A friend traveled across the country to attend a concert by his favorite band. I was amazed, that he wanted to be there enough to make the effort. I cannot picture doing that. 

 

But recently there was a concert across my small town that I was excited about. The admission price was low, parking was free, and there were even refreshments. As chance would have it, John and I sat in the front row, affording me a view of the guitarist's fingers. They danced with incredible speed and precision across the fret board, even lingering above the hole.

 

Andres Segovia said it well. 

 

"The guitar is a small orchestra. It is polyphonic. Every string is a different color, a different voice." 

 

The rainbow of feelings this man coaxed from his small guitar left all of us wanting more. Some pieces were from Argentina, with deep passion and fire. Others expressed "ebullient joy" as he said in an introduction. Several were by French composers, with elegant emotions. 

 

But really, I should stop talking. Words are like concrete blocks, when trying to convey music. 

 

Yet here I am. 

 

I smiled to realize that there was no need to translate. Parisian music, and Venezuelan pieces are not held back by definitions. Hearts speak in one language. 

 

He told me that he fell in love with the guitar when he first played it at the craftsman's studio. The wood was light, made of maple. I noticed that any of the people in the room could purchase a similar guitar and bring it home. Yet none of us could spill such gorgeous and seemingly endless music. Owning is not enough. 

 

He pampered the strings using the tuning pegs. turning them to adjust the pitch between songs, and sometimes between measures. I know barely enough about the tension to understand that there is a sweet spot. Loosen it, and a slack string does not sing. An overly taut one snaps. He told us that the humidity floating through the window influences the strings, and they asked for frequent attention to perform as he wanted. 

 

There was a point when he hinted about stopping, and we begged for more. It seems that there is not a limited or even quantifiable amount of music stored within a guitar. He did not need to be stingy, saving some for the next day. 

 

At the risk of cluttering a perfect evening with comparison, it does seem rather like how love works.