He was dressed all in black, wore spectacles and looked like a kindly grandfather with an elegant British accent and a touch of mischief in his eyes. The standing room only audience was enchanted with him.
He didn't so much play the guitar as caress it, fingertips moving delicately across the strings with ease and grace, hands in perfect synchronicity. He was one with the instrument and it responded to his touch with a cultured and soft voice. It was like watching poetry, notes flowing and blending one to another, like a river or a very gentle waterfall. It was music without lyrics, without flaws, and without pretensions.
In between, he spoke in soft tones of England, of his children and grandchildren, of his wife from Wales, of the origins of the music. His mouth moved in the direction of a smile without ever fully arriving but his eyes, peering over his glasses were alight with laughter and love. His humor was dry, well educated and soft spoken but true and it rippled through the small room without effort. His facial expressions reflected wisdom, satire, good naturedness, tolerance and affection. He was a musician's musician and he shared his gift with a roomful of strangers openly and without reservation. His music was well bred and beautiful but it embraced us all. During the break, I listened as the crowd marveled at his performance, He looks like a chubby Keebler elf, I heard a local artist remark, but he plays like he has magic in his soul, and from another photographer, If Fred Astaire had been a musician instead of a dancer, this is how he'd have sounded.
The gentleman from England had won ever heart in the room.
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