IN A MUSIC STORE

Let's take the '68 Gibson electric guitar, or Les Paul: labelled U.S.A., it has a wildly full sound, and when the crystal-clear dust settles on its steel strings, it sounds steely and gritty. A guy with a dreadlocked haircut comes up to me and immediately snaps, "Hey buddy! Put the instrument back in its place! You don't have any money, so what are you playing for!" - I am even a little amused, through tears, by the rise and fall of the latest jerk-pancake manners.

I haven't had my human tongue spoken to me for a long time, but this time I must confess to being modestly surprised. "Excuse me, my dear sir, but you can hardly lure customers into your shop with that mentality," I humbly put in quietly, for even the moderately pronounced presence was being eroded by the neo-culture of 21st century tawdryness. Barely eight minutes later, a guy in a big vest and a proudly-necked leather jacket enters, a sort of Jim Morrison offspring, perhaps even resembling his shoulder-length long rack, and then he takes my favourite guitar from its place, and to the melodic rhythm of his long, narrow fingers, the virtuoso chord exercises of Hendrix, Clapton and Knopfler suddenly come to life, so that it is a joy to listen to them! The guy who has just dreadlocked greets the guy later as if they were colleagues or old colleagues, and then I realize: why can't I ever be an equal Man, Friend, Acquaintance, even among artists?!

In speechless silence I wander to the back of the shop, which is almost adjacent to the warehouse. A tiny old man sits on a stool, visibly suspicious, yet staring with curious eyes. "Dear Sir! Would you like to try the cello? We have a violin! I think to myself, and say, with my spine out, "Why not?