A Night at Trailhawk

By now it should be clear that Truuine is bliss in planetary form.  I’ve shared my experiences gambling in casinos, lounging on beaches, watching theatre, as well as touring its volcanic caverns and underwater wonders.  But one doesn’t need to keep only to the standard tourist districts and attractions for a good time.

Because Truuine is off the main Hyperspace routes, locals have a more self-sufficient lifestyle than most, which has allowed a culture different than the Galactic mainstream to develop.  In fact, if you want a truuine-ly unique experience you need to go to Trailhawk.  Yeah, I can’t believe my editor let me keep that in, too.

I wandered into this non-descript cantina quite by accident.  Having spent a magnificent day on the beaches playing Sabbac with the other tourists and Ononmon with the locals (a game like darts, but with rocks and the target is on the sand I wandered into the outdoor market in the central square of the capital.  Truuine’s outdoor markets are always open, even at night, unless a monsoon is incoming.  Given their climate, who can blame them?  A bad day on Truuine is a good day anywhere else, a saying that held true even during Imperial occupation.

I got into a haggling argument with a merchant over the price of a bottle of sand.  It changes color in the light, he says, holding it up to the setting blue sun.  He goes on to say that if I add a little water it will emit an odor to remind me of my time on Truuine.

Sure, but for 45 credits?

He eventually parts with it for twenty.  The sand indeed remained a bright reminder of my trip on my desk for many weeks, until the day I decided to add water.  It stank like a wet Wookie, and I had to throw the whole thing out.

As I left the market I saw a cantina sign that brightly blinked “T ailh wk”.  I decided to go in for some dinner before going back to my hotel, which had yet to impress me with its food.

Entering Trailhawk, one’s eyes are immediately drawn to the brightly lit trinkets which cover the walls.  Don’t look too long, though; They are a trap.  As I stared hard at one, trying to figure out what it could possibly be, I heard a huff from behind me.  Turning around, I came face to face with a local.  “What’s wrong, outlander, never seen a scrapped gunship?”  He brusquely turned around before I could respond, his six arms swaying as he went.

I made my way down the entrance hall, still inspecting the decorations, though careful not to linger on any one for too long.  They could be scrap from anything in existence.  It seems impossible to figure out what they are on one’s own.  There’s no labelling whatsoever.  I was later told they are told to be enjoyed only ironically.

Reaching the end of the hallway I enter the main chamber.  The interior is harsh, bright metal.  This is no Takodanian lyric crypt, with its no easy lights and soft cushions.  The furniture here is also made from scrap metal:  Sharp-edged and covered in pockmarks.  It’s clearly a theme, but the purpose is unclear.  The setting blue sun reflects crudely off the tables right into my face.  Turning from the window, I see the bar.

I read the menu overhead.  The offerings are fish cooked every which way.  Grilled sarps, fried maroon prats, roasted sslivs (shelled or unshelled).  The drinks were a wider variety than I had expected, too.  Most worlds off hyperspace routes must be content with the standard or, worse, local fare.  But Trailhawk seems unusually well connected, with draughts available of Pper, nips of Niferine, and a rounded bottle of some liquor on the top rack labeled for over one hundred credits!

I ordered a sampler kebob and a glass of Augrod Old Smoky.  The bartender, a human, hands me a hologram projector.  When I just stare at it he says quite loudly, “I thought you looked new.”  He is so loud many of the patrons turn and look at me.  I see my six-armed acquaintance from before lean over to his friend and say something.  The bartender continues, telling me to find a seat and that the service will find me and bring me my order.  Humiliation complete, he turns around and returns to his work.  By now, everyone else has returned to their business, as well.  I slowly pull my head from my shell.

I find a seat at a low table away from the rest of the crowd, but some move to sit near me.  The species variety is wide, but they all speak strong Basic.  They tell me to ignore Sabex’ antics, that he’s an eccentric who’s allowed his oddities because of his communal goodwill.  They assure me I will understand, if I stay the whole night.  I am staying, yes?  Tonight, I am made to understand, is a performance night.

This gets my antennae moving.  Most cantinas with bands and other performances advertise very clearly, and certainly aren’t hidden under a failing sign.

A domed droid rolls over with my order, beeping to get my attention.  The cups and plates are sourced similarly to the furniture.  The locals tell me they’re from Persecution, a Star Destroyer that was downed soon after Endor.  One of them says the decorations in the hallway also come from Persecution, but another says they’re from the first Death Star.  I say I had heard they were from a gunship.  An argument ensues.  It is obvious this is not the first time this disagreement has been had, nor will it be the last.

Turning my attention to my meal, I discover it is quite delightful.  The kebobs were each labeled, and even the worst one (Malef fin) was at least juicy, despite its noxious flavor.  The portions were also very generous, which is unusual for samplers, which tend skimp on both quality and quantity, as if variety absolves them.  My favorite was the Naviy Crab, which was paired with the fruit of the Tumfasa bush.  Hard to know who thought to pair the two, but I’m grateful they did.

The sun had set.  The argument over décor dies away as the lights inside dim.  Everyone turns toward a stage that had appeared.  Sabex comes over from the bar, his eyes scanning the room, waiting for silence.  When he was certain he had everyone’s attention, he gave a big welcome to us all before introducing his wife, Kauder, who was to be the beginning of the night’s entertainment.

A cantina owner who puts his wife on display?  I begin to reconsider why there’s no advertising.  This performance is just an excuse to give his wife a taste of celebrity, and Sabex gets to feel like some kind of high-roller while everyone else gets to feel like a VIP.  As if on cue, my new friends turn in their chairs to assure me I’m in for a “real treat”.

A well-versed traveler, I am used to embellishments of locals.  Everyone’s mine is the deepest, or their cheese is the richest, or their love-making the most boisterous.  It’s harmless, really, though excessive boasting can make what would have been acceptable seem weak in comparison.  I’ve become accustomed to ignoring such crowing.  So imagine my surprise when Kauder actually lives up to the praise.  The operas on Couruscant should be so lucky to have her voice.

She sings a few popular songs and then a few of her own.  Her voice flows easily, rising and falling through the scales.  She can hit the high notes of Millenium Paradise and has mastered the difficult tempo of Attack Run my Heart.  Of her own songs, Sabex forbade me from publishing any of the lyrics, but he told me the titles.  Stay Truuine is a ballad that celebrates Truuine’s return to peaceful tourist system.  Nothin’ but your Death Sticks is an amusing song about a failing relationship.  She also performed a song which was yet unfinished, and so untitled, but is from the point of view of the wife of a Rebel pilot, who hears the ongoing news and worries about her love.  It is amazing how a reality that would be terrifying to live through becomes reflective and meditative when put to song.  She is brave to attempt it.

When she is finished, she bows to wild applause. I can see why Sabex wants to keep her a secret, unless they want to move to the core worlds.    That she performs these songs with her voice, alone, only magnifies its beauty and extraordinary capacity.  Looking at the time, I see only 30 minutes have passed.  That can’t really be it, can it?  The locals assure me the night is only beginning, and I prepare for a delightful evening of this exquisite music.

Kauder bows again as Sabex takes the stage.  Sabex exhorts us to continue cheering, and Kauder blushes and turns to leave.  As she walks off, they briefly embrace (long shows of affection are looked down upon in Truuine).  At first I think this is some kind of intermission, but then Sabex says something truly astonishing: “Who’s next?” Without warning, hands fly up around me.

Have you ever been to a child’s music recital, or a small town’s harvest festival?  Everyone is so proud of the participants, and how can they not be?  They’re family!  I’m a critic, but I’m not heartless.  Some of my own family can’t sing for nerfs, but I encourage them nonetheless, especially the younglings.  Art is not only about displays of practiced precision.  It can also be for sport.  Those events can be a way to bring the community together and break up the doldrum of life.

Trailhawk has that kind of energy, but moved from the realm of family and into the public domain.

It’s no use explaining the whole show.  You have to see it for yourself.  For one thing, given the structure, no two shows can possibly be the same.  Perhaps that’s why these locals come week after week.  However, there are a few performances I saw that are worth highlighting,

An Ewok came up and twirled fire on a stick, first real fire, then Ghoul Flame.  I looked at Sabex, standing to the side, but he seemed unconcerned with the danger.  The Ewok proved to be skillful, twirling the stick with one hand while making shadow puppets in the purple and grey light with the other.  It was unclear exactly what the shadow puppets were supposed to be, though there was clearly some narrative progressing before us.

All of a sudden, the Ghoul Flame was extinguished, leaving us in darkness as our eyes adjusted.  When I could see clearly again, the Ewok was waddling back to its seat.  Sabex hurried to take its place on stage and give an encouraging farewell, but it was clear everyone was a little baffled.  We clapped dutifully, more out of respect for the attempt than awe of the art.

Early on so many people had asked to perform that Sabex put everyone’s name in a hologram generator.  This is the usual way, I'm told.

A human with a string instrument played a particularly long rendition of Echoes of Hoth.  Having slowed down the tempo of that song, it became much more melancholic than the usual joyful celebration of Rebel heroes.  It was rather lovely.  He left the stage sat down to loud and energetic applause.

A young Neimoidian went next.  She was welcomed warmly to the stage and brought with her a long instrument I didn’t recognize, which she laid on the floor.  I stretched my neck to see what she was doing and immediately felt everyone else looking at me.  Evidently, this instrument is no mystery to them.  I quickly crooked my neck left and right in an attempt to look like I was just stretching.

She sat on the floor behind it and produced two grey mallets, and began tapping the instrument.  It was like a drum in that way, but like a keyboard in it produced different notes depending on which key was struck.

She hit the keys slowly, creating a rich sound, but which was almost excruciatingly sluggish.  Just as my mind was beginning to wander she the tempo changed and soon her hands looked like blurs even to my compound eyes.  The crowd whooped and whistled as she played out an amazing string of sounds, seemingly to strike three (and even four) keys at once.  The layering of sound was exquisite.  Then, she opened her mouth.

From it came a deep rumbling sound, or alternatively a series of quick, harsh, thuds.  It was the sound of a full drum set, but without the drums – and still she struck her instrument with excellent precision.  The layering of all these different sounds was expertly achieved.  This was a kind of music I never knew existed, and had never before imagined.  I have done my best to explain it, though rereading what I've written I know I have failed to really convey its full power.

She finished by slowing down the tempo of her mallets until she stopped using her instrument completely, and the room filled only with her voice.  Then she slowly – her control was amazing – faded her voice out, until the room was silent.  That silence only heightened our awe at her talent.  It reminded us of what we had just heard –  and how much we immediately missed it.  We rushed to fill the silence with applause.

Beaming at the response, the woman stood, picked up her instrument, and bowed.  Sabex took the stage, his eyes wide with surprise.  “Every time Meiran comes up here, I am blown away.  Come on, you can do better than that!”  He swung his open hands upward, pushing us cheer louder and louder.  We whistled and clapped and stomped our feet and hooted.  More than a few wiped their eyes.

I’ll admit in the months since I’ve returned home I’ve had whole days invaded by cravings for a reprieve of her music.  I despair when I consider I may never hear it again.

Later, Sabex called up a young Hutt.  He plodded onto stage and presented a doll from behind his massive body.  The doll was a green Twi’lek, with a long headtail and dressed in formal attire.  His name was Russo.

He placed the doll on his hand and rested it on his tail so Russo appeared to be sitting on it.  Using this hand, he skillfully manipulates the doll’s head, mouth, and hands, bringing Russo to life.  He then speaks to Russo, and has Russo respond (in a distinct voice).  However, it’s a bit too obviously scripted.  When Russo interrupts him at what turns out to be the climax, the timing is somehow too perfect.  It’s clear it’s one person doing both characters, and that fact interrupts audience engagement.

Polite clapping commences when he’s done.  I hear someone shout that he’s getting better, and it occurs to me that Trailhawk isn’t only a showcase but also a public practice hall.  I wonder how the others sounded before, when they just started, and how good this Hutt might be if he keeps practicing.

After a time – by now it’s been over two hours – a lanky Bothan with well-combed grey fur gets up.  As he takes the stage there is some booing, and he hisses back and even curses at us.  Someone notices my surprise and says it’s all part of the act.  “You’re supposed to boo”, I’m told.  “Deor loves to play the villain!”

And what a villain he is!  First up is The Crimes of Darth Vader, but played at a quicker tempo on his instrument (a six-string kithara that rests on his knee), with changed lyrics to celebrate the Sith enforcers life.  I managed to jot down a few lines:

And when Yavin came into view
What did our leader do?
Led the defense of the Great Station,
Killing Rebels, no hesitation

and:

He’ll find your droids
And plug on in
Protocol, medical,
He’ll thrust and gasp and thrust and gasp

and the chorus, repeated a nauseating amount, went:

Palps won’t go far enough
We need a new commander
Is he a droid, cyborg or is he just a man?
If Darth was in charge, we wouldn’t have lost Endor

The crowd laughs and jeers and makes rude gestures.  It’s a bit unclear who’s in on the joke, or if there is a joke to be in on at all.  Surely on any regular Republic world such a song would have been an abomination.

At the point of the song where the names of subjugated planets are usually stated, the singer instead memorializes Star Destroyers.  This is too far for someone and they throw a cup at him.  Deor looks up, and into the nascent silence says: “You broke my kithara, dude.  You’re gonna have to pay for that.”
“My father died on the Liberty you parasitic mynock!”

“Well boo-hoo.  Is his heroism so fragile you can’t take a joke?”

The offender rushed the stage and tackled Deor, and a few in the crowd got up to break it up – or join in.  My new friends tell me this is unusual but not unheard of, and that Deor’s provocation is too much for some.  When I comment that the subject matter is, in fact, quite offensive, they shrug and turn back around.

The two were eventually separated, though clearly both got injured in the fight.  A small group take the offender to the door and hurls him outside.  Deor shouts a few insults after him, then returns to the stage and picks up his instrument.  “I need a drink and a few new kithara strings, in that order!  What a loser.”  The crowd claps, realizing the act is over.  Deor is really, actually, upset.   He returns to his seat.  Sabex hurries to take the stage again – suddenly I realize he hadn’t interceded at all – and stands patiently.  When the room is quiet, he simply takes out the hologram generator and keeps going.

Late in the night, a scraggily haired, long-nosed dug takes the stage.  She says she will perform some spoken-word poetry.  “What?”  The interjection escapes my mouth before I can stop it.  It floats in the room for a long time, and slowly I feel the whole room turning to look at me, or what little bit of me hadn’t yet retreated into my shell.  I wave my hands apologetically, but the stares continue.  She clears her throat to reclaim their attention and begins.  I get my answer: Turns out it’s just a regular poem, but with unpredictable pauses.  The dug’s speech becomes solemn and slow, as if she’s sharing the very nature of the Force.  I’ve copied down the end of the poem:

"Rebel, Imperial, Republican. The stars are going to explode in a few million years. What use are these political constructions? Dark Side, Light Side. Why not just be by my side?"

A smattering of applause.  I find myself relieved to find myself not the only one more than a little confused by what we’ve just heard.

Taking a sip from her cup, she launches into another poem.  I present it to you here in full.

Alderaan
Gone too soon
Day long remembered
My love was there
Died that day
Fair and giving
Beautiful and holy
She was your love,
Too.

Freedom from fear
A casualty.

Now the fleet, the regime
Destroys stars of our dream
Security at the cost of their screams
The academy grades are a scheme
Something the Emperor deems necessary
But they pull down the wool
On those with no pull:
Re-education 101

A wampa in bantha’s clothing
The secret is out
But please do not shout
They found the main generator
The Jedi Knight hater
The Sith
Cloaked in black
Shhhhhhh
They’ll be back

then she whispering quietly:

Do you remember Alderaan?
Or does your fear make you forget.
Do you remember Alderaan?
She remembers you.

Another pause.  Silence filled the room, and stretches.  After what seems like an eternity she cracks a smile and inclines her head to show us she is finished.  I begin to tepidly clap my hands, but the crowd responds as if she had discovered and recited the Journal of the Whils.  It’s insane.  What a Wampa would do in Bantha’s clothing is left unanswered.  Use your imagination, if you dare.

At the end of the night, Sabex takes the stage and thanks everyone for coming out.  He reminds them Trailhawk will close in an hour, but he encourages them to come back next week.  There’s a round of applause for all the performers.  As Sabex leaves the stage the cantina band which has set up behind him begins playing standard cantina band fare.  I’m surprised at how dull it seems compared to what I’ve just experienced.  It lacks any sense of adventure.

Leaving Trailhawk, the shine of the street lights takes some getting used to.  The sounds of the market echo around me.  Those I’ve gotten to know throughout the night shout good-bye as I leave, and I wave back.  It’s a very welcoming community, no doubt of that.

Look, I’ve seen quite a bit of art in my time.  I’ve lived in communes, taken jetpack rides over the painted stones, been both to operas and cheap outdoor stages.  I’m a critic, but I try not to be a snob.  Trailhawk is a place of innovators.  No, it is a family of innovators – both wonderful and clumsy.  Your experience I’m sure will be different than mine, except in this:  A night at Trailhawk is unforgettable.  I hope to return.

 Copyright ©️ 2020 Maslow Stories

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I consider this story still a draft. I edit it occasionally. If you have any feedback for me, I'd love to hear it! Email me at armaslow@gmail.com. Please put "Star Wars Stories" in the subject line. Thank you!