The Death of Musician

1-2.03.2000

He’s tired
He's drinking his rum at the kitchen,
The tap’s making noise, haven’t been turned off,
And here has already come the daylight…
How sick one can feel now and then.

                Ist Veredlund Moglich?
                (F.Nietzsche)

And at night there it goes again: cars & bars, something like friends & the cheapest brands of port, stone-cold women & the rain that never stops, a smoking-concert in a smoky tavern, where somebody’s wheezing out, a piano-out-of-tune is unsuccessfully tortured to take “Fa”, & a cigar smoke wrapped everything around up so densely that you can touch it. And when the ecstatic musician plays his solo over his tenor-sax, it’s not even a solo, it’s a chaotic set of sounds (can think a person never really mixed with God), but it’s the Truth that’s behind the sounds. It goes through him, comes out through his pores together with his sweat, & only when he falls down having lost his power, you’ll get – He’s GOD. Today you’ve seen the God , & He played for you. It isn’t important that he has no house, no good & neat clothes, that he’s as drunk as you are… He may – He’s GOD. And you sit down at his table, & begin speaking about your being pleased at his today’s playing, about your sitting petrified with your mouth open, about your eagerly hanging on every note, every overtone he brought into the world with his instrument. You’re speaking about muses, about inspiration, about everything else, & He’s listening to you, making a gulp & listening, inhaling & listening. All this is of no importance for him, as he’s already been dead. He dies every day not knowing for whom: whether for those, who sometimes pay him his fee with drinking & dwelling, or those like you – who’s sitting, drinking & listening to him. You’re killing Him. And then languidly go to the next whiskey bar, & so on, & so on, & drink yourselves with cheap port or expensive brandy – never mind – to unconsciousness. Within a night one person like you can kill 5-10 men of genius like Him.

- Hey, waiter, two beer! – that’s your condemn to them, they are doomed to play their souls out in front of insolent, chewing snouts with fat-shining cheeks & triple chins.

It’s YOU who KILLED HIM. GOTT IST TOT. You murdered Him. You, Me & those, who are going to his funeral ceremony.

What does he represent them? An old, dirty Negro with a sax, but without a home, with a Spirit, but without relatives & in general without friends. Nobody will recall him later. GOD died alone & obscure, as always – He wasn’t believed.

- Hey, waiter, another pint!…