Mid-morning teh tawar manis—black sugarless tea—on a Chinese corner across from Beringharjo. Chairs with backs & high tables; good lighting & fans.  

After so long in Singapore, the absence of the Chinese in Central Java was striking. Faris the Arizonan convert had made an unavoidable point earlier in the morning on the return from the music school a short distance off Sosrowijayan. With his mounting dental problems, soft food was essential for Faris. The sign for bubur he had spied in passing. 

We had popped into the stall on the way out and returned after his performance, only to find the common Chinese blankness at the encounter with a stranger. At the stove, the woman had not only paid Faris no regard, quickly turning aside, but there had also been a kind of scowl flashed. Something that was not to be countenanced.  

I’m not going to accept that. Faris turned on his heels and allegroed down the steps.  

The not uncommon reception from the wary Chinese was in marked contrast to the ready and generous Indos at virtually any encounter. It prompted Faris to recall the terror at the fall of Soeharto. 

A room opposite the reception desk at another generic hotel turned out to be the music school Faris had mentioned a number of times. Piano one side and two electric keyboards opposite, in what was a disappointingly dark, drab, corner annexe. The high ceiling was some saving grace.  

Approaching his mid-seventies, Faris carried a paunch that accentuated his heavy tread. Melanomas had long threatened his pale skin, and the last of the teeth were going. (Poor maintenance in earlier years was owned.)

Whereupon seating himself at the keys in this shabby space, a young, energetic, and astoundingly nimble sprite suddenly leapt out, as if from behind a fern. 

A Rameau improvisation had been developed decades back by the talented young pianist and his teacher. There were racing passages, feinted returns, virtuoso dashes, and plunges into sudden depths. The sweep of the movement, its intricacy and force, took a listener away on a breathless chase. One sat high in the chair listening to that extraordinary elan.

After the Rameau from the eighteenth century, the program progressed steadily in the direction of the present. Among some unidentifiable others, two Beethovens and a Schubert were included before Faris rounded back to Mozart for the finale. In the event the piece might be found a little corny, an apology preceded the Fur Elise.  

Schubert recalled Brahms’ love for his friend’s wife, Clara. Being a gentleman, Johannes had restrained himself, channeling his feelings into his music, Faris explained. Closely acquainted with unrequited love himself, as was shortly to emerge again in the days ahead, Faris infused his interpretations with the ache of a lifetime.  

In early days, Beethoven had been Faris’s favourite; since that time, the colossus had been replaced by Mozart, who gave some little trouble that morning.  

The small room barely contained all that swelling force unleashed by the Arizonan convert, at Rp25,000 for the half hour. On entry, it had been assumed the owner of the hotel indulged the old man, providing access to the instrument. It was a small sum to provide for the privilege of the performance. The artistic journey had left Faris chronically short of funds.

Outside, returning via the bubur stall, the treacherous, broken pavement needed to be negotiated, piles of soft volcanic dirt in a number of places, and pungent fumes from the road. None of which had been apparent earlier.  

It was often like that after the music, Faris enigmatically reported, in a remark that set one thinking. 

Faris had forgotten his mask and cap at the hotel. 2014, well before the Pandemic, of course. For a number of years, Faris had been using a mask against the traffic in Indonesia. Many of the beautiful old becaks were beginning to convert to motorisation, something which Faris decried, and it only added to the fumes, of course.

 

          Yogyakarta, Indonesia

 

*

Rain     Drops

              Keep Fallin’

                                        On

                                                 My

                                                          Head

Followed by,

 

                              What the World — 

                                                                        Needs                Now…

 

Mid-afternoon, Orchard Kinokuniya. For the notation, the store pen at the stationery was deployed. 

There had been rain in the morning and showers later, one distinct grenade of refreshing humus rising from the ground somewhere along the way. It may have been the Haig carpark beneath a tree up on one of the islands, when the path at the end was taken in order to avoid another pass of the funeral party of Hadramis at Block 11. Daunting that gathering, almost as bad as if they had been Palestinians.

In the case of the spattering of drops in the store, the flesh of the brain seemed more exposed somehow.

Before being able to make an exit at Kino, after a pause in the queue by the cashier, the original, unremastered, What’s New, Pussy Cat? rounded out the musical offering. 

(One might actually have guessed it, or something similar in a Singaporean mall.)

Wow…..Wow-Wow…..Wow, wow.

There were hidden, high-fidelity speakers nearby. 

Stretching credulity one perfectly well understands. Entirely understandable. 

Nevertheless, such was the program that afternoon over the lazy heads of perhaps eight or ten dozen book-lovers in that particular quarter of the store, absorbing it all without any noticeable effect. No twitch or shudder visible on any side. Perfect ease.

In the standard rendition of the first the vocalist was unknown. Second was the Burt Bacharach and last the inimitable Tom, shirt unbuttoned to the navel and frilly panties raining down from all sides. Wow Wow Wow.

Nada. Not a flicker. The trio had been absorbed like candy, sweetmeats or chocolate. Nature lovers traipsed through gardens of buttercups in this same fashion. Here along the curved aisles, the mounted pastel product was in fact not dissimilar.

And that was not the end of it either at Kino. More was to follow. 

A serious snag had developed in the queue, lapsed member’s card at the counter, it seemed. The lady was purchasing a stack of unidentifiable colourful titles, children’s series, or mystery possibly. It would be a hike to the car in the basement.

Cooling the heels only briefly after that lot, there followed a kind of warning or challenge suddenly confronting us shoppers. Quite unexpected again, especially following the concert.

The Way We Die Now. Inexplicable warning from high on a shelf. It may have been fire-engine red cover.

After some of the violent eruptions of late in the shopping precincts of various global cities, one could not help a little start.

Immediately adjacent too in some kinda implicit pairing, another missive added concern.

When Breath Becomes Air.

…Body temperature presumably, rather than hot. 

Upper case 60 point face out on the top shelf of the Highlights stand that made a large island in the passage. A seasoned bookman was left flabbergasted.

Bodilo oci, the Serbs say. Pricking the eyeballs.

No doubt there was some better reason between the covers in the case of the books at least.

 

  *

 

This other afternoon a recess in the ceiling of the reference section at Kino had one firmly rooted to the spot. It had taken a while locating the speaker, as the volume was low and the voice riding the hubbub. At first the sound seemed to be coming from a mounting of luxury signature pens like President Trump used for executive orders. Some glinting light emitted behind the glass too from the gold clips and points. Later, after a short hunt, a second speaker in the same aisle was found, barely audible for some reason. Thought had been after the KV lunch and printing at Peace Centre, a quick reconnoiter for a volume of old TuFu. Sometimes confusingly rendered DuFu, the poor girl at the info desk needed to be informed. There was nothing of David Hinton’s translations; that had been established a couple of weeks ago. Only his Analects and I Ching, both previously purchased. Some hope that the largest bookstore of English holdings, at least in SE Asia, might turn up the Tang star. TuF had been rendered by a couple of previous notables—fair chance you might have thought in Singapore, steady sales ticking over. Kinokuniya had been downsized a few years before, usual victims involved. If you were seeking motivational, entrepreneurial, investment gurus, biz management & strategy, conservative histories, mysteries, colouring-in books, comics, celebrity, cook books, photography, design, more photography & design, you had come to the right place, all cards accepted at the register. The great helmsman LKY’s shelves alone could not have been sent up in smoke with less than three molotovs, not a chance, forget it. Man was hardly dead; only symbolically & figuratively. (The feud between the PM and his younger sister & bro over accusations of political exploitation in the use of the father of the nation’s passing had been hosed down of late, all hush-hush in-family.) They had stocked TuFu once upon a time; sold out now, lass conveyed apologetically. She could not be quizzed on the history—it was not possible to punish innocents for the sins of the elders. No. Too bad. Good selection of gel pens in stationery, including 0.8s at $3.10, comparable to Art Friend & Popular. On the shelves there among all the inferior biros and all the weighty navy tomes at Reference adjacent, in the midst of parents with their children, out of thin air, one was suddenly hallowed by Pavarotti early trailblazers. First, like a flash of sun in deepest jungle, O Sole Mio’s rhythmic swelling started up. Quanno fa notte e ‘o sole se ne scenne… It was followed without pause immediately after by Ritorno a Soriento. Shiver. Shiver once more. Gee! Here was a chance to show the locals one’s cultivated, superior taste. Almost word for word with the big man & phrasing to perfection. The little jail-bait schoolgirl’s mum in the aisle might have gotten entirely the wrong idea. Strange in the Asian—more or less—locale, receiving those melodies, those exhalations from the great bellows. The fact the maestro had been dead all these years now perhaps added feeling—gone the way of Caruso, Lanza, Bjorling, &etc. That short stretch of water from the bays of Boka Kotorska over to Bari, down to Brindisi, Sicily and up on the other side to Napoli. Sorrento itself might get a quick squizz, without stopping. Thirty-five years ago there had been no malls in Napoli; in the old town near the water there might still be none, perhaps. Minimum of ornamental trees & shrubs. The mafia there would be a sight better than the entrenched tropical kind that could not be ousted from the political stage for the next hundred years. There was almost as much street prostitution in Napoli as Geylang; no fool would pay for indoor theatre. Fourteen or sixteen hours away for little over a grand. With the usual shuttering for the morning during Ramadan, it had been Starbs for the early cafe & scribble. As the customers piled into the OneKM outlet nearing lunchtime, the volume had gone up on the pitter-patter remastered golden oldies & prairie ballads. That flustering and churning in the guts had something to do with the effect a few hours later of big Lucy standing tall and letting fly. 

 

        Kinokuniya, Singapore 

 

*

In the days when music could still be received it had been strange hearing from Al that he could not risk listening to classical music. It would only produce tears, Al had memorably explained. Of course the old Blues man was not kidding. Highly striking back then, hearing it and difficult to find a response. Even now it was difficult to explain finding oneself in rather an analogous position. In this case it was not the fear of tears that prevented the listening to music, but something like an exhausting of the medium. Yes, indeed, strangest of turnarounds. Uncanny you might say. What exactly had transpired? Bab’s passing was one significant factor; losing a parent one does not go on the same. In the last decade and more there had been some YouTube blasts of Maria Call & Jussi Bjorling, especially at mini triumphs. The more noteworthy publications, for example, had been something to mark. Now and then that could send one back to the musical realm. In fact, a little blast of Maria was almost enough to produce tears on those occasions, the opening solo of Casta Diva, for example, and her O mio babbino caro. The Pearl Fishers duet with Jussi more than once had proved overwhelming. Plato had famously banned music from his Republic; the dangerous delirium, all that unhinged Dionysian lunacy, had been well understood from way, way back. When the undercover narks had followed the car home one afternoon after the regular sitting with Al and the others at the Williamstown café, a search indoors had been requested. There had been no warrant, but the guys had asked politely enough. After a few minutes one of the cops had enquired after the music unit. Where was the ghetto blaster? The chaps were rather dumbfounded. A stash was often kept in a cavity of the players, presumably. Good gear went with the soothing fave songs piping into the ear, as one reclined on the bean bag on the floor, curtains drawn. What, no music? No radio or CD??… Even back in those days the great artists could no longer deliver their punch. Those days were gone, unlikely ever to return. The concert hall had always presented its own problems; always a challenge abstracting the music, the pure aural essence, from the trappings of the secular temple with all its frippery. A few years ago the young John had sprung an ambush in the favourite student café in Yogyakarta with All My Loving suddenly pouring from overhead speakers. The golden oldie in that particular locale that evening had voiced like a solemn pledge, a kind of prayer that had not always been the case decades earlier. The new café in Leeds Street, run by the young hipster Lee, often played fine, easy tunes on the turntable. Sometimes after a morning’s labour these gave reminders. George was mining material on YouTube and trying it out occasionally on his resistant friend. Other muso friends had done likewise. Two years before on the last return to the land of Oz, Veki had made a compilation of the old, long forgotten faves from our early teen years. Mighty strange experience that one.