for J

Posted by yz on Thursday, September 10, 2009 in loss,

A stage. Dimly lit. A single stool in the centre and a microphone to its right. The audience is engulfed in darkness. She walks on strutting to a beat only she can hear, her hair bobbing with the movement of her head. Her heels are ridiculously high, it’s a wonder she’s moving so fluidly. But there’s not a totter, not pause. The click of her heels against the floor of the stage is the only sound in the room. They’re bright red, those heels, almost but not quite gaudy, just bright enough to get you looking, to get you interested. Where the shoe ends smooth skin begins. Up, up, up, up, up…just when you thought those legs were never-ending there it is. The dress. Simple, to the point, accentuates, and compliments without being too much. She’s reached the microphone and turned to face the audience. The light catches her eyes. The mystery they seem to hold is beguiling.

He follows her onto the stage, his guitar slung across his back. Epitome of cool, Rat Pack style, tailored suit worn just right, it’s more like a second skin than anything else. There’s a slight bounce to his step as he makes his way to the stool, the ease of a man who feels no fear. He slides onto the stool, swinging his guitar around as he does so. He winks at her and she smiles. With a seemingly lazy movement, he strums the guitar. The silence is palpable.

“This song is for J” He says quietly.

He looks around slowly then bows his head and begins to play. For a moment it’s just the two of them, guitar and man and the beauty of the sound he brings. Together their music evokes that feeling, the one you can never quite pin down to just one word. The music is earthy, unrefined if you must, and distinct because of it
.
They’ve captivated the audience and are completely unaware of it. Both of them are miles away back in the past where the song was born, a messy room, half eaten food and bottles of water. Him sprawled on the floor plucking at his guitar, her with notebook on her knee. Another person is perched on top of the desk. He was listening quietly, smiling. When the guitar player stopped, he said something and they burst into laughter, thrown pillows and bottles.

The audience is swaying as the guitar solo begins but both of them are still remembering. Later the night of this song’s birth, now around a broken body. Him standing frozen, unbelieving. Her screaming, unforgettable screams that somehow find their way out of memory and into the melody of the song. The audience rather than being jarred out of the trance seems to fall further in. She joins the guitar for the chorus one last time. The song slows to an end, she finishes her last verse and the room is plunged into silence again. Their eyes meet, undisguised sorrow reflected. It takes the audience a moment to get their bearings but then the applause begins. He slides his guitar back around to his back and stands. She takes his hand and they bow together for the audience through the deafening applause.

listening to Billie Holiday - "Strange Fruit"