Only the Good Die Young

Chapter 13.2

I keep listening. Billy sings about how Virginia's religious background is sheltering her, going so far to say that she's taking refuge from life behind a stained glass curtain. I have to say it's a creative metaphor. Mr. Penderton would probably approve. I wait for Billy to teach me how to shoot up.

I listen as Billy continues to disparage Catholicism through rhyme. It's a good thing this song isn't about that other religion that's always in the news, or Billy would probably need a bodyguard.

A saxophone solo fills my ears. I try to envision what my mother would do if she heard this song. Or what she would do if she knew I was listening to it. Beethoven this ain't.

The chorus repeats and the song ends. I pull out the earphones. Only the Good Die Young is perhaps the most meaningless song I've ever heard.

"Nice song, Kyle," I say. "Is this supposed to make me go to bed with you or something?"

Kyle looks shocked. "No, not at all. Why would you say that?"

"Well, that's what it's about. You're implying that I'm – and I'm not even Catholic – a frigid priss who can't enjoy herself sexually. Right?"

Kyle glares, wraps up his headphones and slips his iPod in his jeans. "Chill out, Rebecca. I just think you should think for yourself instead of parroting what your mother says all the time. You're not the first person to wonder if what you were raised on is a load of shit. This song was a smash when it came out in the seventies. Think how many people identified with it. All I'm saying is you're not alone. Hey, want to hear You're Not Alone by Amy Grant? It's kind of churchy but it's got a great bridge. Jesse probably knows it."

I snort. "I swear you know every song ever written. I bet there's not a single topic you haven't got a song for." I intend this to be insulting, but instead Kyle's eyes gleam.

"Try me."

"Rape," I say.

"Me and a Gun, Tori Amos."

"Suicide."

"Mercy Street, Peter Gabriel."

"Domestic abuse."

"Birmingham, Amanda Marshall."

"A daughter's screwed up relationship with her mother," I say, irritated. I could probably write one myself.

Kyle looks at me, oddly. "Numb, Linkin Park. But that's just about bad relationships in general. I'm sure there's one out there."

"A hole in your musical knowledge, Kyle?" I taunt. "How awful."

Kyle glares. "What's gotten into you? I was just trying to expand your mind. You should learn the Billy Joel song on the piano. You'd have something cool to play."

 "Yeah." He looks crestfallen and I realize I've been cruel for no reason. "Well, transcribe it for me and I'll give it a shot." I really don't want to learn it, but I'm trying to make him feel better.

"Use your ear," says Kyle.

"My ear isn't very good. Just write it out for me," I repeat.

"It would take forever. I'll buy you the sheet music."

We sit in silence and I scratch at the weather stripping again.

"Do you ever write your own music?" I say.

Kyle's face becomes sullen. "There's no point. Record execs aren't interested in a guy like me. It's all about 'the whole package' and being hot and fuckable."

My eyes widen. "Kyle! What a thing to say!"

"It's true. Look at Alex. She's thin and beautiful and an album cover with her in a miniskirt would sell a million copies. She's a record producer's dream. I'm ten times the musician she is, but she's hot and slim."

Kyle's voice threatens to break and he kicks his heel on the ground. "Sometimes I don't even know why I bother to practice."

What do I say to something like that? Before I can think of a way to make him feel better, he plunges ahead.

"Music videos changed everything, Rebecca," he says. He tugs at the magazine pocket on the seat in front of him and snaps it dejectedly. "When we just had the radio it didn't matter what people looked like. With music videos the singer has to be hot. Have you ever seen a picture of Buddy Holly? He's a geek if there ever was one. Or the Beatles? Four geeks. But their music was phenomenal. It changed the way people lived. Lots of the stuff on the radio today is just cookie-cutter garbage that's advertised on MuchMusic and MTV. Music videos are commercials. There are exceptions – those are the songs I want you to listen to – but the vast majority of it is just shit. Like DJs and stuff. They think they're these fantastic musicians, but drum machines have no soul. There are no lyrics, no chords, no keys, just lots of thumping. It's not music, it's just a beat to mosh and fight by. Computers are totally ruining the music industry. Nobody has to be talented anymore. A sound engineer can go in with a computer and pitch correct a recording one note at a time. Guys like Frank Sinatra and his band had to get everything right on the first try. Now everything is recorded over and over and over. The band doesn't even play together. The drummer records the drums – by himself – then the guitar player records his part while he's listening to the drummer on headphones. The whole song is recorded in pieces and put together on a machine like a jigsaw puzzle. There's no interplay between the musicians. That's why the music industry created the phrase 'recording artist.' They're not musicians, they're just good with technology." He crushes his Diet Coke bottle with his fist. If it weren't empty, brown sugar water would be all over the floor.

I had no idea someone who loves music so much could be so cynical about it. "You do it because you want to be a good musician, though," I say, trying to be supportive. "You don't want to be rich and famous." I try not to be too supportive, though. I don't want him to get the wrong idea.

"I wouldn't mind," says Kyle, weakly. He relaxes his grip on the bottle.

"Well, stick with it. Don't quit because of music videos and computers. Maybe you'll be a legend one day, like that Jamie Hendrix guy."

"Jimi Hendrix."

"Yeah, him. People will be like, 'Wow, have you heard the new Kyle Foster album? It's awesome.' And people will get together and smoke marijuana and rave about how psychedelic you are."

Kyle relaxes in his chair. He seems to be in a peaceful place. "That would be so cool." Then he looks at me awkwardly. "Uh, thanks."

I think he wants to hug me. One of us would have to cross the aisle, and I'm not going to because Jesse might notice. So we just sit there.

"Isabelle?" I say, finally.

"Isabelle," he says. He unzips his case, takes out his guitar and starts to strum.