Busker

I stopped under the pale orange light to listen for a moment, because occasionally you realise you can. It was not just his generous figure that took up the pavement, it was also his grunty voice. He wore a fading black shirt. His black beard was unkempt. His white stratocastor, though, gleamed.

Leaning against a parking sign no one would heed at this time of night, or morning, I had forgotten where I was going to. I was never one for eclectic loud places. Some blues on the side of the road was more me. Though I wasn’t sure anyone had the blues at this very moment. Especially not the impromptu harmonica player now beside him.

He took break.

I opened for Stevie Ray Vaughan once, he said.

His guitar case glimmered with gold and silver. Not many people at this unknown hour. But those who were here, were always in the mood to share their love. And then some.

I’m not a lead or rhythm player, he said, I’m a lead-rhythm player.

We had turns. His friend, who looked in worse shape than him, though equally high in spirits, sailed us through the clouds. A kid next to him kept the feel going with some well placed notes. And then I joked in a little metal, to amuse a passerby.

Was just on my way home from a gig, he said. Hah.

My friend soon found me. I said farewell, leaving with a distracting tune in my head. Thinking back now, I hope I left him a tip.

 

Advertisements