In One Moment [Page 10] by
Tobin Cheung
However, one has a sharp piercing voice; the other a low and raspy voice while the third simply has an odd way of articulating.
“Check out the way she’s dressed,” exclaims the sassy girl to one of her friends, “It looks like she just got off the subway.”
“Yeah, she looks like the girl who works at the Second Cup around my corner, the one with black hair and no makeup other than black eyeliner.”
“You mean the Goth, lesbian, punk thing. Totally. I’m surprised they let her on stage. Isn’t this supposed to be the jazz festival?”
“This doesn’t sound like jazz, it’s dark and choppy. It’s not smooth at all. There’s no way you can dance to this.”
“I know, it’s like the Alterative subcategory of Jazz,” laughs one girl.
“An alternative chic playing jazz, talk about fusion, she should glamour up a bit and pick a color. What’s with the low rise hip hugger jeans?”
“And that second hand store, two sizes too small t-shirt?”
“That armlet around her bicep.”
“She’s muscular.”
“She needs to tame that hair,” one chime’s and all three giggle.
The man in front glances over his shoulder and a forced cough is heard from behind.
“Artists and musicians are all the same, they’re weird,” whispers her friend.
Perception is such a peculiar thing. It’s as boundless as ones imagination. To me; she’s alluring, captivating and absolutely enchanting. Her heel worn runners, the tattoo, the little scraps of paper sticking out her back pocket are all clues into her personal life, each begging for a story to be told.
Anyone keen enough to notice these things will be fraught with curiosity. I know I am. Are those bits of paper airline stubs, hotel receipts, or a composition in progress? How many stages, how many bars; how many downtown sidewalks have those worn shoes danced across?
Her performance is honest and real. She doesn’t hide behind a stage persona. She is a straight forward no games kind of gal. The type that would know which one of the many anonymous pizza bars found in and around the city serves the best gourmet pizza. She is the kind of person that cannot be fooled by presentation alone. Gourmet food can be purchased by the slice. The single aisle of chairs, the uneven floors and the deafening drone of the air conditioner is all part of the charm. These are the sort of characteristics that help flavor her music.
A slice of pepperoni and cheese will not suffice, not a chance, not for this girl. However long it takes, the wait for a freshly baked pizza is worth every bite. Topped with feta cheese, chicken, spinach, sweet onions and green olives, it’s like eating exotic food for the price of fast food. Two slices and a Pepsi please, she would ask.
After washing down the last few bites, she bursts out of the doors. She is late and running down the street. With the sugary liquid sticking to her throat she pushes through in time to meet the third beat. Gasping for breath she ascends the final step to greet the audience. No burning incense, drinking blood or any other superstitious rituals before a show. The knowledge of being true to her music, gives her all the confidence she needs.
My imagination comes to a halt as she dances across to the far side of the stage. A pivot, slide, double step, and tap. My eyes follow her sway. I am surprised at my sudden attraction to this strange girl. My heart beats chaotically and the blood drains from my...
[To Be Continued...]
