Memory of enchantment

I have a friend named Dave, or perhaps I should say that I had a friend named Dave while I was at university. The latter statement is perhaps incorrect, since if I was to run into him tomorrow, we would pick up where we left off years ago, I think, without any qualms or awkward moments. Anyway, have it as you will, I have or once had a friend named Dave.

Dave and I clicked because, like me, he was passionate about some things and in general had a positive outlook on life. Anyway, I was reminded of Dave a few days ago as I sat outside, with my Ipod plugged into my ears.

Dave was/is really into music. He was a good guitar player, had a good grasp of music and even led me to find some hidden gems here and there while I discovered music from scratch in 2002, my third year of university.

I was reminded of him in this regard, because if there was one thing I knew about Dave itwas that he loved two musicians above all others, Stevie Ray Vaughn and Herbie Hancock- both, as he thought of them, monsters in their own right.

As I listened to one Herbie Hancock album after another, in chronological order for the second time, while sitting outside a few days ago, in the freezing cold, I was thus reminded of my friend, Dave.

Dave had this poster, a black and white one of Herbie Hancock sitting, head bent down on the piano in a dark room, surrounded by darkness except the white flash glinting off his face like crevice of light filtering in through the half open door, at the other side of the room- illuminating Herbie up, the light glinting his spectacles, giving shape to his lips, his eyes acclimatised to the dark and light contrast around him. Now, I could be wrong about this poster, since I did not even know of Herbie Hancock at that time, and since the human brain chooses to mould memories as it wishes, but this is how I remember it, and I like how I remember it, so let me be , please.

The image of this poster with Dave sitting cross legged in the foreground, me and a few others sprawled out onto his comfy futon, kept returning back to me as Hancock marched along with his rhythms- his discography as amazing as the face that I remember that poster so vividly. Or the fact that I can still taste those rich peanut butter cream cookies we had on one such day while in Dave's room. I had the munchies so bad, I think I finished half the box.

A few years later, as I immersed myself into music even further, realising that it was to become the centre of my universe for years to come, I happened to come upon that poster again. Sitting behind a a sheet of cellophane at a poster exhibition, it forced me to think of when I had first seen it. As I saw the name of the artist it depicted, a name I had heard before but had never discovered. Dave had told me about him. Making a mental note, I walked on. I also remember thinking at that moment in time, that anyone, especially a musician, who has the word cock in his name has to be cool as all hell. How else would a recording company allow a black man in the 60s and 70s to go on and release album after album with the word cock emblazoned on the front? You have to be good to demand that your name not be changed, since it was a present given to you by your own pappy, the name, not the cock.

Slowly, over the years I have realised what a discovery that one second was. I have discovered how little moments that have no significance at the time, can lead to bigger moments that have a profound significance.

I don't know what brought on this latest urge to listen to all of Herbie Hancock's albums in order of release. But it was a good decision. I've even discovered a few cds I have missed before. I also find that with music, as with other finer tastes in life, one usaully misses an angle or two if experiencing it at a younger age- a folly, easily corrected if one is to return to it later in life, stronger in his perception, more accomodating in his senses.

It is thus that I remember my friend Dave- cruising along my days with Herbie Hancock providing a soothing, wordless soundtrack, unhinged from definitive emotion, letting me mould the music to my senses, whatever my mood, regardless of people and places around me.

Cheers to you, old friend, wherever you are these days.