The Bluesman

Smoke hung low in the old bar. He knew that tumors were being born tonight. But he didn’t care.  He was there to play the Blues. He was the opening act.

He strummed a couple of chords.  A few people stopped talking but most continued on their conversations about whatever it was that alcohol made them talk about.   He began to play his first song.

TWANG! A string broke.  He stopped and the audience stared at him. “Technical difficulties, folks.”

As he worked furiously on his guitar, he began to tell a story:

There once was a cocky young man who lived deep in the Mississippi Delta.  His voice was a gift from the angles but his attitude straight from Hell.  He’d play small juke joints every weekend but his heart was always at the next bigger place: The next big thing.  He never focused on where he was.

One day he was playing in a smoke-filled bar just like this one when an old Bluesman came in carrying a old battered guitar case.  He had a gray beard, tattered shirt and clouded eyes.  His teeth had seen better days as well. And he smelled like sweat.  The old man looked at the boy and said, “Mind if I sit in with you.”

The boy looked at the old man and scoffed, “Sure old man. ”  The old man didn’t look like much to the cocky young kid.  What would it hurt if he shared a stage with him?

The kid was good. Damn good. He played the notes as well as anyone. But experience had not allowed him to feel the notes.  His music was sterile.  His cockiness completely kept him from learning. Something not lost on the mysterious old man.

The old man got up there and started playing the blues.  Blues so blue that even angels cried. A heavy rain started falling all across the Delta when he sang his songs.  Thunder and lightning were his percussion section.  The Bluesman took all the audiences pain in the room and channelled it in his music. It was musical magic that cast its spell on everyone.

The audience sat there stunned.  The boy got up and thought, “I can top that.”

He got up on the chair and started playing.  Like I said before, his music was technically perfect. But it was sterile. It was music that was dry and barren.  The rain outside stopped and the audience got restless.

The young man finished playing and looked over at the Bluesman. He grinned a grin back and handed the young boy his guitar.

“This is yours. But first you must learn a few things. Never be afraid to learn from those who you think are lesser than you.  Everyone knows something you don’t.  Cherish where you are in the moment.  And go live your life to the fullest. Don’t be a water bug just skittering across the surface.  All your life’s experiences will flow through your music. Be sure of yourself but never be cocky. It’s a cancer on your soul.”

The Bluesman put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and the boy felt a warmth that he couldn’t explain.  The Bluesman then took the boy’s guitar and walked out of the juke joint.  The boy ran over to the window but he had faded into the inky night. It began to rain again.

The opening act finished both his story and restringing his prized guitar. It was the old battered guitar that had once belonged to the Bluesman. He looked out at the audience and smiled. He soaked in the moment. He felt the peoples’ pain. And then, the once cocky young man sang the bluest of the Blues.

And outside, it began to rain all across the Mississippi Delta.