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Sport 32: Summer 2004
Sons, and their Fathers
Sons, and their Fathers
Terry Crayford also plays at Blondini's. You meet him this one time. You sit at the same table, and exchange some quite surprising confidences, and giggle. That stays with you, though at other gigs you don't really meet again; and also the two questions you asked him, one thirty seconds after you met, one three hours; and the identical naïve astonishment with which he answered both.
Jonathan is in one of his hysterically active moods. He is moving in that manic robotic way that reminds you of a duck, though you can't quite place why: in the end you decide it's the jerk in the way he moves his head when in this state, in the quirky splay in the way he places his feet. He waves one arm between the two of you distractedly, half-making introductions, as Terry idles before the ivory keys of the grand piano, as you hesitate before the dead microphone. Jonathan turns to keep winding cables, and Terry politely stands, accepting your proffered right hand.
—He must have been a nightmare as a toddler, you volunteer. Although perhaps it would have been less risky simply to say Hello.
Terry looks at you in astonishment. Oh no, he says, with absolute sweetness, with complete sincerity, still shaking your hand. —Oh no, he was wonderful. His pupils widen.
—Or: three hours later, both of you half-cut. You've been nice to his friends, he's been nice to yours, you've bought each other drinks. And now the music has claimed him. This man's involvement in the music is so deep you can watch him, closely, from inches away, from point blank range, not in your peripheral vision, not bothering to page 106 blink, not bothering to glance down, not bothering to smile. He watches his son play, fascinated.
The piece ends. The pianist's father turns, jerking his neck, ducking his head, placing his feet a little quirky, blinking shyly over the rim of his European beer, and turns to you. You say, so curious you've decided you're just going to risk it, Is he better than you?
Oh yes, Terry Crayford says, smiling vague and uninvolved around the room, like you've asked if he wonders if the sun comes up in the morning.
Do you mind? you say. And this time he does look at you, kind but unavoidably a little shocked, like you've asked if he enjoys seeing kittens chopped into smallish pieces, or picking his nose.
Oh, he says, sweet but embarrassed for you, for how much you just haven't got this. Oh no, he says. Oh no, of course not.
Brian de Grane, Quality Used Vehicles.
Bring your sons down to the yard: we'll get them selling within a week.
Etcetera.