Man in the window

Kurt Cobain at the Gibson Store in Seattle

The mans had shook as he handed me the pen to sign the receipt. He was nervous. The guy in the window was playing a vintage guitar and wailing with a conviction of a rock star. The guitar shop was the only one in Seattle that had a jaw harp and I had been dropped off by a sales partner and had an hour to kill before our next appointment. Friday January 7th 1994.

The frost on the ground crunched on the fancy dress shoes. My salesmen partner had dropped me off from it was a little after 9 am about two blocks away from the shop. He had another errand to run as well and we agreed to meet in about 45 minutes. It was the closest music shop in town that had a jaw harp. I had called ahead the evening before to check hours and availability. The frosty barren side walks along with coastal wind swirling the black suit absorbing as much Sun as it could. It was a cold two blocks and the brisk walk felt good.

The little chimes on the door opened revealing the warm scent of wood and some kind of heat above the swirling chilly upper 30s outside. The music shop was full of eye candy that enveloped the senses with choices left or right. I quietly chose right. What a cool place to burn 45 minutes, I thought. Slowly moving to the back where the wall of guitars were. I picked one up and analyzed the tuning and the beautiful notes. I was in a suit. Not your typical guitar playing wear as I plunked out a little ditty listening carefully at the tonal changes. The vague and illusive value of great tonal quality was beginning to form. The red bearded shop keeper was taking inventory or checking stock and just listening. Never bothering to engage and just let his presence be known; detached yet interested.

I was on the second or third guitar when the door chimed. There was some exchange of words with the shop keeper and a short cryptic discussion on comparison of three guitar or models softly cut the silence. The conversation obviously based on a previous discussion of like and impression and of a high level like artists talking about color or technique. My guitar playing was over feeling my amateur level sink in and enjoying the tonal experience I searched for the jaw harps. It took a while, looking at picks and finally finding the jaw harps as the Sun coming in through the large display window facing a vacant lot lit up the whole place almost instantly.

The racket started after some quick odd tuning checks and some odd chord progressions. The guitar sung with a quality and tonality that was stunning. Elegant sound filled the quiet room. Then it went full on, the character on the guitar got so excited about the sound he got up in the window head slightly bowed knees bent wailing in the Sun. It is an impression that stuck in my mind to this day. The chords sounded familiar words vaguely familiar as well. The timing was perfect the pitch was slightly off yet complete. The feeling of someone letting go of everything and putting his full heart and soul into the sound the words even if it was just one verse was impressive and inspiring. The incident rattled me. Saying to myself, I am here in a black suit on a Friday morning full of a my pretenses and conditions and insecurities only to have them wiped clean by example in less than a few minutes. I was thankful and shaken, deeply shaken.

At the counter I asked the shop keeper for a few picks and was paying for the jaw harp when the character sauntered over and struck up a short conversation with the shop keeper about coming back latter. The young character took a long look at me in my suit. I felt awkward and like overalls and the smell of hay would be more appropriate. I quickly mentioned i could not place the band name of the song he just played and then both of them looked at me like I said something wrong. No words. The character asked me where I was from. Colorado on a sales trip I said. You? Aberdeen, WA.

My mother was from Aberdeen, I said. I apologized for the way I was dressed and said this is the only place that had a jaw harp and that I was using it for the weekly family jam session and it was and extra instrument for drop in folks and friends and I liked the kind of zany tone it made. It might help with the groove I said feeling a little more out of the hole I was in earlier. The two guys relaxed and character seemed to understand the dynamic instantly. It was felt not said. No words. Like he had devoured the meaning way before it was said revealing an obtuse intelligence I considered way above average. I wondered if he was high yet it was still way before noon and his eyes were clear and sharp. He asked me if he could ask a question. I said sure. The question was related to relationships.

In response, I said we have Art night on Thursdays and we have Jam night typically on Sunday nights just about every weekend after noon if someone is practicing or gathering. These activities bonded us through individual expression I said and gives us all an appreciation of each other that we would not normally experience. The rhythm and melodies and the additive nature of the different contributions by people, what they bring to the table, was important to the sound. Of additional significance was the time to communicate and banter about what was good and what was off. There was an invariable nod of understanding. I was writing my phone number when the cell phone in my pocket rang. My ride was here. Call me anytime with questions I said as we departed.

The salesman was waiting. With the jaw harp happy in hand and an unforgettable morning the day of scheduled sales calls awaited. Forward never straight. Internally I was feeling the significance of the event there was no way to even express what just happened or even talk about the event. It was cool, magical, I felt free and different.