Brook Street Jam

A statue of two men – one plays a harpsichord,
The other one leans as he noodles a guitar.
His lead, I notice, is plugged-into the keyboard,
His fingers on the neck in a c-sharp bar.
Two blokes lost in the moment, forever –
George with his collar loosened at the throat,
With multiple strings of borrowed beads,
And his arms pulled-out from the sleeves of his coat.
Jimi, meanwhile, has hitched-up his kaftan on one side,
To access the pocket of his jeans –
With a periwig perched atop his wild hair,
And purple boots (though the colour can’t be seen).
A little-bit larger than life-size, of course,
But with no cordon or pedestal here –
So easy, so pleasing, to reach out and touch them –
The impossible past has never felt so near !
The people like to pose and the pigeons like to perch,
And the verdigris and lichen are a psychedelic stain.
No plaque or explanation – we know who they are,
As they’re basked in the sun and they’re washed in the rain.
Their eyes are open, but surely unseeing,
Pointing at the keys or looking at the sky –
Communing with their muse, as if she is their singer,
To an audience of shoppers who hurry on by.
One wonders what they might ever have talked about,
Between the numbers, on languid nights –
With George very much the establishment man,
And Jimi outspoken on civil rights.
From diff’rent eras and diff’rent generations,
Baroque versus blues – yet they’re finding a way –
The statue, of course, is eternally silent,
And leaves it to the viewer to hear what they play.

In truth, Jimi only lived in the flat three months, but it’s still tempting to wonder what they might have said if a mixture of time travel and hallucinogens had brought them together. Both immigrants, both musicians, but there the comparisons pretty much end. Yet sometimes, it’s worth finding some common ground for the sake of a good tune...