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One Mr Xylo Foan (ragged black hair, somewhat skinny, perpetually unhappy) looked down at his saxophone he currently had clutched in his hands, sighed, and put it to work once more. The song he was attempting to play at the moment was Anthony Braxton’s classic experimental jazz piece “To Composer John Cage,” but let’s just say it would’ve sounded better if he was playing John Cage’s classic experimental piece “4’33.” In other words, he fucking sucked at playing the saxophone. He was acutely aware of this fact, and had tried with all his effort to improve at it, but, alas, his mouth shape was simply not made for the instrument. He was pretty good with the xylophone, though, but due to his very strong thoughts on the notion of nominative determinism, he wanted to avoid that instrument at all costs, and as such took up the sax instead. He was planning to book his first show this weekend, and he’d even found a concert hall willing to host him (Peituplei’s) – although only after he’d offered a hefty sum of money – but they ended up cancelling it after he submitted his performance of Art Blakey’s “Moanin’,” which was, according to Bunofome Peituplei, “indistinguishable from the noises of a chimpanzee being killed with hammers.” Owing partially to naivety and partially to his sheer force of will, Xylo hadn’t given up the instrument yet, but he was probably pretty close. As he was blowing out some unlistenable noises from his sax, his roommates Wef Joydi and Mell Ceremon barged into the room. He reluctantly placed his instrument aside and turned to face them, unpleasant expression worn quite prominently on his face. “Lord, what? Was it not obvious I was in the middle of a solid jam?”
“Heh,” Wef chuckled, “sounded more like a chimpanzee being killed with hammers!” She high-fived Mell. Neither of them had heard Bunofome’s comment.
“Well, yes, it maybe sounded like that at the moment, but it’s, uh…” Xylo was beginning to run out of excuses for why he sounded awful. “It’s getting better, at least!”
“Jesus Christ, that was an improvement?” Mell aurally imitated the act of puking one’s guts out, followed by another high-five.
“Ok, why did you both come in here? Was it just to shit on my performance? Do you all just hate art? Is that it?” Xylo was beginning to get more emotional than he intended to, and he made a conscious effort to reel it back a touch. “What do you want?” This was delivered with as much aloofness as he could possibly muster, which was not a whole lot.
“No,” Mell said, “that was pretty spot on honestly.” She pulled out a can of paint and sprayed the phrase “your music will never take off” on Xylo’s wall before walking out with Wef and slamming the door in her roommate’s face. Xylo sighed and decided to remove the awfully rude message later rather than right now. He picked up his saxophone again and started to blow some more air before the door opened again, albeit much quieter this time. “My god, what is it this time,” he said, setting his sax back on his cheap, uncomfortable bed.
“Uh, hi Xylo,” Aster Beelmolcor said, Xylo’s other roommate. “Could I, uh, ask you something…?”
“What?” Xylo was really not in the mood to talk to anyone else at the moment.
“You said you got booked for that concert hall, uh, right?” Aster was making as little eye contact as possible during this.
“Yes, but they ended up cancelling it at the last minute because I sounded ‘like a chimpanzee being killed by hammers,’ which I think is complete nonsense!”
“I mean, uh, you do kind of sound like that… but, uh, anyway, there’s no chance I could be your, um, opener for that, right? With my new acoustic setlist I’ve got?”
“I just told you they cancelled the concert.”
“Uh… just making sure… alright… bye…” she shut the door with at little noise as possible. Ok. Now he can actually play this damn song. He lifted up his saxophone and began to move the particles of oxygen (among other elements) in the air with his gobbal movements. It really seemed like this was gonna be the performance to get him into the big leagues. Too bad there was no one to hear it.
The door barged open again. “We can all hear it, Xylo, I assure you!”
“Oh damn it, was I monologuing all that out loud again?”
It was his landlord, John Nineinch. “Listen, Mr Foan, I have tried very hard to be patient with your noise, but this ‘modern creative’ stuff, whatever the hell it is, you gotta stop playing it at all hours of the day. All my other tenants are complaining. And don’t even get me started on Aster’s indie folk shit. Jesus Christ. Anyways, I’m trying not to be rude here, but you may actually cost me my job if you keep playing your saxophone this loudly. I mean, my god, it sounds like you’re killing a damn chimpanzee with hammers in here! You gotta stop it!”
“Uh…”
“Anyways, that’s all I had to say. Just please quiet it down a little. Also tell Aster to stop playing Mountain Goats songs for the love of god. I think she’s doing one right now. I can’t even get her to hear me, she’s strumming so loudly.” John shut the door at a normal volume behind him. Why did all of Xylo’s companions have to be so intolerable? Well, he guessed Aster wasn’t that bad, she was usually pretty quiet. Wef and Mell actively were contributing to his declining mental state, though. All they seemed to do besides torment him was sit in their shared room and loudly play Merzbow albums off their computer. He sighed and picked up his saxophone one more time. He decided on a simple piece this time, one anybody could do and make sound good, like a children’s song or something. He started playing it.
As an unprecedently high level of noise complaints were filed that night, Trent Bloodbag stalked right past Xylo’s apartment, eyes already on his next victim. Gulp!