I get misty as time goes by

Today I ate a Cornish pasty, read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, and alternately sat and stood on Cornmarket listening to an amazing jazz guitarist. He was a fifty five year old white male with a receding hairline, a charming smile, and thin rimmed golden glasses. He wasn’t flashy or amiable. He didn’t try to create any report with his audience. He just sat on his amp, playing a beautiful semi-hollow body guitar (I forgot the brand name) with unbelievable tone and precision. In fact, I can only remember three groups of people besides myself stopping for any extended period of time. The first was an elderly couple with what looked like an adopted Spanish child. She had long, straight hair and a radiant smile, and, though not especially interested in the guitar, willing tottered towards the side of the street where the man had stationed himself. She shyly placed fifty pence on top of the soft black guitar case, giggled a little bit, and ran back to her parents. The second person to stop was a sweaty, red faced business man in a suit. He tossed a pound in the case and, after listening for a while, walked away with a purposeful stride, eyes and countenance steeled as if daring an unlucky tourist to get in his way. Finally, a couple in their late twenties or early thirties stood next to my spot in the middle of street, stopping for a while to sway back and forth, hands clasped, to an elegant arrangement of “Misty”.

He wasn’t exactly a stage presence or an arresting performer. He just sat on his small, portable Roland amp (it had a surprisingly full-bodied sound with just the right amount of reverb) tapping his left foot and effortlessly playing a tasteful set made up of jazz standards and classical pieces. His glasses inevitably slid down to the end of his nose during songs, forcing him readjust them after each piece. I was only one clapping during the intermissions. I clapped very loudly, drawing more annoyed glances from the smorgasbord of European tourists. He even mumbled “thank you” a couple of times, probably to stop me from clapping so he could play his next song.

I didn’t plan on staying long. I wanted to get some more reading done and maybe take a nap. Each time I started to leave, though, he would play a song I recognized and loved. Each time, he would play something that held a very special meaning, something I resonated with strongly. He played “As Time Goes By”, the song from Casablanca which was also heavily referenced in one of my favorite Woody Allen movies, Play it Again, Sam. He played “Girl from Ipanema”, the first bossa nova song I learned on guitar. Finally, he played “Eyes on Me”, the love song from Final Fantasy VIII. It was like he was reading my mind or something. Well, not quite, or he would have played “Moonglow”. I’m not complaining though.