The musician
He was playing frustration when I found him. I was hoping not to interrupt, but he noticed me out of the corner of his eye and said hello. I waved for him to continue, and was glad when he did.
I have always known the extent that music can move people, but there had not been many times where I've had the chance to stop and watch the accidental audience - more often than not in the past, I have been the musician. And when you are drawing out music from around and inside you, you tend to be preoccupied with the actual act of feeling.
A few passerbys threw me curious glances because I was sitting close to the musician himself. A man asked me what the time was, and a rather exhibitionistic guy with bleached blond hair that made me think of a ruffled animal borrowed my pen (plus a couple of sheets from my notebook), asked me the Chinese word for 'peace', and scribbled down his email address - in my book. He conversed hurriedly and loudly with a girl he chanced upon but obviously knew, and they both disappeared down the street.
After a while, my musician friend stopped and told me that it had been a terrible day moodwise - that the city was melancholy and everyone had withdrawn within themselves. The weather, the people, the fact that the moon is in Cancer and that the season has most definitely turned.
"The people are not responding!" He had a way of smiling whilst exasperated. I told him that they were responding, but perhaps he couldn't see.
"Then they are being too subtle!" The lack of audience feedback would have been incredibly frustrating, I agreed sympathatically.
And after another little while, I urged him to play again, which he did - slower, sweeter, gentler. People stopped to listen. They walked faster whenever he changed intensity, they looked on in silent awe and wonderment, and me, I stole photographs. Evidence for later ...
There was a protest lumbering loudly down the street as he packed up his equipment. "Free Palestine!" the people shouted, though it could easily have been something else.
Dinner was decided upon, and his amplifier followed us like a little box-shaped dog without a tail and listened to more discussions about people and star signs and the flux of seasons, over three meals - the musician had not had lunch, so he had lunch and dinner both in one go. The jasmine green tea I ordered had ice in it, and milk. I was expecting a steaming hot cup of tea but obviously that is no longer fashionable.
Across the street, the green neon sign said "Korean Restaurant" very matter of factly. "Small gifts from the heart" said another shop, in adorable Chinese. A pillar within a different window said "Tokyo" in broad black strokes, and I pointed it out to my musician friend, but there was a car in the way, and he couldn't see.
20 April 2002, Saturday, 12:38 AM
Alter ego of dandruff
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