S.B.T. 43

“That’s nice, I like the way that phrase moves,” on the piano bench beside me, Barry Manilow. He smiles like cherubim but he’s for real, he’s product-free and easy rider jeans, for the moment he just snaps his fingers in sync with whatever sound catches his ear, even with eternal jitter at the copa that’s more than fine with him, a regal and benign purple aura of wisteria. No viking headdress, no bloody kerchief, no binocular of presence, no wreath of wonder he's all there. His ichobod crane forefinger circling a particular bar on the score, he points to the notes, one two three and this one over here, he says “Here, right here, that is nice, I love that, I love the way the christmas bells mingle with the hammond B2 and the silver triangle touches the milky way. I’m trying to find a way to sing it, it could have lyrics, I mean, it wouldn’t be that difficult to layer a song that makes the whole world sing into it, kind of a kick in the pants.”

There’s a storm they say coming from the Bourne spy movies, an alert interrupts the radio broadcast, “...potential damaging winds and flood warning flood warning zeep zeep zeep
could cause electrical disturbances dzeet dzeet...”

Barry says, “I’ve seen these kinds of ‘storms’ before,” he's serious, marroon and navy. His eyes are intensely bright water-planets on the edge of a black donuthole pushing against the dying of the light. He looks at me and says “don’t worry, we’ll be safe, we can always find a way...”

You know I want to believe him. But I say to him, “Barry you keep telling me all these things, like about the thump next to the sizzle, and the fifth over the eighth with the little thirtysecondth flags, and how the moon has to be moltovibrato in a lullaby, and even how you appreciate the phrasing of this allegretto blend or that full rest part. but i want the seventh in the G major slide to A minor and end at C with a seven E flat and i have no way for sure of knowing it.”

He laughs, he's giggling with body tremor his chin in one hand leans forward, winks, the corners of his eyes are merrily rooster-like “It’s in the melody,” he says, “you just hear it. It’s already there, I’m telling you... What, you don’t believe me?... Here just a minute, I’ll play it for you.” he takes off his tan linen jacket, sits on it, straightens up a little and rearranges his spindle legs like an N hanging off the edge of a bookshelf, takes a slow steam engine breath. His fingers tiptoe but the keys ring like chimes with reverb.