Back on the Tube again
Blimey, haven't done one of these for a while.
The man has a pregnant belly between his legs.
The resemblance is remarkable. The case is pear-shaped and swollen, reaching knee-high from the floor, with the curvature narrowing into a short neck that rises vertically then kicks back violently over the gentle bulge. Its surface shines softly, black and textured, with sharp shine of chrome hinges and catches standing out oddly against the man’s scruffy-smart clothing. An archaic form cradled within a modern carapace: a lute in a hard case.
The modern Bard sits comfortably, knees clasped tight around his medieval companion. He brushes some dust off the neck, flicks some debris from the steel binding of the lid. He’s young in an ageless way; soft eyes behind black-rimmed round glasses, short curly hair and a scrubby beard; clothes in muted colours and well-worn fabrics. Not the crusty hippy-patches and patchouli of a revivalist; not the studied academic look of the ancient-musicologist. He looks relaxed and unselfconscious. As easy, yet careful, with the lute as any commuter with a laptop bag.
An instrument full of melody and harmony, to make you dance, or laugh, or cry, long ago; he heads under the West End, his head full of the middle ages, inside a steel-and-glass tube, among the spangles and flashes of the fibre optics of the 21st century.
The man has a pregnant belly between his legs.
The resemblance is remarkable. The case is pear-shaped and swollen, reaching knee-high from the floor, with the curvature narrowing into a short neck that rises vertically then kicks back violently over the gentle bulge. Its surface shines softly, black and textured, with sharp shine of chrome hinges and catches standing out oddly against the man’s scruffy-smart clothing. An archaic form cradled within a modern carapace: a lute in a hard case.
The modern Bard sits comfortably, knees clasped tight around his medieval companion. He brushes some dust off the neck, flicks some debris from the steel binding of the lid. He’s young in an ageless way; soft eyes behind black-rimmed round glasses, short curly hair and a scrubby beard; clothes in muted colours and well-worn fabrics. Not the crusty hippy-patches and patchouli of a revivalist; not the studied academic look of the ancient-musicologist. He looks relaxed and unselfconscious. As easy, yet careful, with the lute as any commuter with a laptop bag.
An instrument full of melody and harmony, to make you dance, or laugh, or cry, long ago; he heads under the West End, his head full of the middle ages, inside a steel-and-glass tube, among the spangles and flashes of the fibre optics of the 21st century.