The Girl At The Front Row

As I sat in my rented room thus with hardly a glimmer of light coming in from the windows and the candles, I felt transformed into a different era by the enchanting tunes of music. The sound of the needle running through the groove of the record came out as faint crackle, and for a moment, bands of feelings ran across with the strings breaking the shackles of time.

This made me realise, I have acclimatized myself so much to having his presence in my life, that I often forget we never met.

The music was of a conductor who had put his baton away long ago; he was a relic by the time I was born – or rather a maestro whose time was up ages before I made my entrance. His music was enchanting harmonies and philosophies that were put into lyrics and rhythms, and somehow, made me feel a part of me that I never knew existed but craved to be acknowledged and free.

Every note that came out of the speakers brought me closer and closer to the love – not just for the music but for the man who made it. The fire in his eyes was reflected in every note he played, every crescendo he effortlessly executed, and every silence, bringing me to a different world of pure emotions and true artistry.

As I further explored his discography, I could not help but feel that painful feeling of realising he is gone, his physical life was ceased years ago. The world had buried him and I was only increasing my exposure to the beauty he had left for us.

Standing there on the balcony I dared dream of how it would have been to see this musician perform live, and to sense that music in the very air. With my mind’s eye I saw the stage lights, the feeling of expectation making the air around me heavy and vast, and that moment when he decided to share his gift to the world.

However, as I desperately tried to get these thoughts out of my head and have a simple look at the actual man behind the music, all I could feel was thankfulness for the kind of life he had. Unlike most other people in this dog-eat-dog industry, which is the music industry, he had opted to quit when he wanted to, for the sake of his family and himself.

In fact, he had planned for it; his decision was not out of boredom or disinterest, but it was to remain as an authentic man. Even though I would have no chance to witness his concert live, I had to accept the fact that people will enjoy his compositions just as millions do it nowadays, enjoying the great work of real artists dedicated to music and its traditions.

In between the wear and tear concert posters and artwork by artists and painters of his time, I found boxes upon boxes of borrowed records, something I can finally relate to: The music. When I stroke my hand over the worn label of the year in which those albums were released, there was a bitter sweet twinge of tenderness and gratefulness in me. Perhaps those are all the things I will be able to clutch on to, which are enough to remind me that his memory, and that of all the deceased musicians that I love so much, will never fade as long as their music is alive and all the memories are theirs.

He continued to play the last notes, and I dozed off as the notes iterated in my head, so blissful and pleasant. In a society where many are engulfed by the desire to attain prominence and wealth, he was selfless of his passion to create and make his close ones proud, and would ever be an encouragement to the generations that come by.

For it kills me that I shall never be that girl at the front row, the decisions he took, are the second reason as to why I began to fall for him in the first place. And music was, and always will be, the first.

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