IN CONCERT

(I)

A seated study

Blurred still

String-hardened fingertips

Taloned

Slide like live china

Along the frets

Skill

Intent and long

Refined in the bones

*

Astride

And stomping

To beat of skins

Plectrum

In nicotine grip

Skids primal

As loins grind

Soul

Improvises from the heart

And through the boot-heel

(II)

Wing-collared

And funereal

Grand Master

Undertakes classics

Patient eyes

Follow pale hands

Which instruct

Patent feet

Embalming old symmetries

Note for note

*

Open-necked

And pounding

Holy Roller

Rocks his pulpit

Accusing fingers

Vamp and stab

Brimstone chords

Smoke and roar

Pushing the crescendo

Further every time

(III)

Eyes on dots

White-gloved

Sniper

In the distance

Surveys his tools

Waits for his moment

Measures his beat

Selects and strikes

Steadies the vibrations

Replaces and reloads

*

Eyes wild

As sticks are twirled

Tossed and snatched

Above volleys of sound

Power

Locked with bass

Blizzard of cymbal

And crash of pedal

Rolling with thunder

The avalanche of beats

(IV)

Muscular larynx

Flexes

Perfect diction

From banal libretto

Takes up positions

On polished stages

From rich boxes

The elite rise

In measured ovation

*

Leathery throat

Convulses

Slangy melismas

From juvenile lyric

Hips jerk

Almost sacrificial

On sweaty boards

At brandished mike

Surging crowd

Whoop tribal

 

                                                                            (1989)

I hope this poem doesn’t give the impression that I don’t like classical music – because I do (a fair bit of it, at least). In a live context though, it can seem rather clinical and stilted compared to rock music. I’m not certain I had particular musicians in mind when I wrote this, but the classical guitarist is probably Julian Bream who I remember seeing quite often on TV. The rock singer looks like it might be Mick Jagger. The rock piano, however, is definitely being played by Jerry Lee Lewis and the rock drummer simply has to be Keith Moon. I doubt whether he was always ‘Locked with bass’ because he may not have been the best technical drummer ever, but he was surely the most exciting.

The photograph is of one Frano Gryc, an extraordinary musician we saw several times on the isle of Lokrum near Dubrovnik. He plays acoustic guitar with an electric pick-up every afternoon at an outdoor bar-café there. Beautiful rippling classical and jazzy renditions of all sorts of song emanate from him. No singing though and very little talking. The shades and cigs are permanent features of the unsmiling Frano-fizzog. Supercool.