Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Europe, and having found it now well placed in various, choice, little islands in the Carib-
bean sea, I knew I was going to enjoy my spell on St. Maarten and tucked heartily into my
steaming pasta and burgundy. “Bon appétit!” repeated the bright-eyed waiter.
Paying my bill, I stepped out into the night, following the sounds of the live music coming
out of the hotel bar that sprawled across the square opposite the dock. Several people sat
about, enjoying the sounds of some well-played blues. There were three musicians perched
on a small stage bathed in a soft red light.
The guitarist was a young, angular, jawed Frenchman, with short, dark hair and drooping,
lazy, blue eyes. He stared down at the wooden floor, seemingly mesmerized by the music.
Never once did he look at his finger work, yet his playing was flawless.
The bass player was a large, jolly, balding man with mirth at the very corners of his fleshy
mouth. He tapped a well-worn leather shoe in time to his deep plucking of an ancient battle-
scarred double bass trapped firmly between his hammy fists.
The third player was a young, black man with a mane of shining dreadlocks that flickered
and broiled about his handsome head as he rapped out an excellent rhythm on a set of
beaten up, old, wooden drums. He was bare from the waist up and beads of sweat ran down
his grape-black, muscular chest. His wiry arms flashed back and forth across his drum set,
and he was completely aware of the admiring glances he received from the women, both
young and old, in his spell.
They had just completed their first set and were about to take a break when an elderly, red-
faced man with long, greying hair stepped up with a large saxophone strapped around his
neck. He was evidently well known to the musicians and a fair number of the patrons who
greeted him with some reverence. After a brief discussion, it was decided that they would
play one more song before taking their well earned break.
With a crash of cymbals and a thunderous roll of drums, the trio began to play. The song
was known amongst the crowd, and they cheered loudly. Buoyed with the audience's en-
thusiasm, the musicians got tucked in and fairly cooked along. When it was time for the
first solo, the guitarist signaled the old maestro with a nod of his angular, smiling face.
He stood up, faced his audience quietly, and melodiously stole the show. His deep, guttur-
al notes soothed the audience, and whoever heard his music that evening knew he was a
musician's musician. A thunderous applause marked the end of their rousing song, and the
musicians laid down their instruments and strolled over to a table reserved for them.
I sat staring at the stage long after the musicians took their break. There was something
magical happening in my heart, a stirring in my soul that I could not quite understand. I
did know that I was very impressed with what I had seen and what I had heard. I felt the
