The Lost Ballet

by Richard Dorrance

  Chapter 30 – Townshend Rocks The Hall

  Nev left and everyone went back to work. Well, everyone, including Gwen, stood around pretending to work, but actually they were watching The Whosey set up his equipment. He had said earlier he might have to buy or rent another synthe or two, but right now it was just the one big one he had brought with him. Wires ran from it to the computer on the table, and more wires ran from the computer to a connection box recessed into the floor of the stage. The box was connected not only to the theater’s sound system, but also to its lighting system. Everything could be controlled by theatrical software on the computer. The Russian Peter had asked the English Peter who was going to work the synthesizer software, and he had said, “How about you and Pater?”

  “We don’t know how.”

  “I’ll teach you, if you want to learn.”

  Unbelievable. The Whosey would teach the Ps how to be sound engineers. God, were they glad they had decided to help the Junes and Henric and Helstof steal stuff from the Hermitage, even if it meant they had to leave Russia, have the secret police after them, and have Stirg after them. They were doing ballet, and now they were going to help a genius make music. They loved their Charleston.

  About 3pm Townshend moved a chair over to the synthe and turned on the power switch. He made a few final adjustments on the computer, showing the Ps what he was doing, and said, “I think we’re good to go.” The woman came out of the office and Bart brought Selgey back to earth, having lifted her above his head with one arm, trying out a new move. Helstof and Gale watched from the table where they were drawing sketches of leotards. Townshend sat down and closed his eyes. His hands came up to one of the three keyboards on the synthe, and poised. Then, it happened.

  First a trill by the right hand. He adjusted volume. Then a simulated pizzicato by the left hand. He adjusted a setting. Then both hands touched the keys and sound exploded from the theater’s forty speakers. Townshend crashed into a rendition of “White City Fighting”, the bass and drums coming from pre-recorded tracks, him playing David Gilmour’s guitar lines on the keyboard. He played for a minute, getting into the groove with the base and drums, then began to sing, no mike, so it was hard to hear the words:

  The White City, that's a joke of a name

  It's a black violent place, if I remember the game

  I couldn't wait to get out, but I love to go home

  To remember the White City fighting.

  The White City Fighting, remember, remember

  The White City Fighting, remember, remember.

  And he was gone. Playing, playing, singing, making setting adjustments, looking out at the seats, cocking his head at the tone coming from the speakers, bringing on another pre-recorded track to fill a gap in the instrumentation. Roger and Gwen knew this song, and were mesmerized by the power and the melody. They moved closer to him so they could hear the words. Townshend didn’t notice them as he calibrated the synthe with the recording software on the computer. The Ps waited for direction, but he was gone, into a zone. He truncated “White City Fighting”, and launched into “Let My Love Open the Door”:

  When everything feels all over

  When everybody seems unkind

  I'll give you a four-leaf clover

  Take all the worry out of your mind.

  Let my love open the door

  Let my love open the door.

  Then it was another song, and another, and another. He played the lead instrument on the keyboard, calling up the other instruments on recorded tracks. The Ps watched the computer, and could see how the synthesizer interacted with it. Townshend controlled the computer software using controls on the synthe. Some of the recorded tracks were on the computer’s hard drive, and some were on the synthe’s hard drive. Only Townshend knew what was where. He played the final chorus of “Blue Red and Gray”, the synthe sounding exactly like a ukulele, him singing:

  Some people seem so obsessed with the morning

  Get up early just to watch the sunrise.

  Some people like it more when there's fire in the sky

  Worship the sun when it's high.

  Some people go for those sultry evenings

  Sipping cocktails in the blue, red, and grey.

  But I like every minute of the day

  I like every second

  So long as you are on my mind.

  Every moment has its special charm

  It's all right when you're around, rain or shine.

  I know a crowd who only lives after midnight

  Their faces always seem so pale.

  And then there's friends of mine, who must have sunlight

  They say a suntan never fails.

  I know a man who works the night shift

  He’s lucky to get a job and some pay.

  And I like every minute of the day.

  I dig every second

  I can laugh in the snow and rain.

  I get a buzz from being cold and wet

  The pleasure seems to balance out the pain.

  And so you see that I'm completely crazy

  I even shun the south of France.

  The people on my hill, they say I'm lazy

  But when they sleep I sing and dance.

  Some people have to have the sultry evenings

  Sipping cocktails in the blue, red and grey.

  But I like every minute of the day

  I like every minute, of the day.

  And then he was back. He sat in the chair, looking around, and smiled. He said, “I’m ready. Where’s Old Igor’s stuff?”