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"You." Adam glares at the portrait of one George Gordon Lord Byron, meeting his eyes. It is his evening ritual; the first portrait whose eyes he meets will influence his night in some way, usually by Adam taking his or her work as a departure for his activities, and as they are all people he admires, it is usually not a chore. Something in him refuses to break the rhythm even when, as tonight, he does not care to engage with a particular person. "I do not need an overly romantic bastard right now," he tells Byron. Not when he has not seen Eve in years, not when the distance feels like a weight on his shoulders; not when he is already in a downwards spiral. Maybe he should move the portraits around soon, randomise them yet again, though that is no guarantee he will not get Byron anytime soon. Then again, Byron did have redeeming features too, one of them his lust for life.
Adam rises and goes to find his evening meal. Hunger is burning in his arteries, making him impatient and drowning his senses in sheer need. He is low on stock, yet consciously puts off going out for supplies - he can wait one more night, so he does, despite the risk. Being reclusive is one thing, this is taking deliberate risks, playing a game - not of chess, more something like poker - with fate, who as always has death staring over her shoulder. Tonight, Adam is very far from Byron, perhaps apart from playing that game.
Drink soothes him. Shutting his eyes, touching the charm from Eve, knowing she does the same; his drinking ritual does almost as much for his unease as the blood itself. Even the idea of Byron is less annoying afterwards. Passing through the cluttered hall, he reaches for a book (one of Byron’s poems), but changes his mind. There are better ways of engaging with that drunken sod. Few know of it now, but several of Byron’s poems were written to be set to music. Hebrew Melodies, they were called, and the music was composed by one Isaac Nathan, who was trying to ride on the wave of so-called "national airs", compositions that claimed some ethnic authenticity, while still being pleasant to the English ear. Adam huffs softly at the thought. One cannot have it both ways, or could not then. Those melodies were not in any way as old or as Hebrew as Nathan claimed, though they were inspired by melodies used in synagogues and Jewish functions. Adam recognised that when he heard them at their first performance in Drury Lane in 1815, and has always appreciated the melodies. They may not be revolutionary, nor ancient, but that does not diminish their artistic value.
Adam seeks out his violin, pondering as he sets it to his chin. "She Walks in Beauty" was one of those poems, but the melody for it is not the best of them; it was a slightly forced marriage of lyric and music, not entirely successful. No, he would rather play another. "My Soul is Dark", one with a clearer link to an actual Jewish song, and a title befitting his mood. As he plays, it is impossible not to sing along, quietly, and as he runs out of poem, Adam continues to play the violin, allowing himself to enjoy the pure music for its own sake, trying to divorce it from the poet just for a while.
It is a true shame that Nathan was forgotten again; Adam has little doubt anti-semitism played a role and it irks him. The melodies, good and solid, and their composer, who was much the same, deserve better, something he can not say of many British composers. Certainly not Purcell. The name alone causes a frown to appear on his face. Everyone’s favourite Brit - everyone but his. No, Purcell had never quite been to Adam’s taste. The one who comes to mind when thinking of them - apart from Britten, perhaps - is John Dowland. The violin is returned to its spot on the wall. In its place, Adam seeks out a record and puts it on.
Music floats out of the speakers and fills the cave-like room, transforming it into a cathedral of sound, lit up in colours only sound can produce. Rooted to the ground, Adam feels transported to a place far away, long ago. A castle in Denmark, named for roses, where a king has created a room where music appears as if by magic. When he experienced it then, he was startled, wide-eyed and young still, and the ingenuity of it still makes him smile. Clever engineering with pipes in the walls and a lovely space below where the musicians sit and play for the king above. An indulgence fitting a king who refers to his small castle as his "garden", who loses wars with the same largesse with which he builds his city. Adam can lose himself in those sounds, the sound of musical tears, "Lachrimae, or Seven Teares", composed by John Dowland in 1605 while he worked for the king. As a man working for nobility, he dedicated his work to his employer’s sister - who also happened to be the queen of England, the place Dowland heralded from and where his family remained. The jovial king Christian had been easy to befriend, and very proud of the culture in his home and of the brilliant musician he employed.
Befriending Dowland himself proved impossible; he was an odd man, private, distancing himself from anyone not deemed a peer, and Adam had felt those tears in his heart when hearing music he could never touch or understand on the level he wanted to. That was one of his first deep disappointments with a person he admired, and as a young man, it had been hard to get over. Several bitter years passed before he came to understand that while knowing (about) the artist can add to the understanding of the music, every person can place what value they feel appropriate in a work; art can be appreciated without its creator. He still favours playing Dowland on the lute, there is no bitterness now, and he loves the music even more for never knowing why or how it was written. One should not always know the answer to mysteries, perhaps especially not when one has too many answers already. As the Lachrimae fills his room, he takes the lute from the wall and quietly plays along with its part, feeling for a while as if he was part of an ensemble again, with good people playing the viols around him.
At least Denmark had not been a complete disappointment. The other reason to travel there, to miserable rain and cold, had proven far more fruitful. Tycho Brahe, astronomer extraordinaire, and another protege of the king, had been an acquaintance to remember. Enough that Adam had travelled to see him again in Prague later, when Christian’s son, King Frederik, exiled the Dane from his home. Adam’s fingers add a few extra notes here and there, a counterpoint never heard before or since, in honour of the colourful Tycho and his silver nose.
The doorbell - which has nothing silver about it - yanks him out of his memories and reverie. Lately he has been more and more prone to getting lost in memories, a tendency that is like a cycle. The world weighs more, presses in on him, and he pushes back through music as much as he can. These last months, it has been harder to make enough music to keep the walls from falling in on him. Releasing a few things, as clandestine as possible, is his latest, slightly desparate, attempt.
The doorbell rings again, and a check shows him that it is Ian out there. Not exactly surprising, as he is supposedly the only one on this continent who knows where Adam lives.
Adam lets him in, and Ian is practically bouncing up the stairs, guitar case in hand. "I found something amazing," he says, before even saying hello. Such a display is not characteristic of Ian’s more mellow personality. "Or, you know, probably amazing. He might’ve been full of shit, or, well, he definitely was, but I think this one thing might be the real deal…"
"Show me." Adam gestures to the free spot on the floor and stands back, arms crossed, as Ian reverently puts the guitar case down and opens it.
"See?" He grins up at Adam, who follows Ian’s finger to scratched initials in the case. Adam kneels quietly and wishes Eve was there to confirm this. The make and the year is right, but anyone could have made those marks. "Think it’s genuine?" Ian asks, eager.
"Might be…" Adam lightly traces the letters with his finger. To his sensitive skin they feel sharp as glass. "Even if they are, we can’t know if it’s the same guitar." Yet, he has a feeling it is. It looks like one he saw Hank Williams play, though there is no way of knowing for certain. "Did the seller give you a story to go with it?"
Ian nods. "He said he was the grandson of Wesley Rose, and that Hank Williams worked with his granddad. Dunno if that’s true, of if there was a Wesley Rose, but…" He shrugs.
"Fred and Wesley Rose worked with Hank Williams on his more spiritual material," Adam says, picking up the instrument to get a feel for it. The wood feels good in his hands, and he runs his fingers along the curvy lines of the body. For now, it does not matter if Hank Williams ever held this guitar, it still evokes all the right memories and feelings in Adam, enough to push the walls out another ten centimeters. "Did you pay a lot for it?"
"No, not a lot…" Ian sounds a little hesitant. "Probably more than it’s worth. Definitely more if he was lying."
"Hm." Adam huffs softly. "There’s money in that box over by the Leslie. Take what you need. I’m keeping this one. He’s got stories to tell me."
In his mind, Leonard Cohen is saying something about asking Hank Williams how lonely it gets and never receiving an answer; he doubts he will ever get the final answer out of this beauty, though it hardly matters. Gently, he plucks out a melody on the strings, moving into the chords of it next; the guitar, even unamplified, has a good sound.
He is a couple of bars into the song when Ian speaks up again. "I remember that song. But I didn’t hear Williams’ version first."
"No?" Adam is not truly interested, yet he is intrigued. Ian is many things to him, mostly an assistant, almost a friend, but he is also a window to a generation of humans. It is due to the latter capacity that he prompts the guy now.
"Yeah, I once saw this old show... with that detective, you know, who pretends to be stupid so he'll get the bad guys? It’s really old now. You know it?"
"Columbo."
"Yeah... right..." Ian nodded, slowly. "That one. Anyway, there was Johnny Cash singing that song."
"The man in black..." Adam rolled his eyes. "How original." He remembers that episode, though, and it is a nice version of the song.
"Hey, it’s not like you can call that particular kettle black," Ian jokes, good-natured. Adam shrugs, hiding his reaction as best he can. Cash was not original, but he had more consistency in his style than most who attempted it.
"I suppose not." Adam hopes that, and his tone, is enough to dodge further inquiry, and moves to put the guitar back in its case.
"Why not play it? I mean, if you want. I’ve never actually heard you do someone else’s music, or sing for that matter."
Adam is not sure why, but he does. Maybe because this instrument has done something that matches the lyrics; brought something like light into his life again. Adam has not been religious since 1597, but music, science, beauty and knowledge, these are things he still worships, his light-bringers are humans. He remembers that as he sings, remembers that they are not only zombies, they are also exceptional individuals.
Once he has started, the music streams from him, he moves from song to song. Somewhere along the line Ian leaves, saying something Adam simply nods to but never quite hears. Music has taken over and yes, he is seeing the light. Somehow, in there, Hank Williams’ Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain are weeping with Dowland’s Teares. Simple, strong, melodies spanning centuries, meeting here, in this room, and becoming something new. The two melodies speak with each other almost as if their creators were there. Adam wonders what the two would have made of each other. A standoffish Brit and an alcoholic American, both child prodigies with difficult lives, but one playing for kings, the other playing for anyone who cared to listen. Somewhere in there he settles on playing in C minor, which, for some reason, has been a favourite of his for centuries, and now what comes out of him is new and all his own.
Ten minutes or an hour later, he remembers why that is when he strikes the right sequence on the guitar and it resonates through his lived experiences and echoes in a memory. He discards the instrument, closes the case and goes to the record player.
The sound of a really good piano comes out of his speakers, playing Bach’s prelude and fugue in C minor. You never go wrong with Bach, he is universal, and this is a good recording. Not like hearing Bach himself play it in Leipzig, but what would be? A small man with a huge family, he was at the height of his compositional career in 1623, when Adam, on one of their early treks through the German-speaking areas, managed to persuade Eve to stay in the town where this fascinating man lived. He who tempered the piano and wrote a cycle of compositions to showcase the keys.
Leipzig is dark, wet, cold with winter, and as smelly as any larger town in the 1620s. How Eve got them invited he has no idea; she has a way with people, a persuasive power that comes from an ability to talk with everyone, something he utterly lacks. The dinner at the Bürgermeister’s house is somewhat torturous, even with their tricks to appear to be eating (speed and sleight of hand), but once Bach has warmed slightly, by way of good, Saxon beer, he willingly discusses musical theory with Adam with such vigour that they do not even notice the rest of the party slowly leaving them. Adam soaks up the knowledge, understanding the revolution even though Bach does not, feels a perspective in his bones that humans can rarely achieve.
The following night, Adam, alone, meets Bach again, this time to hear him play, a promise made the previous night. Notes fill the small, candlelit room as if the gods themselves were on Earth and were pressing the keys. Bach does not seem to require light to find his way, his hands are sure and strong, precise and elegant like dancers’ feet. Adam’s only regret is that he could not have heard Bach play a truly fine instrument, but composers are rarely appreciated enough to afford the best. Bach’s harpsichord is lovely, but his works sound even better on piano.
As the fugue fades on his sound system, Adam looks down to see his fingers pressing against the coffee table as if it were a piano keyboard. Muscle memory, he thinks, is such a powerful thing. He had not thought about this piece in decades, yet he could still sit down and play it with his eyes shut should he want to. Or maybe it is the power of good composition.
He crosses the room, moving objects to clear his way behind the loudspeakers, brushes away a film of dust covering the lid of the standing piano. Eyes shut, his fingers find their way again, reproducing the sounds he just heard. His emphases are different, he hesitates on certain notes, dances across others. In his mind, an insistent voice schools him. "No, you must feel it. Temper the sound. Yes, yes, the title was a play on words. You understand it now." Adam smiles, sensing the old master’s hand on his shoulder and straightens up under the praise. Night after night of practice, of discussion and theory, realisations that made him fully understand why music is a science as well as a practice, why there is a theory of composition (several in fact), and the physics behind scales and tonality. When he could finally see music represented as graphs, Adam had felt truly blessed. Not that he needed the visualisation, but to be able to see that a perfectly pitched A really is 440 hz and be able to tune to that ideal - his inner perfectionist loved it. Just as the artist in him appreciated the paradox in how it is physically impossible to tune perfectly to the circle of keys in the Western system. He spent decades in India, learning other instruments than the ones he knew, and vitally a tonal system with micro-tonality. Since then, he can hear those little flaws in tuning. Perfect imperfections, a paradox of beauty. Yet, with all of that, he returns to this key, not even the modal ones of his mortal childhood, but Bach’s C minor.
Schubert grew to like that key. Or at least, Adam thinks, he pretended to for a while, the little shit. Those few years where he was young and impressionable and Adam could work with him. Later, he fell back into his eternal, boring major keys when he wrote for the symphony (except for the Unfinished Symphony, which was definitely a promising work). His lieder were nice, though, Adam will grant him that.
In 1816, Franz finally moved out of his parents’ house, at the age of 19, and lived with friends. The move had to be encouraged, partly financially, but finally the man had got around to it. Adam, who had not been about to let another Mozart slip through his fingers, had built a good rapport with him by then. He was prolific already, but nowhere near fulfilling his potential. Planting the idea of his fourth symphony had been easy, persuading him to write in a minor key - to test new waters, show potential and diversity of talent - had been simple too. Flattery gets you a long way, as does influencing what someone listens to. Giving him the first short part of the first movement, in adagio, had been the crowning of the work. Adam had liked Franz very much, had even come close to explaining his identity. Only, the completion of the fourth symphony also became the end of their friendship. To this day, Adam does not know what exactly happened, but Franz moved once more, and refused to see several old friends, Adam among them. Part of him suspects there was some measure of shame at having used another person’s work, despite all Adam had done to remove that sentiment in his particular case. Franz knew him as an eccentric and recluse, a master of theory and technique who taught him and wanted nothing in return but to listen to the young man’s work. Whatever the reason, it had not worked out. He regrets that. In his opinion, Franz never got to write the best he had in him. The fragility of humans is ever a tragedy, especially when it takes the young away before they can do all they could. In that, Franz Schubert reminds him of Hank Williams.
Adam huffs softly, and almost smiles, though his prevalent emotion is sadness. "Tragic" - the pretentious title Franz gave that symphony, is the cause. It was the only symphony of his with a title. Adam likes to flatter himself that it was named for his sake, maybe even for him in some manner. In his darker times, he doubts it very much, but sometimes when he remembers a young man laughing over the piano, chiding Adam for being glum, he thinks that perhaps it was. C minor was most certainly for his benefit, though Franz could of course not stick to the key for very long. The symphony modulated quite soon after the brief adagio was over. Adam feels, as often with humans, both honoured and slighted at the same time.
Really, Schubert should have played more with the darker sides of music, symphonically as well as in his lieder. The contrast between his work and the poems of Byron is staggering given that they are contemporary, though again the Lieder of course matches better. "Tod und das Mädchen" comes to mind. Yes, it may be the one most often mentioned, but there is a reason for that. Sometimes, things become popular for the obvious reason that they are good. This is one such instance. Right now, that song reminds him not so much of Franz or those days in Wien in 1816, as it does of a person who lived a century later, one who made an impact like few others, though he never came closer to her than any audience member would. All because of a song about death, performed by not a girl, but a woman - and what a woman - and now that the thought has captured him, he has to listen to it.
She was indescribable. Her voice, especially. To be honest, Adam has never found another that feels like it penetrates his soul the way hers did. As if every syllable and phrase reverberated back and forth in time, echoing not just her own tragic life, but that of an entire people. "Southern trees bear strange fruit, blood on the leaves and blood on the root", she sang, and he has never been able to hear that without crying. That is part of why he does not listen to it more than once or twice a decade; wasting blood for crying is not advisable, nor is the heartache. He knows very well he is prone to brooding as it is. To some it might seem trite or cliché that this is the song that has that power over him, but he has never thought so himself. Maybe because he was alive when it was created and recorded. While he would never presume to understand the depth of it for those whose lives it portrayed, he always feels a sliver of their experience or presence when he listens. Perhaps that is another reason it is hard to listen to, it is a stark reminder that he is somehow still human and capable of feeling for and with human beings, as much as he often derides them. There was nothing zombielike about Billie Holiday or her voice, instead there was naked, raw humanity and will.
He shuts his eyes and can almost smell the smoke and sweat and wood of Café Society in Greenwich where he first heard her play it. Jazz had taken him to the States, kept him there, and he had been following Basie and Armstrong and Fitzgerald for a few years, trying to hear and see as much as he could. Café Society was good at picking up artists, and it was integrated, so he could blend in and not feel too awful about pale-skinned audiences and dark-skinned performers. She knew how to perform too, creating a frame around her performance that enhanced the experience. He had been stunned from the start, and had fled when the lights dimmed at the end of the performance, too aware of his blood-streaked cheeks. Eve had scolded him for it when he returned to their rooms nearby. They left the city the following evening, just in case. Adam returned there far sooner than he should have, as soon as Eve went back to Europe, because he simply had to hear her again. Recordings never did her justice, even when they were brilliant. Slowly he wipes a few of his tears away, absently licks his fingers for the sweet taste, and opens his eyes again.
There is light falling into the room, tinged red and blurry by his tears, warning him that it is later than he had thought. Light that seems both inappropriate and not - light has no right to intrude on his thoughts and this moment with the ghost of Billie Holiday. Yet, light is death, to him at least. He sits back, watching the creeping ray on the carpet. Sleep is calling him, and yet he is loath to go to bed. He does not quite feel tired enough, a certain sadness he cannot shake is weighing on him and keeping him rooted here, staring at the sliver of sun. On some level he knows sleep will help, though it is not enough to drag him to bed. Morbidly, he is drawn to that light. Behind him, the pickup jumps on the record and he hears the last few lines of Strange Fruit again. The sound sparks a reaction and finally, as the light brightens, he drags himself to his feet and upstairs.