The Music of Spring: Spell That
Wilson’s uncle gave ‘Spring’ its first recording contract, and me my first business headache.
“I need your names for the liner notes,” he announced. “Speak up.”
The Ferguson triplets told their names, and he scribbled on a notepad. He took the flutist’s name and the trumpeters’ too. Slapping his pencil on the pad, he leaned toward me.
“And you, you’re the bandleader, right?”
“That’s right, I’m Aoede Theokratos.”
He whistled. “How do you spell that?”
“Exactly the way it sounds, Mr. Wilson.”
“Girl, you’re going to have to change your name. It won’t sell.”
“I’m named for the Muse of Song, Mr. Wilson, and I will not change my name.” My Daddy stood in the corner of the room, and nodded his approval at me.
After long discussion, we turned it into a sales gimmick. My band members chose stage names from the list of Muses. The string section took the names of the Lyre Muses of Delphi, Nete, Mese, and Hypate. The trumpeters became Melete, the muse of Meditation and Euterpe, the Muse of Music, and the flutist claimed the identity of Calliope.
“You young ladies will need seventeen songs, ready by June first.”
“It’ll take a lot to live up to stage names like these. I wish you luck.” Wilson’s uncle stuffed his notepad into the breast pocket of his wrinkled blazer, nodded to my Daddy, and walked out.
“I’m proud of you and your friends, Aoede. Can you imagine what your Mother will say about that man?” Daddy hugged me.
“That man is positively odious,” I said, in my best imitation of Mother’s voice. “Aunt Cecilia won’t like him either.”
Preparing seventeen songs proved to be easier than deciding on the cover art for our debut CD.
The Music of Spring is a short story in nine parts. Stay tuned for the next installment: The Music of Spring: That Doesn’t Say Spring.
Read more of my published short stories here.
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Ruth DeMaat
Heidi Kortman