That stuff never leaves you

It’s really hard to explain how much music means to you, because it seems like only those who feel the same can ever understand.

Loads of people ‘like’ music, but some are music people. For them, music is more than just something fun to dance to, something to motivate you in the gym or something to drown out the noise on the daily commute. Music to them is something visceral, a love that is very hard to express but very simple, obvious and real.

The next little anecdote probably seems inconsequential. It is. But for me it is also a beautiful reminder that music, and love of music, transcends us.

A few months back I was walking to a gig rehearsal at my bandmate’s house, lugging my tenor sax in the sunshine along the high street. At the time I was using a really old, plastic handheld case with a really shitty handle that cuts into your hands and leaves your palms feeling like you’ve been running them along a cheese grater. With my other hand I was just about holding on to my broken bag, which contained a five hundred page book of jazz standards so hefty that the straps of the flimsy canvas bag had torn off about ten minutes into the half hour walk, forcing me to balance it precariously on my arm.

I was running late, wearing too many layers for the sunshine and feeling hot, flustered and grumpy.

As I crossed a road, a guy on a bike waiting at the light, probably about 50, shouted something at me.

“Alto?”

My natural response to people shouting on the street is to walk on purposefully and pretend I don’t hear it. So ingrained is this habit that I automatically do it before I’ve even registered what the person is saying. On this occasion, though, I sensed it was okay to turn around.

He was wearing a massive Rasta hat and John Lennon glasses, one hand on the handlebars and the other pointing at my case.

“Tenor!”

“Oh really? Yamaha?”

This time it took me a few seconds to work out what he’d said.

“Yep!”

“52?” (He was guessing which model it was.)

“32.”

I have quite an old tenor saxophone and I adore it. I played alto saxophone for about 8 years, but altos don’t have the gravelly, crackly soul of the tenor. Altos squeak, tenors growl. When I left school, I had to say goodbye to my saxophone teacher after seeing him once a week for eight years. He’d taught me from scratch, and we’d just spent my final year listening to Charlie Parker’s ‘Donna Lee’ solo on repeat. I’d play it over and over again until I could finally do it full speed. I told him I’d like to buy a tenor, and he said he’d look out for any on sale locally. Then he texted me to say that, in fact, he’d got a tenor himself sitting around that’d he love me to take. I have never gone back to my alto.

“Oh nice! How long you been playing?”

“About 10 years!” The lights are amber now and I’m worried the van behind him is about to thunder into the back of his bike.

“That’s beautiful, that is. You play any Coltrane?”

“Yeah, a bit.” The light’s now green and the van behind is moving and I’m half turning round to continue my walk. I like Coltrane. I love ‘My Favorite Things’. It’s a haunting, manic take on the song from the Sound of Music.

“That’s beautiful. Love Supreme is my favourite. That stuff never leaves you.”

He really has to move now; there’s no more time for conversation, though we both wish there was. The driver of the van is yelling something and beeping the horn. I’m scared I’m about to witness an accident. The guy on his bike looks behind him, flashes me an enormous smile and finally heads off down the road.

To be a music person is to be genuinely excited by music. Not just hearing music, but the prospect of music. The idea of it. How else could you explain why a complete stranger could take obvious pleasure in seeing someone else enjoying music, and feel compelled to share their favourite record with them. He didn’t know who I was and I didn’t know who he was, and we would never see each other again. But he still wanted to share music with me.

I was no longer in a bad mood and I set off again with renewed energy. My rehearsal went really well and I left feeling optimistic about our upcoming gigs. I couldn’t stop smiling to myself about the meeting at the crossing. It’s really hard to explain to people how much music means to you, because it seems like only those who feel the same can ever understand. Music becomes a friend, a partner and a mirror. It isn’t something you listen to; it’s something you feel. And that stuff never leaves you.