The Song is Over
By R.A. Jetter
Slow mournful twangs morphed into wild, screeching highs, howling as if hurt, smoothing to a desolate murmur before settling into grief-stricken lows deep enough to gyrate the soul. A narrow beam spotlight, reflected from the black six-string, followed hands, focused on lightning quick movements and deliberate strums… seldom did the audience see his face… only hands, covered with multi-colored tattoos…rough hands that once worked hard for a living and now worked the audience.
The flamed ebony guitar talked. Except, it wasn’t the guitar… the man behind it bared his soul. Fingers of his left hand flew, the other danced on strings, purposefully found correct chords with a worn gold pick. A bandana covered forehead, above shoulder length hair and sideburns, held back perspiration as his sets caught fire, explained a past life, lost loves and future desires. The degree of volume expounded loneliness, despair, anger and hardship.
Danny Mack worked the vintage 1957 left-handed Fender Stratocaster, made it utter things he couldn’t say — without words, yet emotional and filled with poignancy, arousing visions with disturbing insight leapt into the audiences’ minds. They watched his fingers fly up and down the Maple neck and experienced his life of poverty. During that performance, the guitar found a longing soul and whispered sweet nothings to her… from Danny’s heart… promised forthcoming heights of passion. The achromatic guitar elucidated their love-making and caressed her in the after-glow. A feeling of euphoria so well mixed in with the surreal, acquainted her with what was genuine and what wasn’t, yet, Danny’s own true feelings subtley masked. Only he knew what had been found as much as he knew what was lost.
He was.
When I met him, I had no idea of his loss or the terrible secret he carried.
Yet, success has its price. Danny carried that price, and his secret, with him twenty-four hours a day, every year. Over the years we pal-ed around, the baggage got heavier. It finally got to him.
I was his best friend… Danny and I spent nine years together, almost 365 days a year. The only time I didn’t see him was Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Told me it was ‘a private time’ and both of us must spend those “special” days with family.
Had I known then what I know now…
My sis told me about Danny. A summer 1964 vacation at her home in Montgomery, Alabama, would be nice. Dreamlike music drifted to her patio, I followed the notes. Guitar licks emanated from a pickup, backed against the garage door. Sitting in the bed of that crusty, faded gold 1956 F-100 pickup, in a decrepit, armless rocking chair, he strummed strings like they were on fire. He leaned back, rocked with the chords. The parlor of a Victorian Redstone on Chicago’s south side would have made that ancient rocking chair feel right at home, instead, he looked part of it. The guitar did, too. The pickup didn’t. I applauded when he quit, startled him.