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And, as is usually the fate with bands, most of them will break up—through distance, differences, divorce, or death.
If he could have unplugged his heart and shut the lights on his memory, he would have.
“The secret is not to make your music louder, but to make the world quieter.”
Man searches for courage in drink, but it is not courage that he finds, it is fear that he loses. A drunken man may step off a cliff. That does not make him brave, just forgetful.
It is not new, this idea that a purer art awaits you in a substance. But it is naive. I existed before the first grapes were fermented. Before the first whiskey was distilled. Be it opium or absinthe, marijuana or heroin, cocaine or ecstasy or whatever will follow, you may alter your state, but you will not alter this truth: I am Music. I am here inside you. Why would I hide behind a powder or a vapor? Do you think me so petty?
I have said that music allows for quick creation. But it is nothing compared with what you humans can destroy in a single conversation.
“Le duy vas xalaven pe,” he said, a gypsy expression that translates to “the hands wash each other”—meaning we are all connected.
Carlos Andres Presto.
What Frankie felt on the hood of that car was what I foresaw, what I wanted him to convey, that death awaited, that the singer needed to mend his ways, slow down, stop the drinking and the medication. Do you think me meddlesome? Why? I have told you I love my disciples. I have told you my saddest visits are the ones that come too early. I have told you I can see all futures. Is it beyond me to share this power now and then? Should I always do nothing and let the music die?
“You have things confused. It’s my job to make the records. It’s your job to sell them.” Duke Ellington. Can you believe that?
Before Lord God made the Sea and the Land He held all the stars in the palm of his hand And they ran through his fingers like grains of sand And one little star fell alone.
But I’ve been walking through the night and the day Till my eyes get weary and my head turns grey And sometimes it seems maybe God’s gone away . . . And we’re lost out here in the stars.
Then she crossed the street. Frankie looked up as she approached, the rain dripping down her face. She moved his guitar and lowered into his lap. “Will you stay?” he asked. “Yes,” she said.
“Why do the strings make different sounds, Maestro?” “It is simple. They work like life.” “I don’t understand.” “The first string is E. It is high pitched and quick like a child. “The second string is B. It is pitched slightly lower, like the squeaky voice of a teenager.
“The third string, G, is deeper, with the power of a young man. “The fourth string, D, is robust, a man at full strength. “The fifth string, A, is solid and loud but unable to reach high tones, like a man who can no longer do what he did.” “And the sixth string, Maestro?” “The sixth is the low E, the thickest, slowest, and grumpiest. You hear how deep? Dum-dum-dum. Like it is ready to die.” “Is that because it is closest to heaven?” “No, Francisco. It is because life will always drag you to the bottom.”
“I had a teacher who was blind. Sometimes, when he was in the bathroom, I would bang around on the guitar, making noise. And he would yell, ‘Stop it, stupid boy! No one wants to listen to ugliness.’ I would defend myself by saying, ‘In school, they teach us that God listens to everything.’ And he’d yell back, ‘God may listen, but I will not.’ ”
“The point is, you have to decide who you are playing for. I wanted him to think my playing was beautiful, so I stopped making noise and made music instead.”
“The greatest thing, you’ll ever learn Is just to love, and be loved in return.”
And then I remembered Frankie talking about his little girl. And he was right. At a certain point, your life is more about your legacy to your kids than anything else.
Frankie slowly rose and held up his guitar. He thought of Tárrega’s long-lost instrument and was overwhelmed suddenly by the deepest longing he’d ever felt in his life: to see his old teacher one more time.
He was talking about intentions. That’s important in music, too. Critically important. What you’re thinking about can be what you become. Good and evil.
“I can hear you in anything,” she said.
“Not just your teacher,” she whispered. “Your father.”
My father used to tell me a gypsy expression ‘Le duy vas xalaven pe.’ The hands wash each other.”
With the ovation growing louder, Frankie lifted his head. He saw now, high in the rafters, the spirits of El Maestro, Baffa, and Aurora, beckoning to him. He reached for them and a pain gripped his chest. His guitar clanged to the floor. And then, as some have told the authorities, he appeared to rise to the ceiling. I shall clear that up now. Frankie’s body never rose. That was his soul. But so great was the desire of the world to hear his splendid music—to keep it even a few more seconds—that his spirit was tugged, momentarily, between heaven and earth. There can be but one victor in such a
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I am Music. And Music is in the connection of human souls, speaking a language that needs no words. Everyone joins a band in this life. And what you play always affects someone. Sometimes, it affects the world. Frankie’s symphony ends. And so, at last, we rest.
