Suicide in B-Flat - Sam Shepard (1976)

LOUIS: (piano behind) A boy hears sound. He hears sound before has a name. He hears gurgling, pounding underwater. He hears an ocean of blood swimming around him. Through his veins. Through his mother. He breaks into the light of day. He's shocked that he has a voice. He finds his voice and screams. He hears it screaming as though coming down through ancient time. Like it belongs to another body. He hears it that way. He hears the crack of his own flesh. His own heart. His skin sliding on rubber mats. Squeaking. He hears his own bones growing. Stretching his skin in all directions. Bones moving out. Organs expanding. The sound of cells booming through his brain like tiny intergalactic missiles. Atoms. Nuclear rushes of wind through his nose holes. Toenails rubbing blankets in the dark. Books falling on pianos. Electricity humming even when the lights are off. Internal combustion engines. Turbo jets. Then one day he hears what they call music. He hears what they call "music" in the same way he hears what they call "noise." In the same stream. Music as an extension of sound. An organization. Another way of putting it. He's disappointed. He's disappointed and exhilarated at the same time. Exhilarated because he sees an opening. An adventure. A way inside. He sees that putting any two things together produces sound. Any two things. Striking, plucking, blowing, rubbing, dropping, kicking, kissing. Any two things. He has a revelation. Or rather, a revelation presents itself. Stabs at him. Enters into him and becomes part of his physiology. His physiognomy. His psychology. His paraphernalia. His makeup. He puts it to use. He's driven toward it in a way most men consider dangerous and suicidal. His production is abundant. Nonstop. Endlessly winding through un-heard-of-before symphonies. Concertos beyond belief. He organizes quintets. Soloists rush to him just to be in his presence. The best ones are rejected. He only takes on apprentices. He only plays nightclubs although he could pack out the Garden in a flash. He shakes the sidewalks with his compositions. Every city in the world is calling his name. He invents totally new chord progressions and scales. New names for notes that not even the Chinese have heard of. Instruments that he makes in the bathtub. His music is sweeping the country. And then one day he disappears. Just like that. He goes. Not dead. Just gone. No one can figure it. Rumors are spread that he's kidnapped. Abducted and taken to Sweden. Then it switches to murder. Talk of him being involved with particular ladies of particular gentlemen. Then his body is found. His body is found but his face is blown off. His fingerprints are tested and they check out completely. His one-of-a-kind fingerprints. The case is closed.

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