"breath there old man, breath... " shaky as I felt while a dozen of young, old and even children bodies stood gracefully admiring and somehow waiting not so patiently for the first blow of the woodwind instrument sitting between my sweaty palms, "Lord, been forty-five years since I've been a saxophonist, still the first blow always manages to shake me up like a cocktail!" I thought to myself in amusement,
This evening, Marco boy -the bassist- wasn't around, he plays alongside me for say five or four days a week, he said he ain't the type to hustle pocket money in restaurants or cafes, says he would rather numb his fingers down on that bass guitar he's got for seven hours straight.
And for a sixty-year-old man like me, I'd summarize Marco boy in two words. a wild child.
Yet the gem of it is that it's visible. When he plays it's all there before your eyes to enjoy and amuse, shaking his hair in sync with the cord's euphony, and on hot days sweat would dance away on his forehead all the way down to his neck. Boy, each drop as amusing as the tunes he plays. Fidgeting back and forth when the riffs got too heavy and by that time I would blow each drop of Oxygene left within my lungs to combine both our sounds together into one cosmic harmony. Oftentimes, you could see the effect on the crowd's faces, their expressions I'd bet you with all the fortune I'll never make that it was pure awe, and utterly priceless. And if it wasn't for the damn hustle that pushed me to amuse people for money. I wouldn't have asked anything else just to emphasize how unique it was and still is,
"Good day, good music ... watch out here it comes" I whispered to myself beneath my breath.
As soon as the first blew flew through the air, the rest of the rhythm fell into place like the perfect pieces amid the giant puzzle. The connection I've developed throughout the last decades had never ceased to increase with each performance I gave, whether I was ready or not, in an uplifted state or the complete contrary, it mattered. Because -at least to me- that was the meat of the bond I shared with the saxophone and all the sounds that it never betrayed to reflect my insides. It is my loneliest friend, No maybe I am wrong. Perhaps I am his loneliest friend whereas he's almost all the imaginary, real and nonexistent friends that I could ever have. All encapsulated in one golden soft object, with a unique voice that I never doubted about its grace, not even when I blew the wrong whiffs back when I was still a fresh newbie.
It is as if all sounds emerging from it were art, let alone wrong notes. Sure perhaps they were called so when another instrument was involved, it doesn't matter how almighty it is, I'd have to be careful not to dive too deep amid the solos and always pay my full respect to the companion I've got with me.
Dear friend, if there is one thing that any ordinary human could take away from observing the relationship between instruments, is simply respect.
And if you threw me back on the golden years when there wasn't a single grey hair daring to color my black afro wild chunks of hair. I used to play along with other guys my age back then. Most of them were my neighborhood peers. We took over bars, restaurants even weddings you name it, and just simply lose ourselves to the instruments. And the astonishing part was, yup you guessed it, all of it was pure impromptu. We would arrive at the place with neither sheets of music resting inside our pockets nor scribbled notes or anything of the like. We'd simply observe the atmosphere during the counted minutes right before we'd start, -at least I did-, Then drink each drop of it until the sounds start forming inside my head, the precise suiting rhythm for the occasion or the vibes or even on times when there was a specific category of the crowd where they all shared a precis aura I'd try to read their facial expressions and physical ones. Catch those poker faces or any other gestures revealing the slightest hints that accidentally slipped away from their bodies, because that my friend is the juice behind delivering lasting music. Thus, collecting as many spiritual clues as I could, I'd group up the boys for say seven or ten minutes before we'd jump into another mystical trip, hum then the general tune and we'd soon guess which instrument fits which part the most. Think of it almost like a scribble of a draft towards an equation or somethin', But still, not an actual draft. Crazy right?.
YOU ARE READING
Tales From Sin City (Completed)
ContoPrologue : "We all lived in one city, we shared the same sky, we heard the same cacophonic sounds everyday. But we have different stories. Maybe the city took from us more than it gave, or maybe we lost ourselves amid the process. Who are we? We...
