By Shaun Johnson
He stumbled down the sidewalk of the clearly worn down city street, with a guitar in hand, and wore a distinctive smell of cigarettes and cheap wine. He was an African male about 5′ 7″ in height, and almost skeletal from no food. The man ran his hand through his thinning hair, and took a drag off his cigarette. He exhaled, staring in a gaze as the smoke rolled into the sky. Shifting his attention forward, he noticed that up ahead, it seemed that the main street had awakened.
‘Tis now the hour when the old man gives his heart and soul to the love of his life. His love for her is the only thing that keeps his heart beating, his lungs breathing, and the only thing that keeps him weeping. All of this in exchange for the necessities of life. This beautiful thing called music is what this tired, run down, old man loves.
As he started busking for money slowly the man became incoherent. His mind was suspended in total bliss. Crowds of people turned to beautiful waves of melodies. Each individual creating his or her own sweet sounding song.
In his mind’s eye people danced a joyous dance, hand in hand. Wild birds meandered overhead in a rainbow array of color. Not one person knew the meaning of hatred. At that point, the old man wiped away a tear. He looked in his case to see how much money he had. All together he had 75 cents. Enough for bus fare to the old broken down mission. He put his guitar in its case and moved on.
I tell a short story of an old man and his music, and what it means to him. It seems to me that his kind is an endangered species. Too many people can’t fathom the significance and reason for this wonderful thing called music.