejaying had begun to demand a bigger portion of her career. She’d gotten to this point maintaining as best she could because she had passion for both genres. She didn’t foresee herself moving both careers forward at the same pace, but rather one at a time at her will. Now CeCe asked her, off the cuff, about where Nyah thought she was headed.

  “Well, currently, I love my work with the philharmonic but planned to apply for the London Symphony’s summer season.” All that was true, ergo her and Gladys’s Sunday session to do their applications, but Nyah couldn’t deny the fact that she’d kill to also get a chance to dive into the UK dance music scene.

  “I’d like to hear a solo piece while I’m visiting. How about Tuesday?”

  Nyah swallowed. “Sure. We have practice in the morning but I can do a piece for you right after.” Nyah sought confirmation from Martin. His orchestra meant his orchestra’s time.

  “I’ll be there at the tail end of rehearsals. We’ll continue from there. That should be fine, shouldn’t it, Martin?” CeCe asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I look forward to hearing your selection.” CeCe nodded and both she and Martin walked toward some of the other donors.

  Gladys clapped her hands in tiny almost invisible movements. “Mission accomplished. We have to finish our applications tomorrow.”

  “Do you think we can use the same performance piece for the application as the one she wants to see on Tuesday? I mean, no sense doing it twice if we’ll be doing it for her anyway. If we record it, we can send it as a reminder.”

  “Well, if she likes the piece, yes. Percussion is a little more challenging because I don’t need an accompaniment.”

  “Excuse me, still challenging for double bass. I need to find someone and rehearse with them before Tuesday,” Nyah reminded her.

  “Truth...apologies. Do you have any ideas about what you’re going to do?” Gladys asked.

  “Vanhal or Bottesini might be safer options.”

  “Get Sacchi to accompany on piano.”

  Nyah drummed her fingers on her chin. “That’s possible.” She had a performance in a few quick passing hours downtown at Rebel. How had her priorities suddenly changed so drastically?

  “Yup. We can ask him once he has another Old Fashioned.” Gladys pointed to Sacchi who rocked a full tail tuxedo.

  “I like the way you scheme.” Nyah eyed her friend. “I know you don’t need an accompaniment but you could have one if you wanted. If you do, I think you should get Evan to play with you.”

  “Fuck, no.” Had the chatter in the room not ramped up with the second and third round of drinks for the attendees, everyone would have heard Gladys’s violent rejection.

  “He’s really good and violin would sound really nice with timpani.” Nyah dared to add, “Plus he likes you.”

  “Smother your mouth with bacitracin ointment and don’t ever spew such vileness again.”

  Nyah laughed at her friend’s emotional response, which meant that even with Evan giving himself ego boosts, Gladys already knew and perhaps even reciprocated Evan’s super low-key affection. Nyah’s fake yawn felt real and she needed to get some caffeine in her soon if she was going to get to the club and play for three or four hours. “Hey, I’m dragging, so I think I’m going to head out. Cover for me?”

  “You got it,” Gladys said. “See you tomorrow.”

  Nyah slipped out unnoticed.

  * * *

  Nyah pulled on multicolored short-shorts and a matching crop top that formed to her body like a second skin. She angled her body to double check her butt cleavage. Just enough. She took a bite of her thrown-together breadless turkey, tomato, and lettuce sandwich, and put go shopping on her list of things to do. She wiped mustard from the corners of her mouth. Her hips swiveled and she pumped her arms as she danced to test the comfortability and constraints of her outfit. She jumped high and hard, keeping her eye on her C-cups. Not too much underboob. “This’ll do.”

  The wardrobe checks were something relatively new. When she’d first launched her DJ career, she’d barely bob her head to keep time to the music while she surveyed the crowd like analytics. She had mixed music to take the crowd higher, waiting for them to indicate to her, by the speed and intensity of their movements, that her sound had penetrated their humdrum two-step. She’d needed them to show her that her music had dug its way into their soul. She had wanted her audience to dance with abandon, but all they’d done was watch her handle the equipment. Nyah had been, in a word, boring onstage. Her downfall. The connection never happened and the failure was only compounded by the fact that she was Pete Monroe’s daughter. She’d been foolish to think she could fill his shoes. That’s when she jumped ship and found safe passage playing her bass in the philharmonic. With classical, she wasn’t the only one being watched, that is, if the audience watched her at all. David Geffen Hall at Lincoln Center became a haven for her to lick her dance music wounds before she regrouped and took another chance. A different chance.

  Now as she wrestled her huge fro into two Afro puffs, she commanded forth her persona like Beyoncé did Sasha Fierce. The elaborate eye makeup covered a third of her face, adding to her disguise. She glossed her lips pale pink and felt in awe at what a difference a few years had made since she’d taken control of, well, everything and stopped letting people make decisions for her. She pumped her favorite perfume into the air, twirling and dancing through the mist. Completing the transformation from double bassist Nyah Monroe to DJ Queen Roe, the fiercest underground DJ in New York City, she donned her rose-tinted, heart-shaped glasses. She posed, checking her angles for the selfie
s, stories, and snapshots that’d be shared of her later. After she stuffed the last of her gear into her multicolored backpack, she hauled it onto her back and grabbed the subway to Rebel.

  * * *

  “I think I’m ready.” Trinket stopped Nyah before she even got to the back of the club to lock her shit away. “The house party went great, right?”

  “You killed it, like I knew you would,” Nyah encouraged her fellow DJ and friend Layla “Trinket” Jones. “Do you think you want to do more house parties before doing something a little more public?”

  “Like what?” Trinket asked. She’d recently hosted and finally played her first house party after the third attempt. Trinket’s spirited line of questions showed her excitement to level up.

  “Maybe a spot at a less dense part of Central Park or maybe you can do something low-key, with a family vibe, like Sundae Sermon?” Nyah suggested to her.

  Trinket clutched her chest and Nyah could see the fear in Trinket’s features.

  “Too much?” Nyah questioned. If this was her reaction to a relaxed event outdoors, then the Rebel stage might be an overshot.

  Trinket’s shoulder slumped. “People have been asking me where I’m playing next and I want to give them a date but...maybe I’m not ready. You and Oscar being there helps. Once I get past the first ten minutes and start really mixing and getting creative, I’m great.”

  “We’re happy to be your training wheels, but you’ve got to get to the point where you can do it with or without us.” Nyah had met Trinket three years ago when Nyah started frequenting clubs to reconcile the DJ life she wanted and the one she’d lost.

  Trinket’s cool neo soul meets grunge appeal had caught Nyah’s eye when an MC announced Trinket. Trinket’s approach to the stage started with the shakes, wobbly legs, and visible sheen of sweat on her forehead. Her first mistake in getting the music started had been greeted with cheers, but by her third faux pas, the groans started and Trinket ditched the stage. Watching her reminded Nyah of her own problems performing and she empathized with how Trinket must feel up there all alone.

  “Crash and burn. Maybe next time, Trinket,” a girl standing next to Nyah had called.

  “Is this a thing?” Nyah had asked.

  The girl nodded. “She tries on the regular but never manages to perform.”

  Trinket’s stage fright had won the day and also every attempt afterward, to the point where her struggle became expected as part of Rebel’s lore. Great for the club, with people attending to hedge their bets on whether or not she’d play, but horrible for Trinket. The last time that happened, Nyah had helped Trinket recover with a bottle of Jaeger.

  By the time the bottle neared the bottom, the patron-less club housed few bodies, and those who remained were shutting down the venue for the night. Nyah had asked Trinket to get on the dials. “Just play to me,” Nyah had said. After a lot of tipsy begging on Nyah’s part, Trinket agreed and her music had filled the club. Nyah couldn’t believe what she was witnessing. Not only was Trinket good, she was better than Nyah or any of the DJs playing at Rebel. From that moment on, Nyah made it her mission to help Trinket get to the stage as soon as possible.

  “Your skills are ready, Trinket. Your head got some catching up to do. That’s why I think something in the park could be a natural next step. Your progress might be slow going right now but it’s going to gain crazy momentum. I promise. I can’t wait for everyone to hear you play. This year I want to see you right up there on that stage. Your stage fright has gotten so much better already. Play a couple more parties and do something low-key public and then maybe you graduate to the Rebel stage.” Nyah locked her valuables in her locker. “How does that sound?”

  “Fine, I guess.” Trinket dragged it out in a “yeah mom” kind of way.

  “I just don’t want you to backslide. I mean, you might, but we want just a tiny step back if it happens. Plus, you can make a killing charging for your next house party.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nyah said.

  Trinket leaned against the row of sticker and graffiti decorated lockers. “I don’t know how you do it, Queen. I mean, you play that classical shit and then you come here. Doesn’t it freak you out to be onstage?”

  Trinket must have asked her that a thousand times already and each time Nyah’s answer was the same. “I just focus on the music and enjoy what I’m playing.”

  “I’m thinking of maybe going to talk to someone,” Trinket blurted out.

  Nyah muscles tensed as she tried to keep her elation in check.

  “I said thinking,” Trinket clarified.

  Nyah managed her expectations. “It might help and that’s all I’ll say, because I know this is your decision.”

  “Cool.”

  Nyah didn’t say much more, so as not to sway Trinket one way or the other. “So, when’s the next party? I want to put it on the calendar so I can make it.” Which for Nyah meant lots of caffeine, no sleep and bouncing to several places including her apartment, Rebel and the philharmonic, several times.

  “I’m going to do them every week this month.”

  “Wait. When did you decide that?”

  “Just now.”

  “All right. I like the dedication.” Nyah beamed. “I won’t be able to come until the end of the month because I’ll be playing at the concert hall and here for the next few weeks, but I’ll definitely be at that one.”

  “Sweet.” Trinket played with a bead on one of her black, auburn-dusted locks. “Hey, did you hear from Artistique?”

  The question poked at a sore spot. “Not yet. I should have heard from them by now, right? Still nothing.”

  Trinket cheesed with her thumbs up. “I’m sure you’ll hear from them soon. Don’t stress.”

  Nyah needed Trinket’s positivity, otherwise she’d be in her head, psyching herself out. “I’m trying not to, but real talk, it’s like auditioning. No matter how well I think I did or what a great application I sent, I still get the nervies waiting.”

  “The nervies? You’re a trip.” Trinket giggled.

  “Have I never said that to you before?”

  Trinket shook her head. “We must not be real friends.”

  “Stop.” She bumped Trinket with her hip.

  “Don’t let the nervies stop you from being great, baby girl,” Nyah’s father would say to her before her auditions. As a young musical prodigy wannabe, she’d needed his words back then. Today, they continued to provide her comfort but she’d developed a level of toughness only earned from the bitterness of failure.

  “Okay, I have to get ready to go on.”

  “Good thing you came through the back. The papz have been prowling the club asking about you, wanting photos and interviews.”

  Queen Roe’s popularity had grown where DJ Nyah Monroe’s failed five years ago. Though this was a good problem to have, she worked even harder to keep her names straight and outfits square. Trinket and Oscar were the only ones who knew about her classical life and about who she was underneath the makeup and without the Afro puffs. “Like real paparazzi or just influencers, contributors, and tastemakers?”

  Trinket twisted her mouth to one side and squinted an almond-shaped eye. “I think all of the above. I recognize some from ‘the gram.’”

  “Any from the big magazines, because you know that would really be catastrophic.” Nyah’s curiosity mounted.

  “Girl, how the fuck should I know? They’re not looking for me.”

  Nyah laughed at Trinket’s animation. “Well, when you finally play, trust me, they will.”

  “I wish they would. I think I could handle the media, it’s just the stage.”

  “Can you find out for me? I’ll buy you a drink later.”

  Trinket scoffed. “Our drinks are on the house.”

  Nyah offered Trinke
t prayer hands. “Please.”

  “Okay. Let me find out. You’ll probably be onstage by the time I get any info, but I’ll give you the download later.”

  “Thank you.” Nyah hugged her friend. “You’re the best.”

  Nyah rested her black headphones around her neck and grabbed her computer and glow in the dark Serato vinyl. Her muscles stored explosive energy, which she couldn’t wait to release onstage. She heard the mic tap and the MC give her and the crowd a five-minute warning.

  “Coming to the stage, the phenomenal, the fierce... Her Majesty, Queen Roe.”

  Chapter Four

  Tommy swirled tawny-colored liquor in his glass and felt the rattling ice cubes, even as the heavy bass vibrated the club. He wasn’t a big drinker but whatever he wanted was on the house, courtesy of Oscar. Tommy always made up for it in tips.

  The DJs Tommy had seen at the clubs he attended earlier had been mediocre at best. Now, as he hitched on a barstool, he committed to staying at Rebel for the remainder or the night’s acts, even if this might also be a waste of his time. He considered leaving before he noticed the fairly crowded club swell with an influx of patrons. A woman with dreadlocks running down her back squeezed her way through a gang of people and leaned her stomach against the bar in front of him.

  “Seltzer and lemon, Nick. I’m going to need all the hydration for when Queen Roe comes on.” She ordered and adjusted her colorful Kente cloth print head wrap. She eyed him, then, as if really seeing him, did a double take. “Hey, you’re that big agent. Oscar’s cousin?”

  “Tommy Boombox.” He held out his hand. “And you are?”

  “Trinket. I’m a DJ and work here as a guest attendant. Basically I go where I’m needed.” She took his hand and gave him a firm shake.

  “Nice to meet you, Trinket.”