The irony here is that I’ve mapped the journey out based on a series of Starbucks’. The first one is but a block from my apartment, the second is four and a half blocks in front of that one, and the third–by far the biggest–is six blocks forward from the one before it. When you get there, use the factory covered in scaffolding–which they’re turning into condos–as a compass point; go south five blocks to the cathedral with the giant cross and sign marked ‘Bogy’s Club’–if this is late at night there should be a line of clubhoppers outside. Your final point, and final Starbucks, is just down the street from the club and due to its size can’t really be missed, keep walking past it until all the buildings seem decrepit and old. Just know that when you
don’t
recognize the
store names or
restaurant signs,
you’re probably there.when you don’t recognize the store names or restaurant signs, you’re probably there.
Of course, there’s no set location, no definite spot or address to the basements and alleys where our young man plays. But so long as it seems that ‘development’ has skipped this part of Brooklyn and time has been left alone to decay the roofs and age the windows, he’ll be around, all you have to do is listen and follow.
But what is it about music that humans love so much? Why does the sound of compressed air, or of one object scratching another, seem to excite us? Why did the bass player, who couldn’t be any older than 25 and possessed no more magic than I do, scratching away on the strings in the small rooms where those of us ‘in the know’ could find him, why did his noises clear my head of all thoughts save those of it and make me walk out onto the night streets as if I’d been changed forever? Why has even the simple humming of his tunes on the way back, past all the Starbucks’, made all other music seem so dull. 
When you get to where he plays, don’t bother him or even talk to him. Just listen. Don’t ask for a CD or for a website; leave him money if you will, but don’t tell him who you are or why exactly you’re leaving it; he knows. Just listen. The basement may be filled to the brim or you may be the only person listening, but either way, let your prescense go unnoticed. He plays for himself, or at least pretends to, so let it stay that way. Just listen.
I’m telling you all of this because I trust you. I want you to understand what beauty really is. But whatever you do, however you’re reaction to his revelations manifests itself, this has to remain a secret. I was told that by the person who told me. Don’t tell anyone about the bass player! When you get back to the real world, which is around the corner from Jamba Juice and next to the Quiznos, push him to the back of your mind where your best protected secrets are kept. It may be hard to not share him with the world, but sharing would lead to the end of anything worth sharing. Let the others go to Bogy’s, then keep walking. Sometimes the public needs to be protected from things, but sometimes things need to be protected from the public as well; Wouldn’t you agree?
Of course you would, that’s why it’s alright for me to tell you.
Have you considered Subscribing to all of this madness?
