I´ve surfaced from
the basement and sat down on the steps of my caravan, trying to
digest my experience of the last couple of hours. A huge, yellow moon
rises over Overlook, making the mountain appear as an animal lying at
its feet.
My ears still ring
with the chords of Waltzing
with Sin:
played half-way through the session, twice no pauses, and at times –
I´m thinking now, didn´t really notice it then- the voice of Dylan
had an almost outlandish aplomb for someone who has just turned
twenty-six. My
eyes have been etched with a series of images of men and instruments
assembled in a camaraderie which blots out the outside world. The
basement has become through their music a sonic submarine navigating
the waters of joy. I´ve spent a couple of hypnotic hours there, and
having just emerged – forgive myself my brimming with stressed
words- and not having quite caught my breath, I hear Richard´s voice
call out behind me.
- Good evening,
Nar. How was the trip today?
- Hi Richard. It
was fabulous. Sad you weren´t there....
- Well, I stayed
upstairs, sleeping, and then went out to the woods, you know, to
think about my „Upstairs, Downstairs“ ...
- Yeah, how are the
lyrics coming on?
- So so. It´s
difficult to capture that nebulous image, I was telling you about the
other day, in words, you know, Dylan going up and coming down and
sometimes apparently suspended between two levels ... He has a way of
floating the rest of us can only dream of doing … How about getting
that guitar of yours out?
- Alright. You want
something to drink?
- I´ll go. I´ll
get us a bottle and some paper. Back soon.
Somewhere between
unsteady and nimble on his bare feet, he walks over to the house and
returns with an amber coloured bottle with a pretty red sash.
- Here´s the
guitar, I say, handing it to him whilst he passes me the bottle.
- Grand Marnier.
You like it?
- I don´t know,
never tried it.
- Well, from now on
you´ll always be in my debt, you´ll see, he says with conviction
and more than a little irony, whilst he starts strumming my guitar.
I go into the
caravan and bring out my two best glasses and some ice.
- Serve it as is,
it´s better without.
So I do. He takes
his glass, looks at it for a moment and then lifting it, proposes a
toast.
- To „Nar of the
Caravan“, chance visitor to a surreal basement!
We both laugh
before our first sip, which delivers into my mouth the dense and
bitter essence of oranges from another world.
- Fuck, that´s
good!, I exclaim in surprise.
- Told you it would
be, you´ll always thank me for it, he says draining his glass, with
a smile. And now, listen: „Upstairs, Downstairs“, umpteenth
version.
The five chords of
the song I heard a few days ago have been adorned with arpeggios and
some changes of rhythm; the text is slowly shaping around a chorus
which brings out the bluer shades of his voice. When he finishes, he
keeps his eyes on the moon, which has left a narrow gap now over the
mountain. I dare not break the silence but pour another drink and
wait for him to return. When he does, he lights up a smoke. The flame
of the match lights up his bottomless eyes. After a couple of tokes,
avoiding comments on the song, he surprises me again with an
unexpected turnaround.
- That thing around
your neck, Nar... You were right, it does look like mine, he says
pouring himself another glass.
- I am sorry, but
this time it´s me who doesn´t want to talk about it. It´s not the
right moment, you know?
- That´s Ok. I
understand. Better to share the good times, right?, he says offering
me a light and another almost full glass of that orange and affable
liqueur which – I somehow know- will always taste of longing for a
night such as this.
