runners. Still no one carrying a CD player or child's musical toy. And certainly no one with an instrument, let alone a Gillespie model.
If nothing more, he wanted to know where the music originated. Through the night he'd listened, trying to make sense of the melodies and rhythms. Despite the enchantment of it -- or maybe because of it -- any form or structure eluded him.
But the thrill that he might have captured something previously unheard raced through his blood. Sound men lived for such discoveries, and extracting it from a remote beach in a sleepy seaside town only made the mystery and improbability greater.
Then sun struck the water, rays of light spearing the thick Pacific mist . . . and the music ended.
The abrupt departure seemed as much a mystery as the sound to begin with. It didn't matter; he had it on file.
Jimmy packed up his equipment, and in the space of moments had left behind the endless turn of waves and dunes of sand for the tarmac of Highway 101.
A mile north he braked hard to a stop beside a yellow marquee announcing the sale of harmonica's, two for ten dollars. Max's Music Maven was a converted home with two music rooms and an adjoining apartment. Jimmy had met Vincent, the proprietor, just yesterday. His store hours written on a paper plate taped inside the window told him Vince opened at ten a.m. This couldn't wait three hours, so he rounded the side and found a door decorated with an endorsement sticker that read, "If it ain't Gibson, it ain't nothing."
This was the place.
Jimmy began knocking, and didn't stop.
Moments later, the door swung inward. Vincent stood in boxers, his pale skin stretched impossibly tight over ribs and shoulders. Thin, scraggly hair hung down in eyes that squinted in the strengthening light.
"We ain't open, man. Come back later."
"It can't wait," Jimmy said. "I need to ask you a few questions."
"Ah, crap, you're that new age ocean guy. Man, I'm not having this conversation at seven a.m. I told you yesterday, I'm not going to carry mood music in my place. Try the Dirty Lap Dog or something. I got a rep."
Jimmy would have smiled to hear it if he didn't have important questions to ask. "Never mind that. Listen, I've got something I want you to hear. It's not the same as yesterday."
"You're some piece of work. I don't let my lady in this early, and you think I'm letting you in?"
Unable to hold it back any longer, Jimmy blurted. "I just recorded your little beach at the end of the D River." He waited until the aging hippie looked him straight. "And I captured the sound of a trumpet playing a tune."
If the hippie had shown Jimmy any other response, he might have gotten back in his VW Beetle and drove away. What he saw instead was a suspicious eye peering from between kinky strands of hair.
That was all he needed to see. "You know about it? What the hell is it?"
The hippie left the door standing wide and retreated into the shadows of his one-room apartment. Taking it as an invite, Jimmy gladly followed.
Vincent poured some coffee from a pot still bearing the 7-Eleven insignia, which made perfect sense since the stainless steel coffee maker it sat in bore the same logo. To the left in the corner, a mattress lay flat on the ground; sheets and blankets balled up on one side. A Stratocaster lay beside the bed, a litter of picks strewn around it. The scent of mildew and cat litter mingled in the air with yesterday's cigarettes. Vince lifted his coffee mug in the direction of a door at the back of the room, and led Jimmy in to the music shop.
The main showroom -- nothing more than a fifteen by fifteen deal with a small selection of guitars and amplifiers -- stood in shadow. It was here yesterday that Jimmy had met Vince, this holdover from the sixties telling him that he didn't carry digital media for Jimmy's hard disk recorder. Vince had added that electronic gadgets weren't real music anyway. The flower child hadn't bothered to show Jimmy the second music
If nothing more, he wanted to know where the music originated. Through the night he'd listened, trying to make sense of the melodies and rhythms. Despite the enchantment of it -- or maybe because of it -- any form or structure eluded him.
But the thrill that he might have captured something previously unheard raced through his blood. Sound men lived for such discoveries, and extracting it from a remote beach in a sleepy seaside town only made the mystery and improbability greater.
Then sun struck the water, rays of light spearing the thick Pacific mist . . . and the music ended.
The abrupt departure seemed as much a mystery as the sound to begin with. It didn't matter; he had it on file.
Jimmy packed up his equipment, and in the space of moments had left behind the endless turn of waves and dunes of sand for the tarmac of Highway 101.
A mile north he braked hard to a stop beside a yellow marquee announcing the sale of harmonica's, two for ten dollars. Max's Music Maven was a converted home with two music rooms and an adjoining apartment. Jimmy had met Vincent, the proprietor, just yesterday. His store hours written on a paper plate taped inside the window told him Vince opened at ten a.m. This couldn't wait three hours, so he rounded the side and found a door decorated with an endorsement sticker that read, "If it ain't Gibson, it ain't nothing."
This was the place.
Jimmy began knocking, and didn't stop.
Moments later, the door swung inward. Vincent stood in boxers, his pale skin stretched impossibly tight over ribs and shoulders. Thin, scraggly hair hung down in eyes that squinted in the strengthening light.
"We ain't open, man. Come back later."
"It can't wait," Jimmy said. "I need to ask you a few questions."
"Ah, crap, you're that new age ocean guy. Man, I'm not having this conversation at seven a.m. I told you yesterday, I'm not going to carry mood music in my place. Try the Dirty Lap Dog or something. I got a rep."
Jimmy would have smiled to hear it if he didn't have important questions to ask. "Never mind that. Listen, I've got something I want you to hear. It's not the same as yesterday."
"You're some piece of work. I don't let my lady in this early, and you think I'm letting you in?"
Unable to hold it back any longer, Jimmy blurted. "I just recorded your little beach at the end of the D River." He waited until the aging hippie looked him straight. "And I captured the sound of a trumpet playing a tune."
If the hippie had shown Jimmy any other response, he might have gotten back in his VW Beetle and drove away. What he saw instead was a suspicious eye peering from between kinky strands of hair.
That was all he needed to see. "You know about it? What the hell is it?"
The hippie left the door standing wide and retreated into the shadows of his one-room apartment. Taking it as an invite, Jimmy gladly followed.
Vincent poured some coffee from a pot still bearing the 7-Eleven insignia, which made perfect sense since the stainless steel coffee maker it sat in bore the same logo. To the left in the corner, a mattress lay flat on the ground; sheets and blankets balled up on one side. A Stratocaster lay beside the bed, a litter of picks strewn around it. The scent of mildew and cat litter mingled in the air with yesterday's cigarettes. Vince lifted his coffee mug in the direction of a door at the back of the room, and led Jimmy in to the music shop.
The main showroom -- nothing more than a fifteen by fifteen deal with a small selection of guitars and amplifiers -- stood in shadow. It was here yesterday that Jimmy had met Vince, this holdover from the sixties telling him that he didn't carry digital media for Jimmy's hard disk recorder. Vince had added that electronic gadgets weren't real music anyway. The flower child hadn't bothered to show Jimmy the second music
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