The bass went down, and the treble went up.

Bzzt.

A touch of reverb.

Bzzt.

The piano, a little to the left. There. It sounds all better now. It isn’t dirty any more.

Bzzt.

What is wrong with that bass? Bass down. Damn, those steel strings. They drive you mad. Why can’t ponies simply use upright basses, as they used to? Bzzt. Why use those electrically amplified bass guitars? Bzzt. Who even invented those?

Poke.

“Lyra?”

Lyra raised her head from the mixing deck, seeing with her tired eyes the image of the most beautiful mare in the world, her mare, Bon-Bon. She placed her hoof on her shoulder gently and smiled that tiny, kindly smile. “Lyra, it’s five in the morning. What are you doing at the studio?”

“What are you doing up so early?” Lyra countered, kissing the creamy hoof. “I thought you’d be asleep till seven at least.”

“Couldn’t sleep without you,” Bon-Bon replied, nuzzling the mint cheek. “Come on, let’s go home. The studio can wait. I baked a pie for breakfast.”

Lyra pressed the button and the tape stopped. “Can’t get used to tape,” she lamented. “I miss vinyl records.” She stood up with a deep sigh. “I miss when they sent me blues records to edit and jazz ponies came by the record their trios and big bands.” The lyrist rubbed her eyes wearily. “Now they send me griffin tapes with that be-damned rock’n’roll. Do they seriously expect Heartstrings to sign the feathered?” Lyra smirked darkly. “I’d rather sell the label than let animals play animal music in my studio rooms.”

Bon-Bon stroked Lyra’s short mane lovingly. “Gliss seems to like that kind of music…” she said quietly.

“That’s the problem, Bonnie!” Lyra exclaimed violently, slamming her hoof against the extremely expensive console. “It can’t be right, it just can’t be! I remember her,” she said, teary-eyed, “a little filly, dancing to the tunes of Sineightra, singing Vinyl’s old songs, pretending to be Mom… I remember her studying the guitar parts of Montcoltmery… How is she all teenage, all strange, all… into colts?, and she’s a fan of what the feathered play!” Lyra sighed, rubbing her eyelids that screamed with lack of sleep. “Haven’t her parents… haven’t we all taught her about how races are different, how she’s supposed to stick to ponies, not griffins?”

“But she doesn’t have any griffin friends,” Bon-Bon assured her in the same gentle voice. “I’m sure it’s just a phase.”

“Yeah…” Lyra sighed. “Hope it’s just a phase.”

***

“String, I need to have a talk with you.”

The bassist mare stopped in surprise, letting an array of students past her in the corridor. “Hey there, Gliss,” she replied. “Thought your mothers wouldn’t let you go to studies with a concussion?”

“I’m not here for the studies,” Gliss said seriously. “I’m here for you.” She pointed with her head towards the end of the corridor, which led towards the exit.

“Oh, well.” String tossed her mane. “I’m flattered and all, but I’m really into stallions.” She laughed at the filly’s surprise.

“Come on,” Gliss motioned. “It’s serious. And it’s about stallions.” A particular stallion, to be more precise.

“Ooooh,” String drawled, turning round finally. “I get it.” She winked. “You’re finally getting some and need my instructions. Well,” she began, “the first rule is: never take it in the-”

“STRING!” Gliss roared, attracting some seniors’ attention. She blushed as she realised her outburst. “Let’s go. We need to talk somewhere more private.”

String shrugged and followed the filly outside. The cold of the street bit into them as the mares rolled into their scarves and shielded their muzzles against the wind. “So, what’s on your mind?” Golden String called out, battling the weather with her voice.

“I wanted to talk to you about colts!” Gliss shouted back, blinking the snowflakes away.

“About what?” The two mares neared a cosy cafe, a small coffee shop with barely four tables.

“About colts!” Gliss roared as String opened the door, letting the warm envelop them and the colt bite into the room.

“What now?”

“About COLTS!” Gliss yelled on top of her lungs, just as they entered the establishment. Her cry pierced the low-chatter quiet and silence of the room, with several ponies looking at her in surprise. The filly blushed and averted her eyes. “Sorry. I wanted to talk to you about colts. A certain colt, to be more precise.”

“Ooooh~” String cooed, wrapping her hooves around the filly’s neck and placing her vigorously on one of the chairs. “So you finally admit you’ve fallen for our crystal colt?”

Gliss flushed crimson. “How did you know?”

String winked and motioned for the waitress to come by. She leant in, head on her elbows. “Tell me everything.”

***

“Vinyl, when will you stop?”

Vinyl looked up from her glass in surprise, blinking at the grey mare who’d just entered the kitchen. “Come again, Tavi?”

I would come again and again, if you’d make me. But you don’t. You just turn and snore. “I said,” the cellist repeated, “When will you stop drinking? Will you ever?” She sat down opposite the white unicorn.

“What’s wrong with having a glass now and then?” Vinyl protested, sipping her whisky.

“Nothing’s wrong with having a glass now and then,” Octavia agreed, pouring herself a glass of wine. “But there’s something seriously wrong with having a glass all the time.” She took a sip of the crimson liquid.

“Yeah, but I don’t-” Vinyl tried.

“You do,” Octavia interrupted. “You don’t even notice that you’re always drinking. You don’t feel drunk because you are constantly drunk.” She shut her eyes painfully. “It’s like buck all over.”

“Buck was different,” Vinyl protested. “It was a drug, and this is just booze.”

“You’re right,” Octavia said suddenly. “Buck was different. You want to know how?” She narrowed her eyes at her wife. “Back when you were doing buck, I cared. Now I don’t.” The cellist pause. “It’s Hearth’s Warming soon,” she said with a sigh, getting up from the table. “Try not to ruin it.”

***

“No, babe, it’s not jazz.” Jimi rolled over, picking up his jacket from the floor. “It’s not rock’n’roll either.”

“What’s it then?” the female griffin yawned, closing her eyes. She patted the now-empty bed next to her. “Hey, Jimi, stay the night, willya?”

“No can do, babe,” Jimi replied, putting on the old, worn-out, frankly small jacket. “But here I tell ya. It’s something new. I can’t quite picture it, but I see it’s something from ten years ahead.” He rubbed his beak in irritation. “It’s something based around guitar instrumentals, it’s something… something that changes the sound. I play on the intense overdrive, I distort the sound to the extreme,” he explained to the visibly bored griffin woman. “It doesn’t… it doesn’t roll, ya dig? It rocks, but it, it rocks hard. Rock hard?” He pondered. “Hard rock?”

“Stay the night, Jimi, willya?” the female continued, rolling over and fluttering her fake eyelashes. “I’ll get you a beer.”

“No, thanks.” The guitarist headed for the exit. “It’s been… a night.”

With that, he opened the door and headed out into the cold, unwelcoming Equestrian night.