At first, all that sounded in the room were the isolated strains of the guitar. They moved through the air, lonely chords laying a foundation for the melody of the viola, weaving into the notes like a shine.
Mama take this badge off of me
I can't use it, anymore
It's getting dark, too dark to see...
Ballads were not a style Jude got to make use of often. At first, it seemed almost strange to him to hear his own voice singing without the rasping, shout-just-short-of-a-scream texture of his grunge brand. His voice had always been slightly rough; not 'that guy really needs a lozenge' rough, but never smooth enough for pop, either. In a rock lament however, the tenor of his voice moved seamlessly into the melody of the strings; a base, grounding the music.
I feel I'm knockin' on Heaven's door
Knock knock knocking on Heaven's door...
Grey eyes flitted from the neck of the guitar to his guest in the opposite chair. Her higher notes sounded softly in unison, a clear highlight to the melancholy tones of the instruments.
Knock knock knocking on Heaven's door
Knock knock knocking on Heaven's door
Knock knock knocking on Heaven's door
Mama put my guns in the ground
I can't shoot them, anymore
It really had been far too long since he played anything this mellow. He missed the feel of an acoustic under his fingers.
That long, black cloud is coming down
I feel I'm knocking on Heaven's door
The wire strings were not as gentle as nylon, but he savoured the unyielding texture under the slight callouses on his fingertips as he pressed and released against the frets, feeling the gentle vibrations as the notes rang out, mixing with the sweeter notes of the viola and swelling with the music.
Knock knock knocking on Heaven's door
Knock knock knocking on Heaven's door
Knock knock knocking on Heaven's door
Oh, no...
Knock knock knocking on Heaven's door
As the last notes faded from the air, silence replaced them, and a small shiver ran down Jude's skin. His hand right hand fell, relaxed, from the strings, and his other released the weight of the guitar's neck to the strap behind his neck in favour of tucking his hair back from his face.
"So, what did you think?"
A second of silence passed while he sorted through adjectives in his mind and met her luminescent eyes.
"I think Dylan would be proud" he said, straightening in his seat and folding one arm over the body of his guitar. "Actually, one second."
The character of the melody was circling in his mind as he crossed the room to the bookshelf and removed one worn-looking notebook. It was plain black, save for the manufacturer's logo; some pages had been torn out and slipepd back in; many were dog-eared, and the spine as a whole was too uneven to thumb through. Wetting one finger, he flipped the pages aside until he landed on the ones he wanted. Folding the papers backward, he offered the volume to her. "Can you play these, the bars in red?" He asked "it was written with a second guitar in mind, but..."
The pages were full of hand-written tabs. A bar in black, and a bar in red ink, alternating. It was a piece written for two instruments. An incomprehensible shorthand was jotted between the bars, many parts scratched out or scribbled over. There were gaps and changes in angle; one part looked like it had been started with one pen and finished with another. The only word someone other than the other might have been able to discern from the mess between bars was at the top: "Basics."