The Man Sat In The Corner

The man sat in a corner of this noisy place,

working carefully on sort of a slow reggae tune on his Martin.

Head tilted down studiously, broad-brim straw hat covering his face,

looking like Neil Young but playing like Earl Klugh, not looking up.

And it was likely for the best, a filler gig for him, on the way to or back

from where he is really meant to be, gas money or something like that.

He would finish a song, give a perfunctory “thank you”, whether or not

anyone applauded, whether or not they were listening, but I was.

A master, I thought, maybe a road musician for George Strait or a

studio side man with more 3 a.m. stories than he would have time or

energy to recount, if asked, if he was willing to answer.

Not tonight. It’s not that kind of gig, not the right venue,

with about a hundred or so restless souls, maybe some regulars,

none of them knowing he would appear, not thinking a second about the

ten dollar cover, it just bought them the right to ignore him.

But not me and maybe a half dozen in my view that seemed enthralled

like me and I really wanted my cover covered and he was doing more

than I would expect for this place on this night.

It’s one of those magical things like when Clapton and Dylan

had an impromptu meeting and played a set in the dressing room

while Clapton toured and Dylan just happened to be in town.

It was reported that Eric said, “This sounds great, we should record

something,” and Dylan responded simply, “Music for the gods.”

They never recorded anything but they had one night, not unlike this one.

This night is for this man whose face I couldn’t see playing sweeter

than I had heard in awhile anywhere, and here he is tonight of all nights

and I can’t help to think that its music for the gods.

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