juilliard|hq

intro no.2: matsukawa

A born-to-be nobody, Matsukawa Issei was the only person in his hometown that believed he was destined for greatness. Living on the southeast coast of Japan, he spent day by day playing duets with the ocean waves and his guitar on the beach, songs of summer and running off to America sung melodies in his head. He wasn't bad, not at all, but with the constant slacking off in classes and ditching to go smoke behind the bar with college kids, playing guitar was just never going to be enough to get him out of Japan.

"Talking about America won't get you there, Issei," his father would scold him, "you have to work hard. Even if music is your passion, you need to up your game 101% to get there."

So, he did. And it turns out that Matsukawa was really fucking smart. And it surprised everyone.

"Man, when are you going to quit with that shit?" Matsukawa's friend, Kyou, groaned at him from across the table, four years before Matsukawa turned 19. They sat at their usual table on the outskirts of town in an ugly bar that they loved.

"Whenever the hell I want to," he said back. He wasn't ever angry or aggrevated- in fact, Matsukawa was proud in the fact that he lived by the rule of 'you only get one life, why spend it so angry?'- and was usually calm and collected. He was a realist and knew his weaknesses, and Kyou's constant insults were definitely not one of them.

"Hey, Mattsun, if you could get into Juilliard with that gay piece of shit, I'll pay for your whole expenses!" Another friend of Matsukawa's, an older man who spent his life's fortunes in that bar, raised his beer to the teenager and laughed.

"Is that a challenge or a promise?" Matsukawa asked in return, not bothering to turn around to look the man in the eye.

"Both!" the man cheered, and Matsukawa raised his own glass to the whole bar, saying, "Fuck this place," and walked home.

Once he researched Julliard, Matsukawa knew he was going to get in. Not anytime soon, of course, but a bet doesn't expire. On his sixteenth birthday, Kyou got him an old bass guitar. "It sounds a lot cooler," was the friend's excuse, but Matsukawa still shook his hand and thanked him for the next four years.

It turned out that Matsukawa was a Bass Kind Of Guy. This meaning: he was really fucking good at it. He played in a band for the years following, booking up cheap gigs and playing on the streets downtown. When he wasn't playing late into the night with his best friends or studying like there was no tomorrow, he practiced. And he practiced hard. And day by day, he got just a little better, and better, and better, and at eighteen, he was just good enough to pass the 'acceptable' standard for Juilliard. And he got the letter, and he shoved it in his poor friend's face, saying, "Pay up, baby."

And so that's how a year ago, Matsukawa was set on a plane to travel across the world on a bet. He knew nothing about the people or the school, and he loved every second of it. None of them knew he wasn't destined for greatness that way.

Because in a school like Juilliard, no matter where you came from or who you are, you don't mean anything to anyone until they hear you play.

It was June 1st and Matsukawa's dad called at 2:18 in the afternoon, which was used as an alarm to wake him up from his midday nap. Although, instead of being able to press 'snooze' on his dad's never-ending calls, Matsukawa simply pressed the decline button and hoped that it would finally put an end to the constant running away of the problems waiting for him back in Japan.

When Matsukawa left his home town, he left behind a storm that was starting to form in his own home, and from the night that he heard his mother say "I think you should sleep on the couch tonight" to his father to the day he walked in on her packing a suitcase, Matsukawa knew that he wouldn't be able to handle the long nights and quiet days after she left. After the incident with his mother's packing, he quietly excused himself and walked to his room, his mother calling out his name and apologizing repeatedly behind his shut door. Once she had finally opened the jammed entryway to her son's bedroom, a room exposed to no one, he was gone and the curtains danced lightly in the wind coming from the open window.