Watching A Concert From My Parents’ Early Parenthood

You know the scene. Primary, multi-colored lights spot a dark stage. The bassist, loose ponytail draping his shoulder, eases into some false harmonics on his fretless fingerboard. Percussion — light percussion — dancing through splashes of chimes and soft echoes of bongos, segue into the inevitable siren song of the alto sax, played masterfully by a man, strained as his face may be, so effortlessly that you write off the pastel blazer he is wearing as the only logical aesthetic. There are backup singers, just shadows on risers for now, swaying to the overture like it is producing a breeze. And indeed their silky blouses flow to the rhythm, a preview of the show to come. Then on to the stage comes the star — a broad smile on his face marking his territory. He’s a hero. Known to everyone. Easy and smooth. Confidence on his face as he looks into the crowd shrouded in dark, illuminated by the occasional flickering lighter in the listless amphitheater air, like he can see everyone, and connect with them, yet, he can see no one. Cue the song that everyone will sing along to, and another, and another, until the greatest hits album, volumes 1 AND 2, are completed.