CHRISTOPHER BREAN MURRAY
I Remember Fairbanks
in his bright mauve blazer. I remember his hands, the voluminous pocks of his crippled face. I recall the way he danced at the precipice, a sprig of sweetbrier in his odoriferous maw. I remember he pawed the barmaid every time she passed—then he howled at the antler-chandelier. My memories of Banks are clearer than the waters of an Alaskan brook. Fairbanks could not cook. Once he served me ground beef wrapped in a leaf and bathed in a mysterious whitesauce. Mischievous birds rifled through the canopy overhead. I was offput by their knowing laughter. I wanted to hang from a rafter and kick wildly at Fairbanks, but he was already off on a virulent mission. His trek was fueled by an obscure superstition— something about a God of the Corn, or else he hoped to smother a contagion before it whisked its tremens through indigenous corpuscles. I imagined him stroking the muscles of a young laborer—checking his chart to appear serious, though inside he was delirious about the genius of his prank. His shoes stank, so he flung them from the window of a Swiss hotel. His dress was inimical yet avuncular. He wore the trousers an aspiring punk might wear. He spoke of the wear and tear, the blear nights, the caravansary shattered by the lapping tongues of lamplight infusing gypsy songs with the giddy fragrance of oleander. His is a jeremiad of love and unreason. He roamed the streets with treasonous youths spouting perverted yet compelling truths that somehow tasted of the future. I am the one who sutured his forehead the morning after his brawl with the mayor. I am—yes—the land surveyor. What the fight was over no one knows. They stared at each other in silence for nine minutes before it came to blows. Fairbanks bit the mayor’s flaccid nipple. The mayor squealed—fear rippling across his formidable brow. It was a legendary row. One photo depicts the blurring trajectory of a fist and the spray of bodily juices. This picture was not enhanced. The crowd called for a sacrifice and both men found they were in History’s blind grip. Somewhere, at that moment, a ship narrowly missed plunging into the bayonet of a night-masked iceberg. The mayor— Zbigniew Goldberg—headbutted Fairbanks...to no avail. A scree of cheers puffed Banks into a hurricane of violence. He bludgeoned flesh until the courtyard was oppressed by silence.
Get Segovia
If you’re going to hire a guitarist for the event, get Segovia. Not Andrés. The other, younger Segovia. He’s not related. In fact, he’s hated by purists for his sloppy, irreverent solos. He wears bolo ties and snakeskin boots. Still, his fingers shoot down the frets at lightning speed. He pursues the essence of a Bach minuet with a sort of artistic greed. Half of him doesn’t give a fuck. The other half needs to chase down the sublime like a frenzied hound pursuing a terrified fox into a thicket shattered by moonlight. Once I heard him turn Schubert into a blues using a penlight for a slide. One couple rose and left the theater in a huff. Others expressed gruff criticisms afterwards in the lobby. I really enjoyed the piece, though I had front row seats and Segovia was a bit gassy. But that was a small price to pay. Another time he plucked a raucous César Franck. Somehow, though he was playing an unmic-ed acoustic, I heard the swell of a piercing wave of feedback. It seemed to be pooling and flowing from the rear of the auditorium. When it finally ended—his fingers tripping playfully down a golden staircase of notes—I demanded more of him. Not because he had let me down, but because I was drunk and couldn’t face the blank page of sobriety. After that night he began to suffer from notoriety. While he enjoyed it at first, it soon affected his playing. His fugues lacked staying power, and his arpeggios were uninspired. He seemed to be mired in the expectations of the crowd. He tried playing loudly and matching the notes with his shrill, nicotine-frayed voice. That was a bad choice, but at least he was searching. One time, in the middle of a Brahms, I noticed his hand lurching—it appeared uncontrollably— up and down the neck. Minutes later he collapsed, his tear-shaped guitar in splinters. The audience cheered, and the flash-bulbs strobed their oblivion. Had he forgotten what age he was living in? After that night he got wise. He lay low for a while. And he practiced. Soon he went back on tour playing smaller venues. His menu was the same: Paganini, Grieg, and Schumann. And he still dressed like a bluesman. Anyway, he’s got the fire and I recommend him without reservation.
|