I got out to see some live music the other day.
It was amazing. There was this long-haired woman playing the guitar at a coffee shop and I just sat there, leaning against the sugar container, tapping my toe, and humming along. I really love the sound of the guitar. Kind of always wanted to play, but I can't. It's not that I'm not musical. I can howl out a tune like nobody's business when a fire truck goes by. It's just that I don't have fingers. I have paws. Paws are great for running, digging up flowers, and making muddy footprints on couches, but not so good for plucking an ol' six stringer. My mother, Beatrice, played the piano. She couldn't play individual notes, but she could stomp out a mean blues riff, four or five notes at a time. The cool thing about the blues is that you can play almost any note you want--doesn't really matter how it sounds--and people will still love it, as long as you bob your head with your eyes closed and sing about how crappy your love life is.
This woman I watched didn't play the blues.
She played folk.
Folk is like blues only without all the catchy riffs. She sat at the front of the coffee shop on a stool, hunched over a big, golden-brown Taylor guitar, her dark hair dangling down across her shoulders. When she played, she looked like she was transported to another place in time. Her face glowed and her eyes glazed over like she was remembering something wonderful from the past. My eyes do that sometimes. Usually, it's when I smell raw beef. Or a female poodle. Anyway, her songs were kind of sad, but not in a "Bummer, I'm all out of dog food" kind of way. Just mellow. Nostalgic. She had a low voice and I just leaned back on the sugar container up on that narrow table and let that pretty folk music wash over me. Actually, it was coffee that washed over me. Somebody bumped the table and sent a grande Carmel Macchiato spilling down my chest. It was hot, really hot, and it made a big ugly brown mark on my sweater, but I was pretty sure the stain would go away if I rolled around on a wet lawn long enough so I didn't let it ruin my night. I just sat there with my eyes closed, enjoying the mellow pluck and strum of her guitar and the low, soothing caress of her voice and tried not to notice the coffee pooling in my crotch.
Later that evening, after she was done playing, I watched her teach this little seven year old girl how to play a few chords. It was cute. The girl had never played before and this folk singer took her time
showing her how to play two classic folk chords--A minor and E minor. She kept positing the little girl's fingers on the neck of the guitar and helping her strum. Eventually, the little girl got it and she could play the chords. Not fast or anything, but she could play them. Every once in awhile the chords would make a buzzing
sound and the folk singer would tell the little girl that she wasn't pushing down on the strings hard enough or that her fingers weren't all the way in the frets. The girl would re-position her fingers, her nose wrinkled with determination, until the buzzing went away. The folk singer would beam as the chords rang out. My chest was still burning from the coffee, but now it was burning for another reason; The heart inside it was warm from seeing the bond that music can create between people. They say it is the universal language of love. I understood why in that moment. Music moves. It connects. It transports. It changes the look in your eyes and makes your toes move. It can give you the chills, warm you on a cold night and make you smile.
Too bad it can't get coffee out of a sweater.
Well, my friends, let music transport you somewhere today, won't you?
Until I see you again...
Love and Harmony,
Boofle
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