Music and Anonymity

Take a moment, if you would, and walk through the streets of Oxford with me. Cross a bridge over the canal, down a crowded sidewalk, passing by old, red brick, nicely painted siding, and large windows. Turn down a pedestrian way, stepping onto the round, hard stones of an old cobbled street. An ancient saxon tower stands sentry before us. The first glimpses of the famed dreamy spires peek out in the distance. Touristy shops full of University paraphernalia and identical sets of postcards flank us on either side. The morning light filters softly through the rows of buildings. The smell of roasting coffee wafts from the direction of a kiosk set up near an ancient church. A slowly growing crowd of people walks swiftly along in a babbling human current. This is a busy quarter of Oxford. It’s touristy. It mixes ancient charm with souvenir shops selling cheap renditions of the same.

But listen. Some of the shops may be playing bumping radio hits. A siren might wail in the distance. A constant murmur of conversation certainly fills the air. Yet above all this, clear and calling, a haunting and intricate melody on guitar reaches us from an amp on the corner. The man playing the guitar sits on the amp, a knit cap on his head and a canvas guitar bag lying on the ground in front of him, covered in coins.

The skillfully played classical guitar piece reminds me of my sister. So we’ll get a coffee from the kiosk, which is right behind the place on the sidewalk where the man sits playing. It’s an excuse to sit at one of their tables and stay awhile.

Now and then the music stops as people speak with the guitar player. He is not your typical streetside musician. He is really very good. One older gentleman with white hair and a tweed jacket holds a longer conversation with him, shows a great appreciation for the guitarist’s music.

This makes me wonder. Should I go up and speak to him as well? I could ask his name, tell him I’m thinking about writing this blog post. I could post a video online and it could go viral and he could become a famous and celebrated musician. (Laughing at myself for this thought process all the while.)

I think of Edith Piaf, think about the artist discovered; the blaze of high fortune; the cruelty of fame. I think about, in contrast, the romance of anonymity.

Sitting there, listening, the anonymity casts a spell. Not knowing the name of the guitarist, not knowing where he’s been or where he’s played his music before, or why he plays on the street corner, the mind dismisses such earthly matters and focuses on the ethereal music.

After some time (perhaps forty minutes), we finally toss away our coffee cup and give up our table to someone else. We drop our own pound coins onto the man’s guitar bag. In the end, the only words spoken are:

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

And other than that, only smiles are exchanged.

I continually encountered music in Oxford. One day, while perusing books at Blackwell’s, I followed an announcement to listen to fun and truly impressive duets performed (between bookshelves) by a pair of violinists promoting the chamber music festival. That same evening, I attended a concert of concertos and symphonic pieces at a university church.

A contest-winning pianist performed the concertos, one who toured Rhapsody in Blue over the summer with the London Concert Orchestra. (Viv McLean, if you’re interested in looking him up.) His performance was not anonymous, certainly. But did it ever have romance!

He played the piano like a painter painting with watercolors. The notes bled together, stirring transcendent emotion. At times tears came to my eyes, at the end I found myself holding my breath.

He was really that good.

When the applause came at the end of his performance, I did not even think about fortune or fame, or to what extent both may grow for this musician someday. I thought only of the music. Perhaps, like many things, it is the absence of recognition that causes us to think so seriously about recognition. Anonymity itself led me to contemplate fame. But while anonymity creates a romance of the beautiful yet indistinct, a curiosity for the unknown, perhaps it is also possible to forget the identity of a musician because of the music. Perhaps it is possible for the romance of the music to create its own anonymity.

Out of a scholarly place such as Oxford, one should think we ought to learn something in all of this.

Then again, sometimes wisdom begs us to forego the learning of any literal lessons.

The best thing to do, sometimes, is simply listen.