The Music Man

The old dude was absolutely shredding it.

Sitting on a stool, legs crossed and staring straight down, his fingers flew across the Fender Stratocaster, playing so effortlessly it was as though man and instrument were one.

Billed simply as “Music,” he looked like B.B. King in a cowboy hat and played like Jimi Hendrix in a frenzy, with a heavy emphasis on guitar solos.

The sparse crowd at the Reverie Lounge enjoyed it all the same, especially Baxter Layton. He had wandered in a bit after 10 p.m., almost by accident.

Baxter had just finished up having far, far too many drinks with friends at Mike’s Bar & Grill and was in the process of calling an Uber when the hot pink flashing sign at the Reverie caught his eye.

He had never been there before. Hell – he’d never even noticed it before. But it was the hypnotic, psychedelic sounds of Steve Vai’s “For The Love of God” that brought him inside, and he was mesmerized by the old man’s note-for-note replication of the tune.

Enthusiastic applause followed each song, and the performer would take a big swig from his bottle of water before nodding and smiling at the crowd. Depending on the number, he’d reach over and grab another guitar he had laying on the floor next to him. Moments after Baxter entered the club, however, Music eyed him and waved.

The newest patron looked around to see if someone was behind him before sheepishly waving back at the guitarist.

“Hey everybody,” Music said. “Ya’ll welcome the new guy. I’m gonna play his song … or at least the best part of his song.”

Music then proceeded to jump straight to the guitar solo from My Sharona.

Baxter was taken aback.

He wasn’t a huge fan of the 1979 song in its entirety, but he loved the guitar solo – so much so that often during his morning run he’d pop in his earbuds and play it on a continuous loop. There was something about the sound that made him forget about everything and feel a real sense of joy.

And now he was hearing it live, but why?

How did this old man know him? Perhaps the bigger question, though, was how did he know what to play?

Baxter listened intently until Music finished the song with a flourish – standing up at the end, taking a bow, and then slowly walking off the small stage and toward the table where Baxter was sitting.

“Baxter Layton,” he said, smiling broadly. “It’s about time you showed up.”

Now, he was freaking out. Music knows his song, and his name.

“I’m sorry,” Baxter said. “Have we met?”

Music reached over and gave him a gentle pat on the cheek, then plopped into a chair.

“We have now,” he said. “And I’ve known you for a long, long time. Kept an eye on you, too. You’re what … 60? You gotta good life and a good wife, but you’re still too afraid to live the solo.”

Baxter raised his eyebrows.

“Live the solo?” he asked. “What does that mean?”

Music leaned back and placed his hands behind his head.

“OK, that song, My Sharona, … it’s kinda repetitive, ain’t it?” Music said. “You got that hook and those tom-tom drum sounds. It’s fine, but it doesn’t really move you. But then – then that solo starts and you get happy … you get movin’ … you get inspired. You start to live a little! Nothing can stop you while that solo plays, just bouncing around in your head. But then it ends, and things start to repeat, and you just feel like that’s the way things are.

“Son, your life is a song, and everybody has a different one. But the livin’ part – the livin’ part has to be the part of the song you love. You got to live your life like it’s the guitar solo from My Sharona. You’ve got to find your beat … find your jam.”

Baxter looked at Music and could tell the man was speaking with complete sincerity. And truthfully, those words were wise. He had spent much of life sweating the details, and his moments of joy seemed to be growing further and further apart. He had worried about, well, everything, for so long that it had become his default mode.

“Thanks for the advice, Music,” Baxter said. “Live like the guitar solo from My Sharona, huh? I’m not sure I know how to do that.”

Music clasped Baxter’s hand and gave it a firm shake.

“You’ll figure it out … your daddy figured it out when he listened to me play All Along The Watchtower and your grandaddy decided the best part of Johnny B. Goode was the best way to live. Shoot, you’re great-grandpappy couldn’t get enough of my version of Big Joe Turner’s song, Wee Baby Blues, and he got along just fine in the big, bad world.”

Baxter gave Music a side-eye.

“Come on, Music,” he said. “You couldn’t have known my great-grandfather. You’re, uh, chronologically challenged, but you can’t be that ancient.”

The old man cackled.

“Son, I’m Music,” he said. “Music lives forever, and like my old friend Beethoven said, ‘Music can change the world.’ I just try to help people find their beat.”

Baxter watched Music head back to the stage, grab his guitars, and move toward the club’s rear exit. Surely this was all some sort of dream; when he woke up the next morning, he’d have a vague memory of an old man giving him a life lesson, along with a raging hangover.

It all seemed real, though, right up until the lights on the hot pink flashing sign went dim and the Reverie Lounge suddenly resembled nothing more than a brick wall.

“Too much to drink,” Baxter muttered to himself as he glanced at the empty street. “And too much to think.”

The Uber pulled up to the corner in short order, and Baxter climbed in the back of the Honda Accord.

He had to laugh, because the timing was perfect; the song on the radio was My Sharona, and it was 2:41 in … just in time for the guitar solo.

“Hey,” Baxter said to the driver, “would you mind cranking that up? That’s my jam.”