SON:
You keep telling me to practice the modes. What even is a mode?

FATHER:
It’s a scale that’s had a couple of drinks.

SON:
So… a scale in a good mood?

FATHER:
Exactly. Ionian likes to play basketball. Dorian’s the moody one with an axe to grind. Phrygian is the person at the party pretending to be mysterious.

SON:
And Lydian?

FATHER:
Lydian’s the one that married money.

(He plays a showy Lydian sequence on the piano.)

SON:
So this is supposed to make me a better musician?

FATHER:
No, it’s supposed to make you interesting at parties. Look, anyone can play C major. Try playing something that confuses people into thinking you’re a genius.

(He points/ commands him to play. The son strums first thing that comes to him.)

FATHER:
Beautiful. You sound like a man underwater.

SON:
You’re not very supportive.

FATHER:
I am supportive. I don’t believe in false hope. Play the note until it sounds like you mean it. Then stop. No one likes a solo that needs talk therapy.

(Son laughs.)

FATHER:
Alright, listen. Each mode has a different color, a different mood. Play Dorian and you’re walking home after a breakup but it’s raining just enough to look cinematic. Play Lydian and you’re floating above the mess, pretending you’ve got your life together.

(He plays again, something clicks. The sound glows.)

SON:
It’s weird. It feels like the notes are thinking for us.

FATHER:
That’s it. Music’s like an open stage at the comedy bar. Half the time it’s killing, half the time it’s bombing, but shows up for the next gig.

SON:
So what do I practice tomorrow?

FATHER:
Practice not pretending. Harder than a scale.