Playing For Keeps

Lena was raised on violin lessons and minimal parental supervision. “And by ‘minimal,’” she declared to her private tutor, Henri, “I mean none. Zip. Nada. I’ve spent more time with you and my violin instructors than I have with them.” She laughed and grabbed her Scott Cao by the pegs, flipping it hard and high into the air so it spun in a tight circle. 

Henri gasped. Lena looked him in the eyes and grinned. At the last second, without looking, she reached up and caught the violin by the pegs. Snatching it to her chest, she deftly plucked a furious rendition of Eddie Van Halen’s “Eruption” before shifting to the final power chords of Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven.” 

“‘To be a rock and not to roll,’” she quoted. “My parents have rolled across the globe, collecting passport stamps, Euro tramps and turista cramps. They seek exclusive beaches, native screeches and social breaches. Their whole world is surfing the wave of international travel distraction and navel-gazing that Daddy’s social media business gifted them. I’m the rock they left behind in the dirt. To be raised by whoever they could hire to distract me, feed me and make sure I never thought of escaping this gilded cage.” 

Lena snorted in disgust as she glared around her “music room.” It was large enough to include a practice concert stage. The walls, ceiling and flooring were engineered to block outside sound and distill every note to the finest clarity for whoever might be listening. In all of Lena’s nearly eighteen years, this was just her and her violin instructor, with one woeful exception. When she was nine, her parents had made a big fuss about a “concert from our prodigy.” For weeks leading up to the show, Lena had sweated over her selected pieces, practicing until they were perfect. Her then-instructor wept as he listened to her dress rehearsal. “Mais oui, ma cheri!” exulted Jean-Jacques, “You have captured the essence, the very essence!” Lena basked in his approbation and wriggled with the delight she hoped her mother and father would feel at her performance.

When the appointed hour arrived, Jean-Jacques introduced her with exaggerated flair. Lena waltzed onto the stage and stopped cold. Every seat was empty. Nobody had bothered to attend. Her violin and bow drooping to the floor, she shuffled her feet, lower lip quivering. Her stomach, which had been filled with butterflies all afternoon, turned ice-cold with dread.

“Ssstt!” hissed Jean-Jacques from the wings. “Ma petite lapin, it is showtime! The artist does not wait on the audience. Begin!”

Lena nestled her instrument under her chin and drew her “composure breath.” Steadied, she put bow to strings and began Bach’s Chaconne. Her parents sauntered into the room just as the final notes were fading. Both were deeply tanned and her mother had had more work done on her face. 

“Oh Lena!” cried her mother. “You started without us?” Her lips were pressed together tightly, but no frown lines could crease her forehead. 

Her father shook his silver mane. Much thicker than when I saw you last, daddy. Hair plugs? thought Lena. “We’re late, dear,” he said. “I told you not to take that call. And we’ve missed Chaconne. My favorite. Perhaps there will be an encore if we take our seats quickly and quietly.” Doing anything quietly was not one of her mother’s attributes. She fussed over which seat to take and, once the seat was selected, she twitched and fidgeted, arranging her clothing.

“Thank you for coming,” said Lena. “My next piece is Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.” Closing her eyes, Lena summoned the scene and feelings that Nachtmusik meant to her. This focusing exercise was the difference between a ho-hum rendition and a superb one. 

She raised her bow. Just as it touched the strings, her mother bleated, “Oh, the Night Music one! I love this song!” Jangled right out of her focus, Lena’s first note was off. She shook her head and pressed on, but her delivery lacked the proper emotion and pace. This upset her, but not as much as watching her mother grow bored two minutes into the piece, pulling out her phone and poking at it for the rest of the number.

Lena glanced over to Jean-Jacques. He was rubbing the bridge of his nose, eyes pressed hard shut against the spectacle. Opening them, he saw Lena looking at him. “Not you,” he mouthed, shaking his head. “You are wonderful!” He held both hands to his heart, then opened them palms out to Lena. She smiled and pressed on with her concert for two. 

Now, looking at Henri, Lena again realized that the only people who cared about her were her tutors—both violin and education. But they’re paid to pay attention to me, she thought. I have cooks and housekeepers and security guards. And everybody’s nice as pie to me. But they’re being paid for that. She stalked out of the music room, marching past a long row of expensive violins hanging on the wall. She’d had to work her way up to each one in order of price and quality. The final instrument was in a hermetically sealed case. A Stradivarius, worth over a million dollars. Her father had placed a little plaque underneath. It read: “In case of success, break glass.” Lena glared at the taunt and left the room.

She meandered through the endless house and then out onto the grounds. Spring had come to the Pacific Northwest and the various gardens were awash with new growth and color. Lena loved the gardens. There was a lot to love. They sprawled lazily over seven acres, interspersed with small mini-parks of rare grasses, shrubs and trees and various water features—ponds, waterfalls and fountains. But Lena’s favorite part was where the gardens ended and the native vegetation took over. Quaking aspen, serviceberry bushes and Ponderosa pines sprouted in wild abundance. Raw basalt outcroppings were stark reminders of how the area had been scrubbed clean, over and over, by roaring floods released from Glacial Lake Missoula at the end of the last Ice Age.

Lena scrambled to the top of “Mt. Neverest,” a hill she had discovered and named when she was six. She settled onto her throne, a flat granite slab that commanded the view for several miles. From here she had ruled the world as a young girl. She smiled at the memories and took a long last look. “I may not be queen of the world anymore, but tomorrow I’ll be something better. I’ll be queen of myself.”

Lena’s phone rang. Her eyes widened in mild surprise. It was her father. “I wonder if he actually remembered this time?” She answered. “Hello, Daddy. How are you?”

“I’m fine and happy birthday, Lena! Yes, I know it’s tomorrow, but the safari is taking off early and there’s no cell service where we’re going.”

“How’s my mother? All ready for lions and tigers and bears?” There was a short pause as this shot went home. Her mother had never once made the time for any of the hit-and-miss birthday calls. 

“She’s sorry she missed you, but there’s an issue with our menu plans.” Her father coughed and then hurried on. “So, any big plans for your day? A party with friends?”

Lena took a deep breath. This was a conversation eighteen years in the making. “I have some big plans indeed. I’ve been sorting and packing my things for the last two weeks. Tomorrow I’m loading them into my car and taking off for the big city! It’s time to see if I’m good enough to play professionally.”

Her father snorted. “Aren’t you a bit young to leave home? And what about college? You will wait until your mother and I come home and we can discuss it then.”

Lena’s nostrils flared. She surveyed the vast lands over which she reigned. I am queen here! She pushed her anger aside and spoke slowly, as one would speak to a small child. “I’m eighteen, father. A legal adult who can take herself anywhere she likes. College? You’ve forgotten that I graduated high school at fifteen. In the three years since, I’ve earned a Bachelor’s degree in General Studies, with a minor in Sociology and a Master’s degree in Music Theory and Composition. All thanks to the excellent tutors you provided, although you obviously haven’t paid attention to their reports.

“As for waiting until you and your wife come home, I waited for that all my life. It never happened. Even when you two were here, you weren’t here. Not for me anyway. So, I’m off to see what’s outside of this gorgeous prison. Seriously, father, thank you for what you did do. You’ve armed and prepared me in ways you can’t imagine.” Lena disconnected and then blocked calls from her father’s number. I’ll reopen that channel when I’m damn good and ready.

The next morning, Larry, her final private tutor, helped her load the six violins she’d chosen to take. He held out his hand. “Goodbye, Lena. Best of luck. I count on your success. Now that I’m no longer your tutor, here’s my take. I’ve tutored many an SLRB.” He looked at Lena. 

She pondered, then laughed. “Snotty little rich bitch?” 

Larry’s eyes crinkled. “Yes! You’re not one of those. You paid attention. You’ve got it in the brains department. And I’ve listened to you play. You’ve got something special there too.” 

Lena took his hand in both of hers, brought it to her lips and lightly kissed it. “Thank you. Whatever I become, you were part of it.” Larry beamed.

“So, can you tell me where you’re heading? New York? LA? Fantastic opportunities for a classically trained violinist in either place.” Larry was prying in fun, not really expecting an answer.

“Can you keep a secret?” Lena lowered her head and dramatically looked left and right. Larry lowered his head and stage-whispered, “Yes.”

“I’m going to Nashville.”

All legends begin somewhere. Six months after arriving in Music City, Lena was at open mic night at Fat Charlie’s. Charlie’s seated forty, maybe fifty people, tops. But later, hundreds claimed they’d been there that night. Over several prior months, Lena had become a fixture in this grubby little dive bar. The aroma of fresh hot peanuts fought with the permanent background smell of beer-soaked tables, chairs and floorboards. Lena always showed up early, greeted the staff by name and asked about the acts signed up to play. Her intense interest caused comments.

“It’s like she’s an agent or a music reporter,” said Francine, who tended bar on open mic nights. “She’s so curious about everyone who plays here. What’s she after, anyway?” She stared at Lena, ensconced in her usual spot at the far edge of the chairs, sipping a ginger ale, extra ice.

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” replied Luke, the server/bouncer. “She’s polite, she’s quiet, she tips well and I like looking at her.” 

“Ha,” said Francine. “You think she’s going to tumble for you?” She looked at Luke’s 6’2” frame, square jaw and tousled hair. “Wouldn’t be the first time, I guess.”

Luke shook his head. “No. She and I are from different worlds. She’s just visiting this one. Watch. You’ll see.”

Various acts took the stage. Lena listened attentively to all, occasionally taking notes. One, a blues/rock trio called The Lovelorn, captured her complete attention. She leaned forward, drinking in the performance, bopping in her chair and drumming on the table. The band played two numbers. The first was a slow blues of their own about a man who had to choose between his woman and his dog. “Louise was a wowser. But in the end, he picked Bowser. Cuz true love only comes from a dog.” After that they ripped it up with a smoking hot cover of Gov’t Mule’s “Broke Down on the Brazos.” 

When the applause died down, the emcee checked his list and said, “We have someone new tonight. Let’s have a warm welcome for… Lena!”

Luke and Francine exchanged glances. Luke looked over at Lena. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Exhaling sharply, she stood up, head high and violin in hand as she pushed herself past the tables and towards the stage lights. Her initial bravado wilted a bit as she walked onto the boards. She almost tip-toed as she stepped up to the microphone. Holding up her violin by the pegs, she waved it at the audience. “Um, this is a first for me. If you can, I’d appreciate an extra minute of patience. I’ll try to make it worth your while.” Eyes closed, Lena tucked her violin in place and, placing her bow just so, began weaving a story under the blue spotlight.

Her bow slid slowly, sweetly and seductively across the strings. Each stroke brought forth the emotions she’d channeled when she wrote this short piece: a person, alone and unloved, searching for somebody who would give her something as simple as a kind word. Lena knew this was a foreign music style for Fat Charlie’s. Expecting beer can missiles (a regular method of displeasure), she was stunned to see the hungry reception from the crowd. The audience was enthralled, except for one young drunk at the bar. He snorted, loud enough to draw displeased looks from the tables. Next to him was a giant biker dude. He had hard eyes, a shaved head and an enormous black beard. His sleeveless black leather vest was unbuttoned, partly to show off his tats and partly because it would have been impossible to fasten it across his rock-solid barrel of a belly. One tat just above his gut read, “This is how your mama looked nine months after we met.” 

The drunk started to make a sarcastic comment. He got as far as, “What is this suck-ass symphony mu…” when, without looking away from Lena, the big guy calmly put his massive paw over the drunk’s mouth. The biker squeezed, ever so slightly, then looked at the drunk long enough to shake his head. He pulled his hand away and continued his rapt focus on Lena.

Her first public performance lasted less than two minutes, but by the time it was finished, several people were wiping their eyes—women unabashedly and men surreptitiously. The applause was muted, but solid. Lena bowed her head, smiling more to herself than at the audience.

“Thank you. That probably wasn’t what you’re used to hearing. I appreciate you listening.” Here she looked directly at the big biker, giving him a grin and a wink. His head snapped back in surprise and his hard expression melted away to a warm smile.

“Now I’d like to shift it up-tempo a bit.” Lena stepped back from the mic and adopted a wide stance, head back, eyes closed and both arms stretched straight out, like she was about to be crucified. She started by stamping her right heel down to set the primary rhythm. Once she was comfortable with that, she stunned the crowd with a move they’d never seen. Her fingers locked into the reverse version of the song’s first chord, Lena whipped her arms up over her head, crashing her bow onto the strings. Four beats of that and she launched into the first verse, punctuating each line with two overhead chords.

Well, good God almighty, (whang) don’t sit there a-cryin’ (whang)

Get up on your feet, (whang) unless you’re a-dyin’(whang)

There’s no need to fuss, (whang) and no need to fight (whang)

Cuz we’re gonna boogie our ass off tonight!

As she belted out the rest of the song, Lena coaxed, cajoled and tortured sounds from her violin that nobody had ever heard. She used her bow as a plectrum, a hammer and, occasionally, as just a bow. During the bridge she champed it between her teeth and plucked a furious solo. She played that stringed box over her head, behind her back and between her legs. Through it all, she physically owned the stage with an abandon that brought the crowd to its feet. There was no dance floor at Charlie’s, so people danced between the tables and finally, up on them. Nobody could resist. The big biker and the young drunk looked around for partners. Seeing none, they linked arms and started high-stepping on the bar. Francine started to yell at them, then said, “Ah, screw it!” She swept away the beers she’d just poured and jumped up on the bar to join them. Luke was the only one not dancing. He worked his way to the edge of the crowd and kept an eye out for any extra crazy. Mostly, he watched Lena, smiling and nodding to himself. “I knew it,” he said, “Lady, you won’t be here for long at all, will you?”

As Lena tore into the final refrain, the crowd shrieked along:

C’mon, let’s light it up!

Let’s get right enough!

Let’s light it up!

And lose it tonight!

She finished with a deep bow, her arms stretched out to the crowd. They swarmed the stage, clapping, whistling and howling. Lena was overwhelmed. Not just with the joy of a performer who wins over the crowd, but with something more. For the first time in her life, she felt appreciated. Adored, even. Someone, a whole lot of someones, liked her just for being her. This filled an empty place she didn’t even know she had with a warm feeling she knew she needed more of.

“Thank you, thank you!” she shouted. “Y’all are a great audience!” As much as she wanted to bask in the glow, something about the mob now thronging the entire width of the stage told her to back away. As she moved towards the stage steps, several of the louder crowd members clambered up onto the stage, howling and pumping their fists. When she reached the steps, she found The Lovelorn waiting for her. 

The bass player bowed. “I have no words for that. We’ll work on words later. Right now, this crowd’s at a tipping point. You’ve whipped them up and the backlash from a bunch of crazy rock and roll drunks can get dicey. Follow us.” The trio forged away from the stage to the back door, Lena in tow. Stepping out into the alley behind Fat Charlie’s, they all paused and looked around.

The bass player grinned and extended his hand. “Tim.” He waved at the drummer. “This here’s Slo-Mo. She’s convinced anybody playing a stringed instrument is always rushing it.” Slo-Mo was a compact, pretty woman with short, bright orange hair and a warm smile.

Lena shook Slo-Mo’s hand. “Pleased. Was I rushing it up there?”

Slo-Mo held up her drumsticks and ticked them together, moderately at first and then slowing it down just a tad. “You front people are always so eager to get to the chorus or the next song. You fail to wring the juice out of every note on the way. You’re cheating the audience.”

Tim and the guitarist snickered. The guitarist bowed and stuck his hand out. “Lena, that was incredible! I’m awed.” 

“Pleased to meet you, Odd,” she said. “But why go with Odd? Was Weird taken? I think that would’ve been a cooler stage name.” The guitarist stared at her, nonplussed. 

“Bowie. Spiders. Jamming good—remember?” said Slo-Mo to the guy. “No, this beauty’s name is Frank. He’s the best six-stringer I’ve ever added to my band. Outstanding cover guy and my main songwriter. Not bad looking, either. Important for a front person, although he can be a bit slow sometimes.”

Frank made a face at Slo-Mo. “I’m not slow, I’m just deliberate. And we’re your band?” 

“Sorry,” she replied, “That’s a secret drummer thing. All drummers know it. I shouldn’t have let the cat out.” Frank and Tim rolled their eyes.

They looked at Lena. She looked at them. She felt the beginnings of a connection. “So, I’m new in town. Can you clue me in where I can go to jam with the local talent?”

Tim laughed. “Yes, I think we can do that.” 

Almost exactly one year later, Lena and The Lovelorn’s first album dropped. Led by “Let’s Light It Up (and Lose It Tonight),” four songs soared into the Top 40 and stayed there, with “Let’s Light It Up” holding onto number two for nearly three months. As one reviewer put it, “After watching Lena perform this song, I realized she’s the love child of Chris Stapleton, Tina Turner and Pete Townsend. Biologically impossible, but who cares?”

Almost exactly one year after that, Lena, Frank, Tim and Slo-Mo collected their first three Grammys: Best New Artist, Best New Song and Best New Album. Fighting back tears while accepting Best New Artist, Lena said, “It’s been a long and lonely journey to get here. There’s so many people I have to thank, but most of all, I want to thank my family, who supported and believed in me from the very first. And they’re standing right here!” She turned and flung her arms around the other three, who hoisted her up and carried her off-stage.

The reviewer’s line must have stuck in somebody’s head. That night, The Who collected a Lifetime Achievement Grammy. Pete Townsend and Roger Daltry, the surviving half of the band, made a great show of tottering onto the stage—Roger using a cane and Pete a walker. The audience roared. As Roger accepted the award, he quipped, “This band has died onstage once or twice.” He clutched at his heart. “At our age, tonight might be the real thing!”

Pete leaned into the mic. “You folks enjoying your drinks? Good thing Keith Moon isn’t here tonight—there’d be nothing left for you sods!” 

But the old dogs could still bring it. The stage lights dimmed and furious, focused activity commenced. A minute later, a single spotlight hit center stage. Pete leapt into it with his guitar and windmilled the electrifying power chord that kicked off “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” He stepped back into the darkness as the keyboard background line took over. But in place of a keyboard, a violin was playing the pumping, jumping melody that strutted through the song, weaving it together. A new spot came up, and there was Lena, cranking out one of the most classic accompaniments in rock and roll. For the next thirty seconds the stage and the song were hers alone. She strutted forward and delivered, standing still, violin tucked under her chin. Nothing flashy here, she told herself. This is their moment. Once the song turned back to Pete and Roger, she eased away to join the rest of The Lovelorn, who were filling in for the missing rhythm section.

The song ended with Pete holding his guitar over his head, the final note sustained. He looked over at Lena and winked, then slammed the guitar to the stage, cracking the body. Grabbing the guitar by the neck he swung it over his head and smashed it back down onto the stage. Additional cracks appeared. Pete tossed the guitar in the air a couple of times, staring directly at Lena and then her violin with a manic grin on his face. She gasped. Are you seriously inviting me in on this? 

Pete turned to Slo-Mo and yelled, “Well? That kit’s not gonna destroy itself!” She stood up, screaming incoherently and flung the sticks out to the audience. There was a rush to grab them. Slo-Mo picked up her snare and, stepping back, flung it at the high-hat cymbals. They blew down with a resounding clang. She grabbed Pete’s backup guitar and hoisted it over her head. His eyes and mouth popped open as he flung his hands up in protest. “No! Not that one!”

“Sorry baby!” Slo-mo shouted, “You lit the matches!” She grabbed it by the body and jammed the neck through the bass drum. “Rock and roll!” 

Lena looked at her violin. One of her favorites, with a warm tone and easy balance. It was also the last one her parents picked out for her. Let’s offer up a sacrifice! she thought. Kill the demons of the past and open the door for something better.

The audience screamed as Lena knelt and began banging her violin on the floor. Pete dropped to his knees beside her, fractured guitar in hand. As Lena raised her instrument for a hard smash, Pete said, “Watch your fingers. Never have both hands on the thing when it hits.” Lena took the violin by the pegs and gently tapped Pete on the head. Then, imagining her mother and father, she whirled and blasted it to pieces with a single blow to the stage. 

“EEE-YEAH!” she screamed. She stood and flung the shards of wood and strings into the crowd. 

Two days later found her standing on the grand stoop of her parent’s house, knocking on the door. It swung open to reveal Peterson, the major domo. He smiled with genuine delight. “Miss Lena! You don’t need to knock. This is your home!” He stepped back, ushering her in.

“Hi, Peterson! Good to see you.” Lena studied the foyer and the plush velvet and mahogany front room beyond it. Nothing had changed. The place was as dry and lifeless as a parched bone nestled in the desert sand. She shook her head and smiled ruefully up at Peterson. “I grew up in this house, but it was never my home.”

He nodded. “I understand. We all did. And for what it’s worth, Miss Lena, watching you grow up that way broke my heart. I wish I could have been, well, more somehow.”

Lena took his hand. “Oh, Peterson. What the hell. Jeff. I always knew where those “letters from my father” came from. And the thoughtful birthday presents. And how the play dates with other kids got arranged. You were slick, but I’m no dummy.” It all came crashing back in on her—the innumerable acts of kindness from this man and the rest of the staff. She stepped forward and flung her arms around him. “Thank you, Jeff. Thank you so much.”

He hesitated and then hugged her back. After a moment, he backed away, wiping his eyes. “I’m getting to be a softie in my old age.”

“Pssh! You were always a softie. Now, I’m here on a mission and I need your help. Let’s go.” Peterson followed her to the music room. There, hanging on the wall in its glass case was the Stradivarius. Under it was the plaque. “In case of success, break glass.” 

“It’s a shame that an instrument of this quality isn’t being played,” said Lena. “Almost an emergency, I’d say. And I think that three Grammys and a new multi-million dollar contract constitute success, don’t you?” 

Peterson nodded. “Absolutely no question, Miss Lena.”

“Have you got a rock or a small hammer I could borrow?”

“Even better,” he replied. “I have the key.” Producing a keyring from an inner pocket, he selected a tiny key, slid it into a keyhole underneath the case and twisted gently. The front of the case swung open with a hiss of escaping air. Peterson stepped back and gestured at the violin. “I believe this belongs to you.”

Lena considered the instrument. Freed from its glass prison, the violin basked in the sunlight. She marveled at the astonishing depth to the finish, then reached into the case and reverently plucked the violin from the hooks. She gasped. As the neck settled into her hand, images, sounds and emotions flooded through her. Lena glimpsed a young man struggling through a disastrous performance, his confidence crumbling from a lack of practice; a furious music teacher assaulting the instrument, yelling “This note, then this note, then this one! Dannazione, idiota!”; a confidant young woman, playing in an Italian symphony for the first time, delivering a solo that made the audience weep.

All these and more swept up her arm, swirled through her mind and took root there. This chronicle of music history now lay passively in her hands, awaiting her to write the next chapter.

“Are you alright, Miss Lena?” asked Peterson. “Would you like to sit down? Bessie would be happy to make you a cup of tea.”

Lena closed her eyes, memorizing her vision. Opening them, she said, “No thank you, Jeff. I’m good. In fact, I’ve never been better.”

Peterson nodded. As Lena turned to leave, he coughed. “Um, Miss Lena, before you go, I’d like to ask a favor.”

Lena blinked, the images from the past still thrusting themselves on her. “Sure Jeff. Name it.”

“I always used to linger outside the music room when you were playing. Would you please play Bach’s “Chaconne” for me?”

Lena smiled to herself. You gave me so much and you ask for so little. “Of course.” She rosined up a bow then tuned up the violin. My goodness, she thought, these strings are like new!

“Please take your seat, sir,” she said, gesturing at the audience rows. She took the stage and paused, head down and arms at her sides. She inhaled, summoning the scene and feelings that meant the Chaconne for her. Then, lifting her bow to the strings, she played.