In One Moment [Page 11] by Tobin Cheung
My heart beats chaotically and the blood drains from my brain. I am overcome with a light headedness. Those hips, those jeans, those curves, I think I’ve just sold my soul.
She squeezes out another piercing cry, her veins straining down her neck and her eyes squinted tightly together, it is only the beginning, merely the first song. Already she has astonished the masses causing them to wonder what she has planned to follow. Now that the instruments are warmed, fingers are loosened and the mood set, she can take the audience anywhere.
The song climaxes and the slow return home begins by winding through to the chorus. The melody dissipates; everyone stands and the waterfront is filled with the sound of hands brought together in applause. A sweet succulent smell is in the air. I raise my nose to the wind and smell the aroma of ice cream waffles. Summer is in full swing.
The band barely pauses before the drummer kicks in with an up beat tempo. Gone is the haunting melody, replaced by a groove akin to an R&B rhythm. I can feel the baseline bounce through to my pinky toe. It’s a sea of bobbling heads. On stage, the girl has stopped playing, allowing the music to course through her. She stands motionless staring blankly across the audience. She neither notices the sound crew or the camera crew hustling about. Not even the shimmering lake illuminated by the city lights snares her attention.
I wish I were a musician so I could experience that kind of total abandonment of oneself, to be engulfed by an absolute love, a love for music. Creating music is like calling upon a spirit to communicate beyond all boundaries. Watching her, it is obvious that she has left this reality and has entered a dimension not of this earth. The band plays on powerful and strong, patiently awaiting her return. She remains still as a statue with her trumpet dangling at her side. The tattoo on her inner forearm is almost, but not quite legible. It is not a butterfly. From this angle it appears to be a segment of a composition.
She licks around her mouth with her tongue and nibbles at her bottom lip. I wonder if they become numb from all the continuous playing. I wonder if they ever get too tender to kiss. Pouting her mouth, she presses her lips against the mouth piece and I wish it was I whom those lips were kissing.
Pointing the trumpet to the floor, she joins the base player in a rhythmic pulse. The punchy pattern is occasionally interrupted with a toot. Every few beats her bobbing head lifts to reveal her face. I find myself leaning forward trying to catch a glimpse of her features before it is shrouded by hair. The prologue gives way to the guitarist, a veteran in this form of music. Like all great guitarists he is in the habit of mouthing his notes and in constant need of fidgeting with the knobs on his guitar. I follow his phrasing and soon become awed at the talent she keeps. Her band is made up of more than one notable player, heavy in the jazz scene. These guys are innovators and play as if they were talking. Just like a group of friends in a coffee house chatting with slang terminology and street vibe, they play whatever feels right for that moment.
Her band is in essence foretelling her future. Musicians are always the first to recognize another’s gift. It is not something that can be bluntly pointed out. It is in the way she blows two bars that is somehow different than the way many others blow the same two bars. And so, they surround themselves around her and wait patiently for the unveiling. Everyone has a melody that defines them, a tune that describes their very nature, but only the truly precocious musicians can weave such honesty into a string of notes audible in this reality.
The pregnant woman next to me flips through her program. I should have picked one up. I must have passed the information desk at least a dozen times, walking back and forth looking for Liz. Who knew I would be so intrigued by a performance, shocked by a trumpet player, stunned by an incredibly talented girl. I never caught the name of the woman on stage and I needed to know. It is not a matter of infatuation. It is more to do with being obsessed or possessed. I wanted to know everything about her. What does she do after a concert? Is she electrified with excitement or is she tired? Does she go to an after hour party? Does she return to her hotel alone? Does she have a late dinner?
I try to steal a look at the program resting on the belly of the pregnant mommy. Not wanting to be rude, I try to be as inconspicuous as I can as I follow her fingers leaf through the pages.
“Calina Adderly,” the mommy says without looking up.
“I’m sorry?”
[To be continued...]
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