No Cover- If You Play Your Instrument Tonight.

*** “No cover- if you play your instrument tonight.” *** (#StorytellingSalemStory #999,986 out of 1mil:)

🎶So I’ve been travelling across the country—
town to town/city to city/State to State;
sitting down in random locations—
across this Nation— with a whiteboard in my haaand;
I’ve been asking pplllll:
“What’s Yor Story?”🎶

And when I was in Salta, Argentina, sitting near the stone steps of Plaza 9 de Julio where the palm trees lean lazy over worn-down-cobblestone-paths and the air smells like grilled meat and sweet café, a woman in a dusty red scarf, carrying a bundle of herbs and old tango records, looked and read what was written upon my whiteboard; then started to share:

⸻

**“Ay, vos sos curioso, eh? Bueno, sit there. I tell you something.

Mi abuelo, he used to run a little Peña—a music hall—for folk musicians, just ‘bout a ten-minute walk from here. It had a crooked roof, a dog who never barked, and a sign so faded you could only read it if the sun hit it just right.

And every Thursday night, without fail, he’d get dressed like it was the Pope visiting. Black pants, starched white shirt, hair combed straight back with lemon water. Then he’d open the doors, turn on the backlights of the bar; and let anyone with an instrument step inside. ‘No cover- if you play your instrument that night.’

But there was this one kid—Martíín—from the hills above ChicoAAna. Tiny little thing, barely twelve. Came in with a homemade violin, held together with fishing line and rosary beads. Played like he was born with fantasmas (ghosts) in his fingertips; & had silver-colored-eyes to match.

People cried when he played, and he -hated- that.

Said to my abuelo, one day,
‘Why do they cry? I don’t want them sad.’

And mi abuelo—he looks at the boy and says, ‘They’re not crying at you nene.. You’re successfully telling them a story- that only they can internally understand. Interpreted a thousand different times by each person listening.
If you can control what your instrument sings, along with playing these difficult themes; you can influence humanity’s reactions- just through your beat.’

Years pass. Martíín stops showing up. War started, soldiers came, families moved. We never saw him again.

But… twenty-three years later—I’m not making this up che—a man walks into the peña. Tall, beard like a shepherd, carrying a real violin this time. He don’t say a word. Just opens the case, tunes it, and starts to play.

And everybody—everybody—just starts to grow a smile.

We have a rule at La Peña:
‘~If you play music that makes our ppl smile?
Your first drink’s on me~ so please- take a while~”
& I really think it was him; when I gave him his espresso.
Older, harder, but definitely more grown inside.

But the music & how he saw ppl?
Fantasmas!
Still in his fingers & his eyes!

I didn’t see him again; but that day after he got his free drink. He sat in silence for a bit; then played another tune for free. This one was loud happy then sad. It took everyone for a ride- before he made everybody start to cry.”

We have a rule at La Peña:
‘~If you play music that makes our ppl cry?
Your last drink’s on us~ so please~ get out~”
& I was too busy tearing up listening to his music to do anything so I missed my shot. He would take a few sips from his espresso in silence; and then play his violin again.

He kept doing this all hours of that night;
getting free drinks from us- as the cafe kept filling up from passerbyers stopping by.

People would chat n mingle, go on about their days; while in the background this violinist played.
He would tune himself into background sound, but controlled the melody of how the room felt that whole night.
He would keep it upbeat, and you could tell- the patrons were smiling and cheering; and everynow and then- he would get really heavy in his music. People in higher numbers would turn and watch; as a musician would play them -a song- from the heart. Their emotions would sway; even the machoisimo men had tears in their eyes.
It was music~
It was soul~
It was our boy Martíín from ChicoAAna-
Mi vecino- de la calle!

⸻

She adjusted her scarf like it carried the weight of the past and gave a half-smile that said, as she started to turn and walk away:

“Mi Abuelo-
he used to say-
‘We host La Peña for the Martíín(s) that come n go;
every day- when they walk with an instrument through that door.’

🎶& iii?
I stayed beneath the plaza palms,
grilled carne sizziling in the air,
whiteboard still asking:
“What’s Yor Story?”
waiting for the next
Señora/Señorx/Señor/Martíín
to walk my waaay~🎶

(#StorytellingSalemStory #999,986)