Bop
There is an old man, his years past the ones usually deemed good and his face marked by deep ridges. They are ridges evoking thoughts of oaken bar interiors and the final cigarette left in a red Gauloises softpack. Index and middle fingers of his right hand are taped in the most decorative way: light grey texture tape, quite sturdy. The man plays the stand-up bass, his instrument as battered, worn and well-kept as his light-blue striped shirt and the navy woollen suit jacket he draped on his instrument’s huge container. Together, they are resting on a street sign, as if they were a small person. Next to the man, guitar and drums.
With every slap of the strings, there is the faintly clicking slap, characteristic of bop and billy styles. The man plays smoothly, his head bobbing to the rhythm. He knows he is the foundation of this music, and he has known this for a long time. His features are pointed and sharp, vaguely hanseatic, possibly patrician, if such a thing exists. A small captain’s cap is perched on his head, adding to the impression. He smiles ever so subtly, not all the time, but every time an interesting part or bridge is about to begin, a part of a song he is looking forward to.
There is an air of grandeur to the man. As if there was a great sorrow once, a sorrow he since has overcome, but which still marks all of his being. I think that all of this – his posture, his instrument, his garments and the music – they are all the same thing. They unite to form what can only be called aura. I strive to carry whatever awaits me in my life with the same grace, the same purpose: He is one man and this is what he does.