|
|
|
The Accordionist |
| Written by David Simons | |
| Friday, 06 April 2007 | |
|
Share it:      As I watched this parade I began to feel cross and frustrated at these people who jostled me, invading my space. People brushed past me, roughly, and I caught snippets and phrases of their banal chatter. I continued in this frame of mind as I walked towards the shopping centre and suddenly, rising above all the inanity around me, I heard music. For a moment I was confused, perplexed. I couldn't locate the source of the sound, a sound so incongruous to the surroundings. I looked to my left and saw him; a man of indeterminate age, unkempt and threadbare, playing an accordion. The tune was not one I recognised but the lyrical melody of it immediately lifted my mood. I stopped and stared. I was jostled by irritated passers-by but they could not move me from my pitch. The man looked like a street dweller. He was wearing a grey coat many sizes too large. On his hands he wore fingerless gloves and his trousers, a sort of blue serge material, were worn through. But it was his hands that drew me, and the music they made. Flying up and down the keyboard, his fingers drew the music from his instrument as an artist paints the softness of clouds or a child's smile. I stood transfixed and let the music warm me. All the while, the man remained expressionless yet the air was alive with emotion around him. The jostling crowds seemed to melt away and I was cocooned in the music from his accordion. There was a shabby cap upturned at the man's feet with a few coppers and the odd bit of silver in it. I found myself reaching into my pocket and drew out a handful of change. I dropped it into the cap. The man let a smile of recognition flash across his face but the flow of music didn't falter. He had changed the tune now, effortlessly letting the new one issue from the first. This tune had a mournful sound to it. It told of a green land and a girl with golden hair looking out to sea from a high cliff, knowing in her heart that he would not be returning. Or it told of a small child clutching a toy, her tear-streaked face telling of cruelty and neglect. After a few moments, his tune came to an end. I stood disappointed, as the hum of voices encroached on me and grew in intensity. I wanted his music to go on forever. I looked around and saw only the jostling shoppers. The accordionist had gone. Copyright 2007 David Simons {moscomment} |
|
| Last Updated ( Saturday, 07 April 2007 ) |
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
via Email
