Went into the hall at about twenty past six – on a black and blue evening – with lights out dim.
Found my way to the seats but wanted to go and look for the king – so I jumped off the balcony and floated to the centre of the stage thing – went wandering around – saw guitars and amplifiers and a drum kit as well – lot’s of cables coming my way and flowing toward the grand piano, past that and hooked up to the microphone into which he would lean with full force later that night.
I stood there – on the edge of the stage – gazing – observing the audience and the anticipation of the occurring event. The sound of the chatter – the rows of history. They didn’t see me of course, invisible ghosts of the past are not to be seen, only the trembling noise can be heard when they move around inside the great space of sound and vision. Yes, as in blue.
I turned around as they walked onto the stage, the guitar sound revealed the first tune of the night – and George said – «the drums will roar». And they did. Soon I came on stage – seeing the light on the left – in my mind that is. The warmth hit me – the smiles drowned me – the cold disappeared. I was frozen before – but now the hands of welcome shone and waivered. What good am I? Voice soft and tender, raw and hard, whispering and pitching with all his attention concentrated on delivering the lines between the lyrics.
Try to get inside his head – find out his thoughts – his doubts – the waiting in the alleys – the secret travel.
Sometime in the autumn when I see a leaf fall down from a tree I think about that girl who passed that place long ago, in the early days when I used to live in the city.