H
e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n
G i n s b e r g
N
a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n
RANDY ROARK
October 16, 2006, Paris
This
morning a long Metro ride to Ecole Militaire from
Reuilly-Diderot for the Rodin Museum. A few stops in, a guy with an electric
guitar and an amplifier gets on and stands near the door. At first I groaned
inwardly, remembering the surly accordion player who got on my car on the Metro
two days ago. I was riding from south-east Paris to the Pompideau, sitting for
most of the ride across from an old Eastern European woman who was wearing a
black wool winter jacket with a caul over her head on a damp muggy day. She sat
facing the floor of the car with a scared look on her face, whispering prayers,
her hands clasping a rosary tight in her lap pushing her large breasts
together.
A
man of about 40 got on with an accordion and pushed numbers on a Casio until he
got a samba beat and began to play a polka on a red tortoise-shell Vox
accordion. No one was in the mood for happy accordion music at 7 in the
morning, and when everyone turned their backs to him, he slammed the Casio off
and walked up and down the crowded subway car with one hand extended while the
other continued to play his accordion. When everyone (including me) ignored
him, he stopped playing mid-song and went back to his machine and angrily shut
it off, staring sullenly at us until we reached the next station—where he got
off to, no doubt, get the same reception in the next car.
Anyway,
this guitarist had a beat box too and began playing “Rawhide,” which I thought
was an interesting choice for the Paris Metro. Nothing fancy, but each note
clearly and precisely defined, with a nice attack and some tremolo added to
each note to give it a little extra bounce and depth. I was sitting across from
him on one of those fold-out seats in the landing of
the car and an elegant businessman, cradling a briefcase, was standing next to
me and also faced the guitarist, and a young Japanese girl sat across from us.
I struggled
to know what I should do—to look up would be to acknowledge his presence—I
would get involved, which I wasn’t sure I wanted to do remembering the
accordion player’s insolence when I wouldn’t give him any change. But it felt
odd not to look at him. I liked what
he was playing, I liked his fingerwork, I was curious to see who this guy was,
playing “Rawhide” in a subway car in the Paris Metro.
First
I looked at his shoes (black Keds, hi-tops), his slacks (black pegged jeans),
his shirt (soft reddish-brown, plaid), then his guitar (a vintage black
Stratocaster), and then his right hand. He was holding a white plastic pick
loosely between his thumb and forefinger. His fingernails were long and
trimmed, solid. He held the guitar tight against his body and slowly rocked
back and forth and side to side as he played.
When
he saw me watching his fingers, he palmed the pick and began to fingerpick,
playing freestyle. His fingers moved from string to string, precisely attacking
each note and leaving it reverberating when his fingers went on to the next
string. Then my eyes moved up the neck to his left hand. His fingernails were
rounded and short. He drummed his fingertips onto the strings, his fingers
striking the strings against the fretboard the way a piano-player hammers the
keys with varying delicacy and force, their touch determining the amount of
vibrato and clarity in each note.
I
shot a glance up to his face. He wasn’t looking at his fingers, but vaguely off
at the floor, just as I was a moment before. He had short blonde hair, a
clean-shaven face. Young, a little weathered, but clean and bright-faced. His
reddish-brown shirt was freshly pressed.
He
was playing out of his imagination and never seemed to be pushing himself, or
attempting to play outside of what his fingers could actually accomplish—the
notes were precise with lots of air and space around them, his fingers and body
language relaxed. I could feel the force of his concentration—effortless and
originating from somewhere deep inside him. Or perhaps he was gathering it from
the air around his head, listening to the notes before and after they appeared
and disappeared, replaced by whatever came next, listening and playing at the
same time. Between the melody lines, when he was waiting for the beat to come
around again, he rested the palm of his right hand on the soundboard, then
flipped the pick back between his fingers, darting out a final flurry of
angular, off-kilter endnotes.
As
the last note of “Rawhide” reverberated, he bent over and programmed the beat
box to begin a song I immediately identified as “Samba Pa Ti.” He looked up and
when he realized I was smiling, he rested his hand on the pick-guard, and
palmed the pick and began playing with his fingertips, his index finger playing
a counterpoint to the melody he was picking out with his third and fourth
fingers. Then he began hammering a counter-melody with the fingers of his left
hand, simultaneously extending and bending the notes and dropping in unexpected
and discordant notes around the melody line, using these to launch short and
then longer runs and fills around the simple slow melody, all the while
completely relaxed, unforced, playing well within his limits. In my peripheral
vision I could see that the businessman and the young Japanese girl were
looking up and watching him, too.
Then
in a gentle way he began to ascend away from the melody entirely, soaring above
it, overlaying a brace of crisp notes in the air, the descending notes
guttural, reverberating like stones dropped in a deep well, the upper register
bright and glistening with vibrato, the two progressions finally coming
together in a single note that he maintained longer than anyone could possibly
imagine, until he raised it and sharpened it higher and higher and higher until
he hit a pitch that was like the ice of a thousand windows shattering into gold.
[Originally
published in NHS 2007, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs07/Randy_Roark.htm.]