Behind the Mask - A Sequel (of Sorts) to A Star Is Born

Making Music

Making Music

A few weeks later, Phil introduced us to Hektor, a Haitian immigrant who produced music as a "side job." (His main job was unclear, and I got the sense it might be best to let the ambiguity persist.)

Working with Hektor helped me understand music. He deconstructed my melodies into the science of music, and brought in sounds and techniques I couldn't have imagined on my own. Part of his magic was his jovial style of teaching – I craved his feedback to the point that I couldn't wait to get home each Friday for our composition courses. Hektor had a way of turning my crude compositions into symphonies, even if none of us knew how to play the violins he often layered into them. He was also gifted on the drums, so he became the fourth member of the band when he wasn't busy producing.

By the end of my junior year, we had an album. Hektor said it was time to play it for Phil. We ordered a few pizzas, snuck a few beers from the upstairs fridge, and by the time Phil came over, we had steeled ourselves for another bad outcome.

I turned on the speaker system and started to play our new album. Hektor was uncharacteristically tense, watching Phil's visage for any hint of our grade. But Phil showed no emotion, and at one point turned almost militaristic, ordering us to keep playing after each song finished.

It took nearly sixty minutes to make it through our songs. At the end, Phil paused, looked up, and said crudely, "tell no one about this."

With none of us sure what he meant, Brian started to lash out, before Phil continued. "You always said you didn't want to repeat your father's mistakes. Well, I'm telling you, if you play this music, you will become stars."

Brian and Juan yelled with joy, slapped high-fives, and started to hug me. Hektor managed to breathe again. I was stunned. Maybe they didn't know me well enough – the scars of my father's tragic end were still deep. What sounded to them like winning the lottery sounded to me like a death sentence. "Lighten up," Juan pled. I would have nothing of it.

Maybe my sullenness was overwrought, but I felt like the others needed to understand I wasn't going to be a musician. No chance. There was nothing I feared more than going down the path my father had traveled.

Brian and Juan were both frustrated, though they showed it in different ways. It wasn't in Juan's nature to pick a direct confrontation. Brian, however, couldn't contain his feelings. It seemed like every time we ran into each other he boiled over more quickly, telling me it wasn't fair, this was always a joint project, and I needed to find a way to come to grips with the past.