13 June 2020. Concertina on Miramar.
It’s soon after we've done our three songs--the pattern, since mid-March. Always a surprise to my more impulsive self—hey, three songs is just getting going--but music is shared, and my cohort is strangely rigorous on this point. It's a neuekoronafest, after all. We gather at the other end of the block--near Capistrano, sunny at 6pm, the appointed time. Csilla and John sometimes come out with little Andros--barely a year old, but his tiny man-like stance still comes as a surprise. The way he looks on, too--a part of the circle…
Right after, everyone's headed back to their respective lairs, so I turn towards my own end of the block. No longer bound by melodies borrowed from Beatles (Let It Be has turned into Dr. Fauci), which I've actually enjoyed, being what, say half a century behind the times? And Tanya and Dave (our principles) are quite good melodists, so they keep my on my toes. "A new challenge" would be the operative phrase--they say it's good for you.
The fact is, Burt Bacharach (What the World Needs Now) is something I'm delighted to have learned. Always associated it (much too easily) with its mood music versions. And Bill Withers' Lean on Me (thank you, Tanya)—it just doesn't get better...
So, I walk along, continuing to play, but as I get closer to home, it's the Russian songs that re-emerge. Left them too long ago, maybe eternally. Always forget the way they're a part of me. Like the snow-flurry arpeggios at the beginning of Stary Klën (in the Soviet film, Devchata)--played on a garmon, the Russian accordion--and then the voices of tiny Nadezhda Rumiantzeva and her beau, Nikolai Rybnikov, walking together in the snow. We're somewhere in the Russian hinterland--a Soviet logging camp--and the set is a total concoction, but that's part of the charm--also essentially Russian... I don't know what this means, really—that is, I could never explain it. But it all goes straight to my heart…
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I think of Klara, and her mother, dear Zoya--both from Moscow. Those evenings together, at Jack's--they made these songs possible. (I’d walk in, see dear Klara's beaming face, then make my way across the hall to Zoya's room--tiny, ancient--but her smile, when we see each other--so beautiful.)
I've been an imperfect friend. How is this possible? How is this now not possible? Reach out while we can...
