After two months of odd-hour concerts just a few feet from my head as I try to sleep, I finally saw the guitar player. His eyes are older than I expected, but just as sad.
We exchanged "good evenings" as we fumbled with our respective keys. Our conversation is now exhausted.
His music has become a steady comfort among the sirens and neighbors who need to take their business to the hallways. He's a jukebox that plays what it wants went it wants, but the building needed a little art and passion.
I work for a symphony,but live in a cacophony. I find myself wondering about him if there are a few days of silence and relieved when his chords stream back through the walls.
This weekend Dawn Upshaw came to town to sing with the orchestra. From watching her delight a group of special needs children during a public rehearsal, to her surprised laughter at the question of whether she wanted to ride in the front or the back seat to a radio interview, she was only a diva on stage.
Her program was split between Canteloube's "Chants d’Auvergne" and an American songbook sprinkled liberally with Bernstein. It was like having your passport stamped at intermission to an entirely different place, equally beautiful, but uniquely exciting.
The rehearsals and the events leading up to the performance set the expectations on magic. I worked through the Friday night performance, building the anticipation for Saturday.
I was listening to an Upshaw recording set low through my tinny laptop speakers as I dressed for the concert, but turned it off when I stepped into the shower.
I stepped out to a flat note bellowing so unlike the earlier sound I ran to the peephole without grabbing a robe.
There's a new neighbor across the hall. She's likes to sing and leave her door wide open. Of the two, she leaves her door open well. She's sharing way too much for the rest of us, anonymously composed behind our doors. She compensates for her half octave range with volume and repetition. She is the Anti-Upshaw.
I quickly got dressed and scooted past her door, eyes straight ahead. At the hall, Upshaw was spectaculaur. Afterwards I caught a set of jazz/blues great Doo Doo Green at the Anchor Bar and then a tight blues set by Kenny Neal at the Tap Room.
The night overflowed with amazing sounds. The apartments were silent when I got home at 2:30 this morning allowing my private mental replays to take me to sleep.
But this morning she started again -- nearly an hour of unidentifiable joyful noise unto the Lord. Her door just slammed as she apparently left for church.
This woman is going to have us all praying for salvation.
From her.

Copyright 2005 Judi Griggs