New Orleans

He had watched the sun come up from his vantage point on the western bank of the rolling river, the Mighty Mississippi, while listening to the dulcet tones of the old trumpet player.

With tears still in his eyes, he turned away to wander back into Jackson Square, just as the city of New Orleans was waking. The restaurants were busy, the coffee shops crowded, but he hadn’t come to eat.

For two hours or more, he wandered the streets, finding exactly what he was seeking. He had forced himself out of bed while it was still dark just so he could listen to the street musicians.

And listen, he did.

No slouch of a guitar player himself, he was anxious to sample the varied fare this aged city had to offer. There was no disappointment in the search.

At first.

From street corners and even in the alleys, the city is full of people with their talents on display. Many do it for the love of their craft, others simply to have enough to fill their stomachs.

The seeker stopped for a few moments at one corner to listen to the two women playing classical music, a departure from the normal street fare in this city of jazz and blues. Speaking for a moment with another man standing nearby, he learned that both were music professors in nearby universities.

He even dropped a dollar or two in the open violin case and moved on. Most of the musicians he listened to were not as well educated, but he avers that all were just as talented.

Except one.

The street-worn fellow had a good quality guitar sitting on his lap. The ancient Guild six-string might have seen better days, but it was a fine instrument.

Still, he never played a single chord.

Our friend wondered why this was so and walked a bit nearer to the bench the aging man was occupying. It did seem to him that the fellow was old, but he really is not sure. Living on the streets will age a person long before his time. He might have been as young as thirty or as old as sixty. It was hard to tell.

As he drew near, though, the tourist saw the problem. While there should have been six, the old acoustic guitar had only three metal strings stretched out along the length of the fingerboard. Even those were old and corroded.

The other street musicians had played for whatever money the passersby would toss in their hats or cases, but this fellow had a different tack.

“Say, could you give me the money to buy a set of strings?”

Our friend almost fell for the scam. After all, what was five or six dollars? Give the old guy enough to buy a set of strings so he could earn a living–how could that go wrong?

Then he had an idea.

“I saw a music store up the block a ways. How about you and I go and we’ll get a set put on your guitar? I’ll pay whatever it costs.”

The old guy wasn’t amused. That was the last thing he wanted.

“No. I’ll just take the money for the strings.”

The tourist talked with him for just a minute more. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the money would be used for. There was never to be a new set of strings on the guitar. It would never play a song on that street corner–ever.

The fellow with the guitar knew how to make money with his guitar, he just couldn’t play it.

The superbly crafted instrument, with the potential for making sweet music lifting the spirit to the heavens, or bringing tears to the eyes of hardened men who listened, was nothing but a prop for an act. If it had strings on it, he couldn’t make a dime with it.

He wasn’t a musician at all, just a man with a scam—a fraud—to be perpetrated on any unsuspecting tourist who came by.

Our friend moved on, disappointed.

I listen to the story and my mind wanders.

I remember the fellow to whom I gave a ride one day, not long ago. I drove him twenty miles out of my way and handed him all the cash I had in my pocket. He told me he would use it to purchase a bus ticket to make it home to his wife and kids, who were hundreds of miles away.

Two days later, as he wandered past my music store, it was a shock to realize that I had been played.

Then there was that other fellow I loaned money to, just until he got paid from his new job. The job was a lie. So was the payback.

The stories, just like the street musician with his guitar, are merely the tools of the trade, designed to achieve a purpose, but never to become reality.

Just as quickly, my mind shifts gears again, and I wonder how many folks I have conned, in much the same way—people who have poured resources into my life, with the promise that changes would be made, never to see or hear a result.

How am I any different from the old fellow down in the French Quarter, with his beautiful guitar which never will make music?

Still, I show up time after time, with habits which need to be broken, sins which need to be repented of, steps which never seem to be taken.

And, no music is ever heard.

How about it? Got a few broken strings yourself?

Have there been promises made of changes to come, with nary a hint of actual rehabilitation? Do you come and sit on the same street corner every day, or perhaps every week, with the same broken strings; always with the promise to show up with a playable instrument the next time?

I’m guessing that if we look deep inside, we’ll all find the broken promises, the scams, the assurances which we don’t seem to ever quite fulfill. Like the man on the street corner, we have figured out how to make the system work for us, always thinking that we’ll make it right–someday.

Personally, I’m wondering if it’s about time for a new set of strings to be taken down from the wall.

There will be a good bit of grime to be cleaned away before they can be installed, but the basic instrument was made well. I’m confident that when the job is done, there will be some excellent music heard.

It’s just the process of cleaning and stretching, then cutting and tuning that I’m not real sure of.

It all sounds a bit painful.

Ah well, I know the Maker of the music, the Master Luthier.

I’m thinking the final result will be worth it all.

His work never fails to produce gorgeous music. Maybe it’s time to put my hat down on the street.

Why don’t you come too?

We might make some great music together!

Down in the human heart, crushed by the tempter,
Feelings lie buried that grace can restore;
Touched by a loving heart, wakened by kindness,
Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.
(from Rescue The Perishing ~ Fannie Crosby ~ American hymn writer ~ 1820-1915)

During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.
(George Orwell ~ English novelist ~ 1903-1950)

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.
(Lord Byron)

Thousands? Millions? Hardly that, for all the words I will slather on this page like so much honey onto a slice of bread, but perhaps some will think anyway. A few.

I left her a few moments ago, sitting in her customary place under the lamp, patiently placing stitch after stitch of thread into the canvas on her lap. She looked into my face just before I turned away. What the Lovely Lady saw there, I don’t know, but she interpreted my emotions in that split second.

“Don’t be depressed.” The words came out more as a supplication for a favor than a demand.

She knows me.

My work day was a little tumultuous, emotionally. More than a little.

The day started with a visit from a young man with whom I’ve been acquainted for a number of years. I knew him when he was a middle-schooler, still in his early teens.

I still picture him–No, not just a picture, but a video–in my head, sitting on a stool over in the corner. There is an acoustic guitar in his hand, and he is singing. Clear and pure, the melody flows from his mouth, his vocal chords producing tones I could never dream of making myself. The ordinary guitar in his hands has become an instrument of magic, the chords and arpeggios flowing effortlessly to blend with the sonorous vocals of the song.

I have listened to hundreds, perhaps thousands, of individuals, both young and old, as they sit and play in my store. For almost forty years, they’ve come through. Many are just beginners, the chords they play halting and timid, the strumming patterns almost not patterns at all. Some, more experienced, are quite good, their playing pleasant to hear, the vocals (when they come) adequate. There are even a few who are accomplished musicians, confident in their skill, and comfortable with the few customers who make up their audience.

This young man though–I have never seen a more natural performer, nor listened to more raw talent. Never. He played flawlessly, his fingers flashing over the strings. And, when he sang? Ah, when he sang, he was in a world all his own, oblivious to anyone else in the room. From a beautiful broad baritone range, up to the powerful high tenor voice, and then on into a beautiful clear falsetto, he sang without fear and without imperfection.

I remember thinking, this one–this one is going to go places and do amazing things with his gifts. I had no doubts success would be his.

It was inevitable.

It was not.

I’m not sure where the young man’s experiences have taken him in the ten years since I first heard him, but those years have not been friendly to him. Gone is the genial, confident boy I knew. Gone too, is a large part of his raw talent, sacrificed on the altar of drugs.

I will not dwell on the sadness in my heart; it will come through on its own. As I looked into the chemical-clouded eyes of my young friend, I saw no sign of recognition, no smile of joy as in days past. His voice was flat and emotionless, his responses to my questions slow, sometimes not coming at all. Drug usage is a thief, stealing abilities and ambitions, leaving in their place detachment and resignation.

Don’t be depressed? Why should I not?

How could I not?

I said it was a tumultuous day, didn’t I? Tumultuous describes both highs and lows, a heady mixture of good and bad. Today was such a day.

As the workday drew to a close, another friend came in. A transplant from New Orleans, this middle-aged fellow has made his home in our small town for almost ten years now. A little hurricane named Katrina blew him our way and he decided to stay.

An avid jazz lover, he hasn’t always found fellow musicians to play with, since this part of the country is not exactly a hotbed of jazz music. Still, he slogs along, guitar in hand, making disciples where he can.

This afternoon, he and I were deep in conversation when another young man walked in. The young college graduate picked up a guitar and strummed a chord or two. Well-trained in a number of styles of music, he has developed a love for jazz recently. Talk about a coincidence!

The two men had met before, and they greeted each other as the older jazz lover from New Orleans seated himself on a stool near the younger man. Now both of them were holding guitars.

They had just begun to play together, when still another young friend pushed the door open. This fellow also has extensive training in various styles of music, having a few years of studio recording and touring with a popular Christian group under his belt.

Before I knew it, they were all holding guitars and playing, with some skill, the jazz chord progressions the older man called out to start with. A moment later, you might have thought they had played together for years, the sound was so smooth and clean. It wasn’t flawless, but it was good.

I left them to enjoy each other and the music, and I sat down at my desk.

Disappointment had been my companion from the start of the day. I wanted to hold that tight and wallow in the feeling. My sadness at the waste of such talent was palpable. The ten-year old video in my head was still playing, the once joyful vocals and accompaniment now solemn and tragic.

But, the music from around the corner intruded. Yes. That’s the word. It intruded, driving out the dark, lighting the place with hope. Joy, even.

A voice took up a melody–an old tune from the classic age of jazz. Oh the shark has–pretty teeth dear, and he shows them–pearly white. . .

I have a new video to play in my brain now. Mack the Knife is sitting ready to play and replay again when I need a good memory. Two young men, sitting beside their new friend, a street-singer from New Orleans, are playing along in fine form. His old voice, rough and soft all at once, is belting out the lyrics as he swipes at the strings of the old acoustic guitar.

This moment is one to add to my collection.

A tumultuous day. Just as it started with disappointment, so it ended with joy and satisfaction.

And, what of my disappointment? What of the wasted young man? Is that nothing? Is he nothing?

The answer is clear. I am still sad. And deeply concerned. I will do everything that is in my power to help him. But I cannot stay there.

I will speak of the sad and the unseemly. I will speak of it, but I won’t dwell there.

I will dwell on the beautiful and the good. There is, it seems, still a good bit of those left in this wide world which our Creator has given us to sojourn in. And, we are still just passing through it. Passing through on our way to a place where the beautiful and the good are all which will be seen and experienced.

So, Lord Byron, these words in figurative ink have fallen onto my thoughts, here in the middle of the night.

Let us see if perhaps, just perhaps, a small percentage of your thousands, or millions can be induced to think.

And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.
(Philippians 4:8 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Tools of the Trade

Good Things