Man with Saxophone

 False notes, true courage and beautiful failure.

Once, a long time ago, a man walked into my pub holding a battered saxophone. He was either pushing sixty, or life had dragged him there against his will. He looked like he’d walked home from Woodstock and taken the scenic route.

Without a word he chose a stool at the bar, placed the sax on it like a pet, and ordered a coffee.
The usual banter died instantly. My regulars stared at the odd bird; he stared right back, unphased, sipping his coffee.

Questions followed, of course.

Where are you from?

Are you a musician?

Who’d you play with?
The man’s expression suggested he’d heard these questions a thousand times before. He launched into a monologue clearly polished over many years. Yes, he was a travelling musician, currently between gigs. He had toured with A-list artists, done session work for famous stars, rubbed shoulders with the greats — though he wouldn’t reveal names. He didn’t want to brag, he said.Naturally, the regulars asked him to play something.

The sax man declined at first, modestly — not modest enough, in hindsight.

Eventually he agreed: he’d play a tune if they bought him drinks and tossed some coins into his hat.
The whiskey had barely touched the bartop when the geezer picked up the sax, stroking it gently as if waking a sleeping child.
“Alright then,” he said with great theatricality. “Just a wee tune. Something I once played for a jazz master.”

He rose from his stool, assumed a stage posture, closed his eyes, and blew.
Three notes in, my ears began to bleed. The regulars sat stunned.

We had expected a phenomenal performance — would have settled for something decent — but this excruciating aural assault was beyond endurance. Our booing grew so loud the geezer eventually stopped, to everyone’s immense relief. I had never welcomed silence with such gratitude.

Last week that memory resurfaced when I heard a guy at an open-mic afternoon butcher Hallelujah — a song so delicate even Cohen or Jeff Buckley treated it like crystal.

This lad, however, belted it out with unwavering confidence, drifting off-key and off-beat like a ship without a compass. My stomach turned. Others clearly felt the same: several people literally plugged their fingers into their ears. At least it gave us something to laugh about.

Later that night, though, I started thinking.

Instead of mocking them — the saxophonist back then and the poor singer from that afternoon — maybe I should respect them. Lack of talent aside, they did have the courage to face an audience, to bare something vulnerable inside themselves. Naive? Self-deluded? Wishful thinking? Maybe.

When I was much younger, I too nurtured the fantasy of becoming a singer. In my daydreams I was a new Geoff Tate. Behind the wheel of my car — with no passengers, mercifully — I’d sing along with my idols. I could hold a tune, yes, but not well. Not well enough. And I certainly never had the guts to climb onto a stage and face an audience.

So I gave myself a firm bollocking.

And now I’m ready — honestly ready — to listen to the next utterly talentless wannabe, reminding myself that they have the courage I never did.