Episode 52
Travelling Light E052S02 Transcript
H.R. Owen
Hello friends, Hero here with a new podcast for you and a quick announcement. Announcement first: I am going on holiday next week so there'll be no episode on the 25th and we'll be back with you on 1st August.
Our trailer this week comes from The Day Everything Changed, a post-apocalyptic adventure about two broken families trying navigate a world threatened by zombies and scavengers in search of sanctuary. Find out more via the show-notes and stick around to the end of the credits for their trailer.
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Fifty Two.
[The music fades out.]
The Traveller
15ᵗʰ Avam 850
To the community at Emerraine, who carry the Light.
When I joined with the musicians I met in Kelani, I made it clear to them that I would not be able to take the place of a long-term, professional technician. The percussionist, Jei, who takes something of a leadership role in the group, reassured me that this would not be an issue.
“We only really need you for one show – the Mórhal Tsinlacho Festival on Clonarty. We'll pick up a permanent tech while we're there, but the gig's kind of a big deal. We don't want to have to wing it with some tech we've only just met.”
“You have only just met me,” I pointed out.
“But we can practice with you on the way,” put in Magitso, a big, burly boy with hands the size of dinner plates.
And that is precisely what we did. The band – they style themselves as ilhaata, all lower case – have been touring the system in a dinged up shuttle that once served as commuter transport for a mining co-operative in the Banach Precinct.
It is too small for out system travel, but just right for short hops between planets and for moving between different venues on the surface.
“Technically she's called The Rose of Banach Mor,” said Atsa, the third and final band mate, as she led me through the docks, “but we call her Clunky.”
Upon laying eyes on Clunky, I understood why.
“Oh, don't worry,” Atsa said, seeing my expression. “She hardly ever breaks down, and almost never in space!”
It was probably for the best that I spent the trip to Clonarty getting to grips with the band's equipment. It helped keep my mind off the airless, freezing void of space just metres away from my vulnerable meaty body, held back by nothing but a few scant sheets of metal, several rolls of duct tape, and my travelling companions' youthful certainty that explosive decompression is something that happens to other people.
I do not know if the parts of Clonarty we flew over on our way to Mórhal were particularly beautiful. I only know that I looked upon them with vast appreciation for their breathable atmosphere and relative ease of access for local emergency rescue services.
Obviously, we survived the flight. Clunky set down on a landing pad some several miles from Mórhal itself which had been selected for overflow parking from the festival. Ships crowded up against one another, pushing the pad's safety limits to the brink.
“There is a pad in Mórhal,” Magitso explained, “but they save that for the bigwigs and headliners."
“That'll be us next year!” said Atsa.
“Not if we miss our transport it won't be. Get a move on!” shot back Jei.
For all that, the festival itself was not really that big. Its organisers had commandeered two fields on the edge of town: a smaller one for guests to camp in and a larger one for the festival events themselves.
The band were not scheduled to play – on the second largest stage, as they each excitedly and repeatedly informed me – until rather late this afternoon. That was when things took an unexpected turn.
The set itself went perfectly well. I admit, I was rather anxious about my end of things. But all our practice paid off, and the band left the stage in enormously high spirits, delighted with themselves and me and the whole world besides.
“Did you see, down the front?” shouted Jei as we packed up. “That was Halatsin Gad, I'm sure it was. He was nodding along! The drummer of Nakaii, nodding at our set!”
“We need to celebrate,” Magitso intoned.
I get the impression that the world of professional tsinlacho playing is not a very big one. Certainly the band seemed to know a great many of the other performers, and so had no shortage of companions to help toast their success.
The air inside the beer tent was hot and thick, full of the smell of too many unwashed bodies and spilled alcohol. But I did not mind. I was riding the same wave of elation as Magitso, Jei and Atsa, giddy with a job well done.
We were fairly well into the celebrations when I stepped outside to use the facilities. On my way back, I accidentally collided with a Quvett coming in the opposite direction.
Walking unexpectedly into a Quvett is no small thing. I nearly went sprawling, but I managed to catch myself at the last moment. Unfortunately, the Quvett's drink was not so lucky.
“I am so sorry,” I said, holding my hands out in a gesture of contrition. “Please, allow me to buy you another.”
The Quvett pulled herself up to her full and considerable height. “Do you want to go, wee man?”
“I am not a man. But, no, I do not want to go. I meant no offence!”
She started to move towards me, forcing me to back away, feet slipping in the mud.
“Come on then, mate! I'll have you!”
“I do not want to fight you!” I pleaded. “Please, I meant no harm, we can resolve this peaceably!”
At that, she let out a bone-rattling shout of fury and disgust, and surged towards me-
Only to be suddenly blocked by another large body, thrown between me and her.
“If they won't have you, I will,” growled the newcomer.
The Quvett glowered at them for a long, snarling moment. And then, with a final flurry of expletives in my direction, she left.
The newcomer turned to look down at me, a wry expression on his face.
“Didn't you see those beads at her waist?” he asked. “She's from the Elo Confederacy. Any refusal to fight is an insult, it says she's not worthy of you. You need to brazen it out so you can both save face.”
I did not answer. I could not. I was too stunned to speak. As I stared, Captain Scarry's smile broadened into a grin.
“Cat got your tongue, little feist?”
[The click of a data stick being inserted into a drive that whirs as it reads]
The Traveller
Entry AV85115-1. Concerning tsinlacho music, its roots and its future.
Keywords: arts and crafts; Clonarty; local history; Mórhal Tsinlacho Festival; music; tsinlacho.
Notes:
During my brief stint as a technician for the tsinlacho band ilhaata, I assisted them for their set at Mórhal Tsinlacho Festival. I helped carry their instruments and equipment upon arrival, set up the sound system, and liaised with the festival staff to ensure a smooth show.
After the band had finished playing, we did the same in reverse, packing everything up and making sure the stage was in good condition for the next performance.
The time passed in a busy, rather stressful blur. But there was a brief moment of respite, when ilhaata had finished their preparations and had only to wait for the group before them to finish playing before taking the stage themselves. I took the opportunity to watch the other group play from the wings.
Not long into the set, one of the other technicians I had seen working around the stage sidled up to me, twitching her long nose in greeting.
“You're not a lach-head, I take it,” she said, swigging from a can of beer that, because of her diminutive size, was almost as big as her torso. “A tsinlacho fan. You keep trying to tap along but you're getting it all wrong.”
“Maybe I am just very uncoordinated.”
“Ah, don't be hard on yourself. Tsinlacho's known for its polyrhythms.” She popped the top of another can and handed it to me. “All five of them are playing in a different time signature, and the vocals are different again.”
“Well no wonder I cannot keep up! Is that not very difficult?”
She made a tipping gesture that I knew from seeing the band do the same was roughly equivalent to a shrug.
“Mm. You get used to it.”
“The scale is different too, I think. From what we use among my people, I mean. It sounds as if you have some extra notes we do not.”
“That's partly the scale. These kids are playing with microtones, too. Showing off,” she added with a wink. “What brings you here, then?”
I explained the nature of my journey, and my involvement with ilhaata, and we got to talking. Her name was Anaghal, and she had, in her own words, been soaked in tsinlacho since she was a hatchling.
“My hatch mum was a performer,” she explained. “And my nest mum studied it, right back to the roots. She and Mama would put on special concerts so people could hear what it used to sound like, way way back.”
“Has it changed very much over the years?”
Anaghal looked at me with an expression I could not read entirely, but which I suspected meant she thought I was slightly stupid.
“You really don't know anything, do you?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I would like to, if you would tell me.”
So, she did.
“It started as working music. Women's music. They sang it in the weaving sheds, and the shipyards. Each crew singing to the rhythm of their own work, slipping off in their separate songs then snapping back together on the first beat of the bar.
“It was all a capella then. No accompaniment but the rattle of the looms, the creak of timber, the pulse of the sea.
“It was a game, too. Someone would improvise a melody to one rhythm, and then people would chime in with their own, riffing on old favourites or popular songs from the taverns, or making up something new there on the spot.
“People used to say you could work your whole life and never hear the same song twice. And you never knew what they sung in the next warren over, unless you went over there and heard for yourself.
“Then the work changed. More and more jobs were being done by machines, and more and more people were doing the kind of work you don't need to keep on beat with yourself, let alone with your whole crew.
“About this time, people started writing things down. Suddenly you had people talking about what the 'actual' lyrics were, or saying this was the 'original' melody. As if there was one single thing they could trace it all back to.
“That's when they started calling it tsinlacho, too. From the Old Tsaadi words 'tsintse', 'voice', and 'laiho', 'plenty'. If people talk about classical tsinlacho or trad tsin, they usually mean tsin from this period.
“This is when you started getting instruments introduced too. Most people think you can't have tsinlacho without the tsoosa – that's the flute you big lad's playing now. But it's a Hosh Dynasty invention, only about 200 years old.
“And don't get me wrong, I love trad tsin. It's great. It's important. We wouldn't have the scene we have today without it. But as soon as someone starts talking about it as 'original' and 'authentic'… [winces] Oh, I get antsy.
“Because it only ever goes one way, you know? It's always that it isn't tsinlacho if it isn't being done by these people over here, on these instruments, in this style.
“They never argue that it's only authentic if everyone in the room is singing with you, you know? Or if you're working side by side with your sisters and daughters. Or if all you need to sing is your own good voice and the will to be heard.”
Anaghal took a drink, and watched the band for a moment. Then she sniffed.
[sniffing] “Of course, the rubbish the kids are making these days – that's not proper tsinlacho.”
I was taken aback. “No?”
“Nah. Too modern. Bringing in too many new influences – all those synths and loops and funny harmonies.”
She sidled closer, gesturing with her beer as she spoke.
“The thing you have to remember is that anything made before I was on the scene is stale and over-traditional. And everything made since I established myself is newfangled, unnecessarily complicated nonsense.”
[laughing] “I see. And the music made specifically when you were at the centre of things?”
“Oh, simple, effortless perfection. Naturally.”
“Well,” I said. “Thank goodness you were here to guide me.”
Anaghal saluted me with her drink, and grinned, settling in to watch the rest of the show.
[Title music: rhythmic instrumental folk. It plays throughout the closing credits.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light was created by H.R. Owen and Matt McDyre, and is a Monstrous Productions podcast. This episode was written and performed by H.R. Owen.
This week’s entry to the archives was based on a submission by Michael. You can see Matt's illustration for the entry on our social media accounts.
If you've got an idea for the archive, we want to hear it. We accept anything from a one line prompt to a fully written entry through our website, by email, or on social media. For more information, see the show notes.
This episode includes an audience decision. Would you rather see the Traveller get embarrassed and spend the evening avoiding Scarry, or get angry and confront Scarry directly? Vote by making a donation at ko-fi.com/monstrousproductions.
Our tiers start at £1 a month, with all supporters getting access to bonus art, annotated scripts, weekly blogs, and an invitation to the Monstrous Productions Discord server.
This podcast is distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. The theme tune is by Vinca.
[Fade to silence. Then, the trailer for The Day Everything Changed begins. Tense music plays.]
Ann: Construction looks to be nearing completion on several dome-shaped structures in numerous states, but nothing is coming from the capital. Many fear danger is looming, and we just advise you to be prepared.
John: I think I’m about to get a breakthrough with those structures. Any [bleep]-ing minute now with the source that I have.
Vanessa: John, it’s here. Drop the story and everything. Get your family somewhere safe.
John: What are you talking about? It can’t already be - -
[A bomb explodes.]
Natalie: John, what the [bleep] was that?
John: Sarah, we have to go!
Sarah: Daddy?
John: It’s nothing, honey. We just need to hide for a while, okay?
Tessa: Don’t [bleep]-ing move! Keep your hands away from the bags.
Olivia: Are you Sick?
John: No, we aren’t Sick.
Tessa: Have you come in contact with anyone Sick?
Sarah: We shot a handful in the town a couple miles from here. That’s it.
Tessa: Did they touch you?
Sarah: No one touched us.
John: We’re harmless. We’re not the enemy.
Tessa: Don’t [bleep]-ing try anything. Turn around or you’ll have a bullet coming.
[A gun cocks.]
Tessa: John, I’m sorry.
Sarah: They’re all Sick.
John: I’m going to slowly open the door. Stay silent and wait for my signal.
[A bullet zips by.]
Olivia: It seems way too silent.
Sarah: That could be good… or honestly much, much worse.
[Zombie noises.]
John: Come on, Sarah, move! What did I tell you, huh? Two cans wasn’t worth that. They’ll keep after us until they catch up.
Sarah: We’re running out of food, Dad. We have to take anything we can get.
John: And what if they noticed you quicker and I didn’t see you coming? Look, I’m sorry, okay? I just - - I almost lost you once. I can’t take that chance again. I’m tired of searching. I’m sick of [bleep]-ing looking with nothing to show for it.
Sarah: We’re all sick of looking! It’s going to be the next one. I can feel it.
Tessa: Let’s go find us a home.
Lane: The Day Everything Changed is a Riffage Media production.
[Tense music fades.]
--END TRANSCRIPT--
