Chapter 2 of "She and the Blues" delves deeper into the clandestine world of secret musical gatherings orchestrated by Lazy, a promoter in the blues and jazz scene. Stan, the protagonist, unveils the mystique surrounding these events, offering a glimpse into a realm of musical spontaneity and creative expression. The chapter unfolds with vivid descriptions of various unconventional venues where these impromptu concerts take place, ranging from abandoned houses to borrowed spaces in the heart of nature.
The morning was merciless. The sun stubbornly illuminated the scattered room, turning last night's soft outlines of objects into a fiery yellow cubism-style painting. Stan opened his eyes and saw the smiling Stella. Dressed in golden bell-bottom jeans and a black t-shirt, she handed him a huge cup emitting a divine aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The ashtray was emptied, the cups were washed. Her golden hair shimmered like a halo around her pale face, her green eyes were smiling. She looked fresh and smelled of freshness. When did she manage to wake up, take a shower, and tidy up the chaos from last night?
"Good morning," she whispered. "Coffee?"
"Uh, yes, thank you," he tried to reply, still not fully awake. His head was spinning.
"Did you dream about something?"
"Yes, but I can't recall it now."
"Remember?"
"I do, but I can't... not at the moment. I'll tell you some other time."
"Okay. Music?"
"Always."
"Your choice?"
"Yes..."
She handed him the coffee and went to the record player. There were probably hundreds of records. He had been rummaging through the collection, thinking he might surprise her with something quality. After a few seconds, a gentle synthesizer sound gave the morning softness and freshness. Then, from a distance, a funky guitar rang out, followed by the bass and drums, and he recognized 'Where the Streets Have No Name.' Just before Bono chimed in with 'I want to run, I want to hide...'
"U2?"
She nodded. Stan thought it was indeed a fantastic song to wake up to.
"She thanks you. For the wonderful evening. And for not letting the music stop."
Stan remembered. Yesterday, they had gone together to the pawnshop where she had left her record player - the same fantastic Thorens TD 202 Walnut-Gloss that was playing now. It was worth at least a grand, and she had pawned it for 500. Stan redeemed it a day before it expired and returned it to her. He felt it was monstrous for that place to be without music, for the vast collection of records to remain silent. He didn't ask for the reason, just said that if she ever needed to pawn something again, she should ask him first. He took a sip of the coffee, lit a cigarette, and said:
"Everything's fine, Stella. I have to thank you for the wonderful evening and the great music. You really feel the music I like, and it's a pleasure to listen to it with you. I'll take a shower now and then try to find something to wear if I can..."
He stopped mid-sentence. His clothes were neatly arranged on the table beside his bed. Folded, even. Black jeans, the (also black) t-shirt over them, socks and underwear, the belt coiled on top.
"It seems you like order, Stella. Would you get me a towel?"
"There's one in the bathroom. I put a fresh one for you this morning."
"Thanks."
Stan left the cigarette in the ashtray, took another sip of coffee, and began humming 'With or Without You,' which was playing on the record player at that moment. Then he got up, put out the cigarette, crossed the room, and entered the small bathroom. The shower revitalized him. He generally loved hot showers but consciously, at times, turned on cold water to freshen up faster. The towel was snowy white and smelled clean. He dried himself, wrapped it around his waist, and returned to the room with the record player (which he jokingly referred to as 'the gramophone'). There were more rooms in the apartment, but he hadn't been in them, didn't even know how many there were or what was in them. Stella was waiting for him."
"He can get dressed, she won't look."
"Go ahead, no problem."
She smiled but averted her gaze. Then she turned to the record player, and under her fingers, the room filled with:
Time makes two love
Makes more than friends
Time makes true love
More than just pretend
Makes you count the nights
And the moments
We're apart
"Ah... that's Robert Cray! Was it 'Time Takes Two'?"
"Yes, almost. 'Time Makes Two' is the exact title."
Already dressed, he put on his shoes (in a burgundy color, the only part of his outfit that wasn't black) and turned to her:
"I'm inviting you for breakfast. 'Divak' makes incredible pancakes. Are you coming?"
"She'll come. Since he's inviting her..."
"Let's go then."
Stella got up, took her purse and leather jacket, and he went out first to give her the chance to lock the door.
It was a wonerful September morning outside. Summer lingered in the air, but it was noticeably cooler. Street ice cream vendors were in their spots, shops hadn't opened yet, and cafes had a few early risers. People hurrying to work rushed toward the bus stops. Stan and Stella were in no rush. They walked slowly, taking in the view of the awakening city with delight. She had come here to study three years ago, he had lived his whole life in this place, and they both knew the streets and establishments well.
"Divak" was a wonderful place for morning coffee. They opened early, very early, and at six in the morning, one could order pancakes or French toast, and their coffee was divine.
When they reached the ten tables outside, only two were occupied. Calm classical music played. It was the only place in town where in the morning, there was no booming of house music or radio. Stan had worked here when he was younger, knew the owners and the older waitresses, so he stepped into the role of a host.
"Let's sit here," he indicated a table for two.
"Alright. It looks nice and smells delicious. You know..." she suddenly felt hungry, Stella smiled.
He pulled out one chair and politely gestured for her to sit. Only after she was seated did he pull out his chair and settled across from her. The people at the neighboring table glanced over and whispered something to each other.
Their short ritual with the chairs apparently made an impression on them. Stan paid no attention, but Stella didn't miss a thing.
"Good morning! What would you like?"
The waitress was young and unfamiliar to Stan. She appeared agile and smiled. Her hair was tied back, her shirt immaculately white and neatly buttoned.
"Good morning," he smiled, "we're hungry. Can you recommend something for us to eat?"
The waitress took a breath and recited:
"Our chef doesn't compromise on pre-prepared dishes. Everything is made to order. Our morning menu includes delicious pancakes, crispy French toast, muffins, and bagels..."
Stan glanced at Stella. She had already taken out her cigarettes (probably smoking two packs a day) but hadn't lit one, seemingly unfazed by the scripted lines from the waitress, sounding like they were from a TV commercial. She understood from his look that he was asking what she'd like to order. Stella smiled and said:
"You presented the menu in such a way that one wants a bit of everything..."
"In that case, a bit of everything. Two pancakes, two French toasts, two bagels, and two muffins. And coffee," Stan intervened.
"For me, simply short," Stella replied to the silent question from the waitress.
"Same for me. Thank you," Stan concluded the order.
And then the waitress vanished.
This... this music. It's familiar to me, but I'm not into classical. Do you know what it is?" Stella asked.
"Air on the G String. Bach," Stan replied.
"Seriously, that's the name?" she covered her teeth with her hand, a sure sign she was silently laughing.
"Yes, in this case, 'G-string' isn't about lingerie," he smiled, "it's a string on a guitar, the third string actually."
"Speaking of 'guitar'..." she would like you to tell her about that new project you mentioned some time ago... any progress on that?"
"Actually, yes. I've been making a living from DJing, but recently, my friend Rosen and I have started playing music together again, and we plan to perform for an audience. Playing blues! Yes, maybe some rock, jazz, funk, but mostly blues. There's a demand for that kind of music."
"She wants you to play for her... someday... but can one make a living from it?"
"It's possible. The last time, five years ago, we did it with Russian songs. At first, people thought we were crazy... rock musicians, and then singing Russian..."
"You played Russian songs?!"
"Well, 'Russian songs' aren't a specific genre. It's about songs in Russian. On one hand, there are many fans and little competition, and on the other hand, there's so much material from folklore, the Soviet era, romances, songs from the White Army, emigrant songs, gangster songs, that you can constantly renew your repertoire. Not to mention Vysotsky, he wrote enough for several repertoires. And I genuinely liked the songs we played."
"She doesn't listen to that kind of music, but... did you guys succeed?"
"Yes, quite well actually. We started out with charity, no money involved, went to festivals, and soon we were getting invitations, even from elite clubs."
"But why specifically Russian songs? Why not Bulgarian, for instance?"
"Coffee! Breakfasts!" the waitress's voice interrupted - "Here. Enjoy."
Two coffee cups and plates of pancakes, French toast, bagels, and muffins appeared on the table.
"Thank you," Stan replied, then waited for her to move away before continuing the conversation with Stella.
"The innkeeper's dream is for customers to stay long and order plenty. That's why in places offering live music, chalga* thrives. Russian songs attract a more cultured audience – Russians, their Bulgarian spouses, their children, all sorts of Soviet nostalgics, Ukrainians, Russian-speaking tourists, and others. If you manage to touch their hearts, they also order in bulk and don't fuss over the bill, they don't wait for change, they don't dispute it."
"But. There's an important 'but' - unlike other types of audience, they treat the performer with immense respect, they're inclined to forgive the accent or minor mistakes."
"Then why not continue with the Russian songs? If it's proven successful? Why blues?"
"Because with Russian songs, I couldn't create, and we already have a fair amount of our songs in a blues style."
"Yours?"
"Yes. It's quite a task to play your own songs."
"She wants to hear, she wants to hear..."
"She will."
"And covers? Do you do those?"
"Yes, but few. Only those that we can easily improvise."
"Tell me, what have you done so far? Probably there'll be some familiar ones for her..."
"Joe Cocker, ZZ Top, Doors, Bo Diddley..."
"She's very interested. Where can she hear you? When?"
"For now, only at secret concerts."
"Secret?"
"Yes, secret," he took a bite of the French toast - "Mm, delicious..."
"Who attends them if they're secret?"
Stan signaled that he needed to swallow and then continued:
"I have a friend, a promoter, they call him Lazy, who makes money from this. He records our jam sessions and streams them on his blockchain channel for blues and jazz. People interested in music that doesn't make it into mainstream media join. They even pay a membership fee for it in cryptocurrency, as far as I know. Lazy has earned a reputation for showcasing unusual concerts with lots of improvisation. Rosen and I are regular participants, but he invites other musicians to play with us, and not just musicians. Lazy picks the place, time, and participants. He warns us at most a day in advance that there will be a secret concert, then arranges taxis or personally drives us to the gig's location. After seven days, he pays us, and he doesn't skimp."
"And you don't know where you're going?" she was already eagerly eating her pancake.
"No. We've been to abandoned houses, empty taverns rented specifically for the purpose, in the forest, in people's homes who provide the space to watch and participate... I neither know in advance where we're going nor what we'll play."
"And only invited people can attend?"
"Yes, and if they attend, they must participate. Lazy hands them percussion instruments, tambourines, maracas, all sorts of noisemakers... If they want, they can sing or recite, but no spectators allowed. Lazy carefully selects the guests. He provides sound, lighting, cameras, drinks... everything. We just bring our guitars, and..."
"How interesting... and what other instruments... are there at such a gig?"
"Well, besides guitars, last time, there was a kaval, harmonica, melodica, and percussion. There have been accordions and whatnot..."
"Have there been secret concerts without you?"
"As far as I know, no. Lazy relies on me to choose songs suitable for improvisation, both originals and covers, and Rosen..."
"What about Rosen?"
"When he gets involved, you hear MUSIC. Inspiration and harmony, beauty."
"She really wants... to participate in that..."
"OK, I'll keep that in mind."
They continued their breakfast, and when they finished, Stan paid, promising to get in touch that same evening.
END OF CHAPTER TWO
Songs mentioned in the text:
Where the streets have no name by U2
Time makes two by Robert Cray
Air in the G string by J.S.Bach
