(SOME)DAY – A Story About Music, Generations, and Silence 🎤📖 🎸

artwork provided by NS

Hello freewriters,

Today I want to share with you a new story I’ve been working on. It’s called “(SOME)DAY”, and it explores music, memory, and how different generations wrestle with what it means to create something meaningful in a noisy world.

The story begins in the Architect’s Club in Sofia, where Stan, a young musician, meets Andrey Maslov, a composer and arranger from the old Bulgarian pop scene of the socialist period. Their conversation unfolds like a duel of perspectives:

Maslov remembers a time when melody was everything, when lyrics had to hide their meaning in Aesopian language to pass censorship, and when silence carried as much weight as sound.

Stan defends today’s fragmented, chaotic scene as a space of freedom—where you can loop a beat, sample the classics, or rap Vaptsarov in three languages, and no one can stop you.

From this clash of worlds emerges something unexpected: collaboration. They decide to work together on a song called “(some)day,” blending old-school strings and poetic depth with modern loops, drums, and hip-hop phrasing.

The second part of the story moves into the recording studio, where the magic of making music becomes the true bridge between generations. A young guitarist, Ros, adds a flamenco-flavored solo, and suddenly all their worlds connect—past, present, and future.

At its core, “(SOME)DAY” is about more than Bulgarian music. It’s about:

How art survives censorship and change

How freedom can be both possibility and burden

How generations speak to each other through music

And how sometimes, silence can be more powerful than noise

I’d love for you to read it and tell me what you think. Here’s the full story:

(SOME)DAY
They were sitting in the Architect’s Club in Sofia. Stan was smoking while his companion stirred his coffee. His name was Andrey Maslov, a composer and arranger who had worked with almost everyone from the “estrada” – the Bulgarian pop scene of the socialist period.
“We were influenced by the Italian school,” Maslov began without raising his eyes. “We watched and learned from the Italians. American music – blues, jazz, rock’n’roll – had its influence, of course, but we only borrowed elements. The songs we wrote followed the pattern: verse–chorus–solo–verse–chorus, mostly minor and melodic.”
He took a sip of coffee.
“Melody was everything. It carried the message. There was no need for shouting, rhythmic terror, or sonic kitsch.”
Stan watched him closely. He had come with questions, but now it felt like a lesson.
“And the lyrics?” he asked.
“Ah… the lyrics. Always suffocated between poetry and the commission’s approval. There was no ‘Can’t live without you, baby’ or ‘Let’s run away in the clouds,’ but still… we had a language. Sometimes silent. Sometimes symbolic. Sometimes Aesopian. I wrote about women, about loneliness, about hope – but in a way that no party secretary would notice. It was a game. A game of nuances.”
“And children’s songs?” Stan threw in.
Maslov chuckled briefly, as if surprised.
“Ah, children’s songs… Even there was room for improvisation. There was this record, you probably remember: ‘The plums are blooming on the branches… big purple fruits… sweet as candy… each and every one.’ Somehow that text slipped through. Apparently, no one had read it carefully. We were dying of laughter. And yet it passed as educational. You see? Again, Aesopian language, but sugarcoated. Everyone heard what they wanted to hear.”
“And how does all of it sound to you now? The new music?”
Maslov smiled faintly. His gaze carried both weariness and curiosity.
“To me, it sounds like… made by a DJ without any cultural background. Everything is technique, algorithm, and noise. The voices are auto-tuned, the stories are clichés, the harmony is poor. But, boy, there is light. Sometimes I hear a kid with a guitar who knows why he’s singing. Searching for his chord, his rhythm. That’s enough for me.”
“And the ‘old music’?” Stan pronounced the words with half a smile.
“Boy,” Maslov sighed, “the old music hasn’t grown old. It’s simply music that isn’t afraid to be quiet. Today everyone wants to shout. And we… we just tried to be heard.”
“The generations before you – Shturcite, Silver Bracelets – they wanted to recreate the roar of rock in a Bulgarian context. They fought for their sound on the airwaves, for the right to sing in their own language. They were carriers of the new, though not its creators. By the way, Silver Bracelets’ idea to do ‘Vecheriai, Rado’ in psychedelic rock style was perfectly in the spirit of that time and so well done that the fact it was in Bulgarian was a unique plus, not a minus.”
“Of course, the wooden-headed villagers who ruled culture back then weren’t excited by such things.”
“Then, after the fall of communism, a wave was unleashed and new voices appeared.”
“Sorry, but back then such a mess happened… chalga flooded in, everything got vulgar… a terrible time.”
“But just before chalga invaded, you could hear the voices of the then young – Era, Ahat, Kontrol, Milena, Nova Generacia, Krŭpkata, Review.”
“Yes, I generally call them punk groups… I remember ‘The Black Sheep’ and ‘I Got No Nerves,’ but overall I’m not well acquainted. Correct me if I’m wrong, but they were playing in exhausted styles… hard rock, heavy rock, punk rock… those things were already retro abroad.”
“But the messages weren’t retro,” Stan replied calmly. “Maybe the styles came late, but what they said was timely. Take Milena, for example – ‘Why must we sit crammed somewhere for a portion of food?’ That’s not just posing, that’s diagnosis. And Kontrol: ‘We didn’t die of happiness’ – that was the life of a whole generation after the changes. Krŭpkata brought in the blues to say: ‘Someone constantly survives because others stand against the storm.’”
Maslov smirked, this time a bit more ironically.
“Fine, fine. But if there’s no melody, no form… the message gets lost. You shout against the wind. And how many of them survived? Who listens to them today?”
Stan stubbed out his second cigarette. He looked Maslov straight in the eyes.
“And today, who listens to whom? Chalga with auto-tune, Western hits with Bulgarian videos. Everything is scattered. But that’s exactly the strength – today you can make a song with a text by Smirnenski, translated into English, over a dub beat. Or rap Vaptsarov in three languages. And no one can stop you. That’s freedom today – in the global noise, something human can still be heard.”
Maslov pondered. Then he said quietly:
“Freedom is a double-edged sword. Too much noise – too little silence. Too many possibilities – too little meaning. You must now discover what is worth it.”
Stan nodded.
“The first generation – Shturcite, Silver Bracelets – fought for the right to play and sing rock in Bulgarian. The second generation – Milena, Kontrol, Krŭpkata – voiced the anger of the transition. And our generation?”
“Yours…” Maslov lifted his gaze. “…must decide what it has to say in a world where everyone speaks at once. And whether it will say it with noise… or with silence.”
“That’s what spins in my head. In a format – guitar loop, light drum beat, and voice.”
Stan pulled out a sheet of paper from his bag and handed it over. Maslov took it and read silently:
(some)day
do you know
how many winters
I’ve been waiting
in vain
for the spring in you?
your tears, child
the frost of the years
our unfulfilled
autumn
flows out
day after day
through me
and burns
with the laughter of summer
love me
someday
autumn hid
in your hair
a fallen leaf
of memories
flows out
day after day
through me
and burns
with the laughter of summer
(love)
love me
someday
Maslov slowly placed the paper back on the table.
“You know, this… reminds me of the old school. The poetry is there. I already heard the melody in my head while reading. You’ll need more than guitar and beat. Let me add strings. Maybe viola and double bass, something warm, with depth.”
Stan gave him that slow, grateful look that doesn’t mean agreement, but trust.
“Shall we record it together?”
“Yes, boy. Let’s do it properly.”
Outside, dusk had already fallen. In the club, someone was playing piano. Old, slightly out of tune, but with a melody that lingered.
They were silent for a while. The club smelled of coffee and wood. Outside, darkness was gathering.

---

The session at Studio C-Rhyme began with the guitar loop. Ros played, while Stan recorded the beautiful phrase and sat down next to sound engineer Stoyan. Ros kept his guitar on his lap. Maslov sat sunk in an armchair, watching and listening intently. This method of composing was unfamiliar to him, but he liked the phrase.
“Loop it for me and let’s find drums,” Stan said to Stoyan. “You’ll manage, right?”
“No problem. Let’s spin the loop first,” Stoyan replied and put on his headphones. Within minutes, the loop was ready and played through the speakers. Maslov heard the phrase again and again… endlessly. “So this is a loop – a repeating phrase,” he thought to himself and smiled. Ros gave a barely visible nod, showing he was pleased.
“Now – drums!” said Stefan, opening his library of drum loops. “How about these?”
Cymbals from a trap beat rang out through the speakers, wrapping themselves around the guitar sound.
“Perfect!” Stan shouted.
“Don’t you want to hear more?” Stoyan asked.
“They’re really perfect. Sometimes luck comes the first time,” Andrey Maslov intervened.
“Ros?” Stan asked.
Ros nodded.
“OK, we’ve got a start. Now I suggest we record the vocals on this base and later sprinkle in some more instruments,” Stan proposed.
“On the same chords and verse and chorus? Won’t it be monotonous?” Maslov doubted.
“Just watch,” said Stan and entered the vocal booth.
The beat started. On the second loop, Stan began:
“Do you know /pause/
how many winters /pause/
I’ve waited in vain /pause/
for the spring /pause/ in you”
“He’s using a hip-hop technique to record a pop song,” Maslov thought while listening. “Yes, in the end verses and choruses can be seen as repeating loops.”
When Stan reached the second verse, he left some gaps without recording – apparently making space for other instruments. And when he entered the second verse, Maslov understood. Though the chords were the same, the singing was different. Stan stretched the vowels:
“Au-tumn hid
in your ha-ir
A fall-en lea-f
of mem-o-ries”
They listened to the recording several times. Then Andrey Maslov said:
“Here, after the first verse and chorus, I hear strings. Do you have that effect on the synthesizer? Strings?”
“Yes, several. Choose,” said Stoyan and played the first string sound.
Maslov liked the fourth one. He said it sounded like a real cello. He sat at the synth, put on the headphones, and they played the track. The noble sound of cello filled the room, giving the song a nostalgic, sad, dramatic vintage nuance. The cello stopped right before Stan’s voice came in again. It worked on the first try. Everyone looked with respect at Maslov – a small bald man with glasses, yet a titan in music.
“Wow! That was… awesome,” Stoyan couldn’t help but exclaim.
“No, it was just necessary, so the song wouldn’t be monotonous,” Maslov replied modestly.
“Are we ready?” Stoyan asked.
“No. I want another solo, on guitar. Ros? Acoustic or electric?”
“Acoustic,” Rosen answered, gently touching the guitar in front of him.
“Let’s do it,” Stoyan said and put on his headphones.
Rosen didn’t even get up. He just picked up the guitar and waited. When the second chorus passed, his fingers touched the strings and poured out a melodic solo with a flamenco flavor – fiery and tender, as if brightening the whole melody and sweetening the minor sound of the main loop.
Everyone was impressed, but most of all Maslov. It had been a long time since he had seen such talent. Modest, quiet, but a great improviser – melodic, sensitive, and with good technique. Andrey spoke to Ros:
“I really liked your solo.”
“Me too. Yours.”
Maslov nodded thoughtfully, then took off his glasses and placed them on the console.
“You know, Rosen… it doesn’t happen often, but sometimes you meet a musician you don’t want to stop working with. That’s you. If you ever decide to work with me… more than one solo, more than one session… I think we can make something real. I’ll tell you something I haven’t said in years: I want you to play for me. Or with me. Whichever you prefer. I arrange for famous artists, I record film scores, I can guarantee you steady income.”
Rosen smiled gently, almost shyly.
“Thank you, Mr. Maslov… It’s an honor. But there’s something…”
“Yes?”
“Stan invited me to Jamaica. To live there for a while, play together, with no schedule, no plan. Just music and sun.”
Stan laughed and glanced at Maslov.
“I’ll give him some air, let him breathe. The boy carries music, but he has to live it too.”
Maslov was silent for a few seconds, then smiled warmly.
“Then go. And come back. When you’re ready, when you’re inspired… I’ll be waiting. Work won’t run away. Nor will music.”
Ros nodded.
“I’ll come back. Better. Some day.”
Stan raised a plastic coffee cup like a toast.
“To Some day!”

TO BE CONTINUED

THIS IS THE SONG USED IN THIS CHAPTER:
https://shemzee.bandcamp.com/track/--748

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