There was a local blues club I used to frequent. “Bohemian Blue”, it was called. I always thought that was a clever name. I was there most evenings, drinking away my sorrows with the rest of the city’s shiftless wayfarers, the music serving as an audible manifestation of our various woes. It was a decidedly self-indulgent atmosphere, but most of the regulars had long since deluded themselves into considering their debilitating alcoholism and self-pity “therapeutic”. I always imagined I was above that -- that on some level I was better than everyone else -- but the truth is that I was just as sorry a sap as you could find in that place. The fact that the bulk of my paycheck each week went into the owner’s pocket was proof enough of that.
There was, however, one night every week that I always made it a point to try and maintain an air of sobriety -- at least for a while. Each Thursday night, rather than the usual fare of wailing harmonica and raspy lamentations, a classical guitarist by the name of Antonio Boccetti would take the stage. Why he chose to play at a blues club was beyond me -- his style and form were more fitting of someone touring with the finest orchestras in the world. Yet there he was, on the stage of a shifty little blues club in the heart of downtown, filling that normally somber place with the sweetest sounds that ever came from a guitar. His music instantly captivated everyone in the room, and for an hour or so, nothing but the sound of classical perfection could be heard. Those precious moments were like an oasis for the soul -- a true remedy for the poor of heart and spirit -- and everyone left those nights in a better place. Everyone except Antonio.
The bar was filled on the nights that he played, and it always filled early, so rarely did I have the privilege of sitting near the stage. But the few times I did, I noticed something odd. Despite the incredible beauty of the music he was performing, Antonio played without the slightest hint of emotion on his face. It was almost like watching something mechanical -- like a computer in human guise, capable of reproducing the music but incapable of appreciating it. I thought at first that perhaps he was deaf -- that he had memorized the songs by feel -- but I had occasionally seen him conversing with fans at the dimly-lit bar after his set, so this seemed not to be the case. Besides, there was one other singular oddity I had noticed that only further confused the matter: each night he played a new set of songs, but he always ended with the same piece -- an acoustic arrangement of Concierto de Aranjuez by Joaquin Rodrigo. Of all the songs he played, he perhaps played this one the most beautifully, with the most passion. And of all the songs he played, during this one piece on which he always ended, he showed emotion: he wept.
I puzzled over these peculiarities for weeks, attempting, in futility, to understand the man who played classical music at a blues club. He was an enigma to me, and soon my desire to know more about the man behind the guitar lured me more than his music. There was one night in particular that I lingered at the bar longer than usual. I was lost in thought, my drink mostly untouched, when I realized that the club had largely emptied out and the staff was beginning to clean up. I was about to pay my tab and leave when I noticed Antonio sitting just a few seats away. After having become something of an obsession for me, I felt I could not pass on the opportunity to speak with him. I nodded politely towards him and complimented him on his playing.
“Thanks.”
It was a dry, hollow response, offered more as a reflex than in genuine gratitude. Not that this was particularly surprising -- he must have received praise regularly. Surely, there would be a point where it would begin to feel empty. Still, I could not help but suggest that his ability was far beyond the caliber of a small city blues club.
“I know.”
He sat there staring at a half-empty drink, as stone-faced as he always was. His disinterest in me or anything I had to say was obvious. I worried he might leave before I had gleaned anything new about him, so I went for broke and asked him about the Rodrigo piece.
His expression changed suddenly, and he looked at me with a doleful eye that was far removed from the typical sodden features I was used to seeing in that place. He opened his mouth as though to say something, but then reached for his drink and emptied it with a swig, sliding the glass towards the barman.
“It’s a long story.”
I suggested that I would be glad to hear it, if he were so inclined as to share. He stood and rifled through some bills to leave for a tip, then looked back at me.
“I live a few blocks from here. If you want to walk with me, I’ll tell you a story you probably won’t believe.”
Now more intrigued than ever, I hastily agreed, and went about paying my tab before following him out into the balmy summer night.
He lit a cigarette as we walked, and for many minutes said nothing. I thought perhaps he had reconsidered opening up to a total stranger and would maintain a silent stoicism for the remainder of what would be a very awkward walk, but as he took a drag on his cigarette and breathed the wisp of smoke into the incandescent night air, he suddenly spoke, posing a question.
“Do you understand music?”
It was a confusing question, to be sure. I certainly knew what music was, and I enjoyed it, of course, but I felt as though his question was deeper than that. I replied simply that I had never had any formal education or training in it.
“A few years ago, neither had I. I was a poor musician playing guitar on the streets for a few dollars a day, and not playing particularly well, either. To call it even a meager living would be obtusely optimistic. I had been playing for many years, but still could not manage to wrap my head around the instrument enough to even barely sustain myself. I adored the music of the classical masters: Lucia; Segovia; Rodrigo. I wanted nothing more than to play the beautiful music they had written and perfected. Every day throughout my adolescence, I would listen to their music and try to imitate it, but no matter how much I practiced, I never seemed to get any closer.
“It was Rodrigo who first inspired me. When I was nine, my parents took me to my first symphony. The last song they played was his Concierto de Aranjuez. The absolute beauty of the piece -- the mastery of the guitarist -- was enough to reduce me, shamelessly, to tears. From that moment on, I knew I wanted to be a guitarist. I practiced every day, but never did the sounds I produced come close to replicating the ones I had heard on that night.
“There was one day a few years back that I was playing on the street. I had made enough for a hot meal, and was shortly planning to make my way to the nearest hostel for the evening. I finished with the same piece I finished with every day -- a poor acoustic rendition of Rodrigo’s Concierto. I was about halfway through the piece when a man approached. He stood there in silence while I played, offering no money nor any sign that he was enjoying the piece. He simply stared at me, completely unmoving. When I had finished, he said, quite simply, ‘That was terrible.’ That was the moment I resolved to quit guitar for good. I placed my beaten-up Alvarez into its case and stood to leave when he stopped me. He said he had an offer, one that I of all people would appreciate. I was understandably put off by the remark, but I hesitantly asked him what it might be. He told me that my lack of skill came not from any negligence of practice nor physical impairment, but simply from ignorance. Without a proper understanding of musical theory, I would never touch the essence of those great guitarists and composers who had inspired me.
“I asked him if he was a teacher. He said something odd I don’t quite remember. Something about how he didn’t teach, but gifted. He said he could give me the knowledge I needed to be a great guitarist. In fact, he offered to give it to me instantly, and without charge. No lessons, no payment, just an immediate infusion of musical skill. I scoffed at the suggestion and asked if he was going to make me sign over my soul as part of the deal. He just sort of laughed at that. He said that my soul was under no threat from him, and I was free to do with it as I pleased. All he wanted, in exchange for this gift, was my assurance that I would not scorn it, but make use of it. In point of fact, he was very candid about exactly what it was that he was offering, and made it clear that, should I accept, I would be most incapable of not making use of his gift. To go without playing -- to even play without an audience -- would be intolerable to me. He told me, very clearly, that I should only accept if I truly sought a vocation in the creation and the performance of music.
“I didn’t believe a word he said. How could I? But if he was pulling some sort of con, I certainly couldn’t see what it was. And if he was the devil, he certainly wasn’t asking for much. The most likely case, I thought, was that he was simply deranged -- some lunatic escaped from an institution somewhere with delusions of divinity. But, truth be told, his offer was beguiling. More beguiling than anything I had ever encountered. It was everything I had dreamed of. And so, half in jest, I told him that I accepted.”
Antonio stopped here for a moment and stood staring wistfully at the half-covered moon. On the ground, liquid shadows danced tenderly beneath the evanescent trail of smoke streaming from the end of his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, the cherry brightly burning to life for a moment, then exhaled with a sigh and continued to walk.
“Immediately, I was overcome with a most indescribable sensation. My head seemed to swell with complicated mathematics, and tonal progressions, and keys, and modes, and harmonic resonances. It was like immediately comprehending the very essence of music. I quickly retrieved my guitar from its case and played my arrangement of Concierto. It was absolutely flawless. Every note was expertly placed. Every glissando was perfectly executed. Every harmonic. Every hammer-on. Everything. I played it through, beginning to end, with not even one minute fault, and I didn’t hear a single bit of it.
“I mean, I heard it. I heard every intricate detail. I heard it as a series of precise acoustic vibrations. I heard it as a set of complex tonal theories. I heard it the way you might imagine hearing an equation, if one could imagine such a thing. It was like looking at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and seeing every individual micron of paint without any idea of what the picture was supposed to be. I hadn’t just lost the forest for the trees -- I had lost the trees for the atoms. I had been given everything I had ever wanted, and it had completely destroyed the only thing I had ever truly loved. I asked the stranger to take it away, but he refused. He told me I had accepted this gift freely, and now I was bound by it. Already, the need to play, to be heard, was welling up inside me. I realized that I had, in fact, signed over my soul, but not to whom I had suspected.
“I left to audition with the local symphony. Of course I was immediately accepted; I could play any piece absolutely flawlessly, regardless of whether I had heard it before. For several months I toured with them, and was more than once offered positions with some of the most prestigious symphony orchestras in the world. But the fame that I foresaw -- the renown -- it was without substance. I had not achieved the greatness that my idols had -- I had been given it, and there was no enjoyment in it. So I left. I moved back home and made a deal with the owner of that bar to play once a week, just to keep the craving satisfied. But still there is no joy in what I do. I am a slave to my own terrible burden of knowledge.”
We had by then arrived outside his apartment. He flicked his cigarette into a nearby ashtray and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. I asked him once more about Rodrigo, and about his tears. He looked at me again with that doleful eye -- the look of a man who understood true misery.
“Rodrigo was my inspiration. That song was my entire purpose for pursuing music. Now that I am so perfectly capable of playing it, of understanding it, I can never again enjoy it. That is why I weep. I weep because of the beautiful simplicity that I lost in the overwhelming complexity that I gained. I weep because I know too much. Yet I am but one man, with surpassing knowledge of one thing. It makes me wonder what terrible cost true omniscience must carry. If I weep for one song, how much must God weep for each of us?”
Antonio went again for his keys, then stopped, a look of consternation enveloping him. He stood there tense for a moment, then relaxed, letting out a small sigh. He set his guitar down and removed it from its case.
“Would you mind terribly if I played for you? It won’t be long -- an abridged version of my Concierto arrangement. As a...parting gift.”
I eagerly agreed and he began to play. The notes were soft and melancholic, but beautiful beyond words. As he played, a slight drizzle began, as though the heavens had opened and the angels themselves were weeping for his music. When he finished on a final sustained note, I wiped dry my face and eyes -- wetted only partly from the rain. He placed the guitar back into its case without a word and hoisted it up, holding it out to me. I asked what it was that he wanted.
“In addition to the song, I want you to have my guitar. As thanks for walking with me and hearing my story.”
I refused; how could I accept such a gift? Yet he insisted.
“Please, this belongs with someone who understands what it means. No one else could appreciate its value, for you are the only one who has heard my story. I only ask that you keep it safe. Please.”
I accepted Antonio’s gift and gingerly took the case into my hands. As he turned to walk inside, I asked him if I would see him again. He stopped, the doleful look returning to his eye.
“I doubt I’ll be returning to that blues club. But I can’t fight the music. It’s in my blood; it will be spilled one way or another.”
I did not return to Bohemian Blue after that night. After hearing Antonio’s story, my own troubles seemed too trivial to drown in song and drink. Yet even the word I received from some friends who frequented the club said that the weeping guitarist no longer played there. I wasn’t surprised. The guitar that Antonio had entrusted to me suggested he had moved on from this town. I pick it up sometimes, carefully, and hold it close. It’s an old Alvarez, covered in nicks and scratches. A pawn shop might give me thirty dollars for it. A cruel irony. On days when the sky opens and the heavens weep, I play it -- not as a musician, like some mockery of the man who had entrusted it to me; I only play one note, as a reminder of that last beautiful performance -- the final note that the man for whom the angels wept had ever played.