The bassist had an unusual reputation in the music community. He never lied. If someone played beautifully, he said so. If someone played badly, he said so. If a song needed work, he mentioned it. Other musicians found this admirable from a distance but exhausting up close. He was not cruel. He was simply incapable of decorating reality. This became especially complicated because he spent fifteen years playing in a band led by Dennis who possessed an unwavering conviction that he was extraordinary. Dennis described his work as visionary. He referred to songs he had written in his twenties as “important contributions to the Canadian songbook.” He often compared himself favorably to artists whose records had permanently altered musical history. The bassist never agreed with these assessments because he couldn’t. Dennis was competent. Occasionally charming. He wrote melodies and lyrics that audiences enjoyed well enough after two drinks. He was, in the bassist’s estimation, very average. This was not an insult. Most people are average. Most musicians are average. Yet Dennis experienced average as a personal attack. After concerts he would ask, “How was it?” The bassist would answer, “The third song worked better than the second. You rushed the ending of the ballad. The audience liked the encore.” Dennis would stare at him in frustration. “No,” he would say. “How was I?” The bassist considered this carefully each time. “You were yourself,” he would reply. Years passed. Albums came and went. Dennis continued believing he stood one small opportunity away from widespread recognition. The bassist continued arriving early for rehearsals, thoroughly learning the material, and answering questions with sincerity. Eventually Dennis received a lifetime achievement award from a regional arts organization. During his acceptance speech he described decades of artistic sacrifice and thanked those who recognized his genius. Later that evening he cornered the bassist. “Be honest,” he said. “Do you think I deserved this?” The bassist looked down at the cold quiche, then back at the man he had accompanied through thousands of songs. “I think you worked very hard,” he said. “I think music gave your life meaning. I think audiences often had a good evening because of you. I think your songs mattered greatly to some people. But no, I don’t think you are a genius.” Dennis looked wounded. Then angry. Then oddly relieved. “You know,” he said quietly, “sometimes I wish you would lie.” The bassist nodded. “Sometimes I wish that too.” Then he headed home, comforted by the thought that truth, as Mark Twain noticed over a century ago, never required remembering what you said the night before.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"