Listening in a cafe

Musicians noodling around on their instruments, the noodles slowly weave their way through the café; gently drifting into awareness. The steady hum of the refrigerator. Sound of voices discussing Obama, and how Hilary Clinton was greeted as a rock star when she walked into her first day of work. The musicians stop noodling and walk away. The little girl in a knee-length shiny purple down coat spins and stomps. She is ready for some music! She wants to dance! Why did the man stop playing piano?

I hear a friend greet a man named Sam, who has long wavy hair and a colorful coat. He brings his friend a psychedelic silver-jacketed book on mushrooms. He has a big smile and crooked teeth. There is warmth of tones between the two friends. The little girl takes her shiny purple coat off and rocks in her chair and smiles. I hear the creak. I want to see her dance.

A regular walks in and greets his friend with the Billy-Goat Gruff silver beard, “What, do you frickin’ LIVE here, man?!” Then he pauses, walks back and stage whispers, “I thought I smelled some bitchin’ skunk weed, then I looked over and saw THOSE guys.” His eyes go to four young men. I look at them with different eyes. Perhaps they do seem mellow and stoned. One has a hoodie sweatshirt with “Humboldt” in yellow letters on a green background.

The musicians are coming back to their places. A few guitar notes, a bass run, the piano starts the riff—and when the drums kick in, I know the actual “song” has officially started, though I am enjoying the sound as a song before the “real” song starts. The sound quiets down as the bass takes a solo. Very mellow, yet awake. The band picks back up a bit. Swingin’ now in a relaxed way. All these musicians are older gentlemen, assured on their instruments. Able to lay back, nothing to prove. Able to bring it down and slowly build it back up again. Jazz. The first song ends with a soft splash of the cymbal. Some light applause.

The piano and drums start up a marching beat, then ease back into a less militaristic feel. It’s catchy, bouncy, has a New Orleans flavor. The piano player, who I guess is the leader, points to the bass player, but the guitar player takes a solo. It is a short song and ends with the riff that I associate with the words pray for the dead and the dead will pray for you.

The next song is so evocative, it conjures up the feel of 3 a.m. at a smoky club in New York, perhaps Greenwich Village in the late 1950s. This place becomes juxtaposed over the Berkeley coffeehouse under the spell of this song. Everyone is drunk, buzzed, or just plain passed out. The lights are blue. I can almost smell the cigarette smoke. I see the slow movements of the bartender as he makes another drink. No one is in any kind of hurry to be anywhere else. Some people are lounging in heartache in their vinyl-cushioned booths, but then the band picks up and they are pulled out of their self-pity and into the movement and the soul of the music. The music is its own field—a cloud hovering over the four musicians and the instruments they hold in their hands. It is not about any of the individual players or even the instruments. The cloud of music is making them move, not the other way around. Once they bring the music to life, it takes on a life of its own.

The bass moves through my head, though my ears, it feels like a steel bar vibrating from ear to ear. The squeal of the little girl laughing blends with the sound of the spray of water running in the sink. The soles of my feet subtly vibrate with the sound of the music until the band brings it back down again and I am back in Berkeley.

The next song is pensive. It makes me feel settled and resigned. Accepting life at face value. I feel like I’ve been through many experiences, trials, joys, and losses. This is a mature song, an adult song. It is riddled with tears and smiles, both. It is world-weary. Its beauty begins to overtake me and I feel the start of tears in my throat. After it’s over, the drummer tells us it’s a an original, and I look at the piano player with increased appreciation and respect.

The café is filling up, the conversation picking up in volume. Very few people are just listening, but that’s all right. After all, this is a café; no one is expected to “just” listen. Ah, what is this? A woman in a green sweater is now singing “In Every Beat of My Heart” with the band. Hers is not an arresting voice, but at least it is not annoying. I fantasize that I am singing with the band. I sing “Sentimental Journey” in a deep smoky voice. At my table by the window, I go ahead and sing the song softly to myself, letting the words vibrate in my throat and chest. I love it! I remember my old dream to one day be a jazz singer.