21 June 2005 Pablo Ziegler Quartet; Edmar Castaneda

Sometimes what makes a performance so alluring is watching the absolute transformation of the person in front of you, luminous under stage lights and lost in his own world, music filling his ears before sharing it with you, far away in the surrounding darkness. Edmar, with his easy smile, smallish frame, fingers plucking, sliding, silencing his harp strings, cuts the brilliance of his flourishes with resounding quiet. The memory of its sound echoes, while the space fills with a voluminous hush in the split infinite second before the next voice emerges, tantalizing and fragrant.

And then, there are musicians like Pablo: seemingly unreadable, he sits heavily at the piano, betrayed only by the discreet smile hovering about his eyes and lips. His greying hair gives him a certain gravity, lightened by the soft curls that frame his face. Striking a rhythm with the flat of his hand on the side of the piano, he begins ‘Hopscotch.’ His dexterous fingers manipulate sound with surgical precision, emitting earthy, sensual voices that float before melting into the richness of the melodies permeating the air, chilled by iced drinks clinking occasionally into the darkness. His voice is slightly gravelly in between songs, as he tells us the next will be a melody he wrote, ‘Milonga del Viento’ –Milonga of the Wind. I love his accent, the way he pronounces the ‘H’ in honor – ‘it is an honor to be here at the Blue Note,’ he says.

In the moment of listening in complete stillness, sound becomes tactile, imbued with fingers made of sinuous melodies that beckon, cajole, and charm you out of reality into magical plush depth and ethereal delicacy. Bliss comes wrapped in blue-stained notes and an Astor Piazzola tango re-invoked with piano, harp, double bass, electric guitar, and percussion. Trace this transient instant with the breath of an exhaled sigh while falling from intoxicating heights.

--

Sobre la mano izquierda,
un dedo desapareció durante
la noche llenada de rincones
trenzando para siempre hasta el cielo
que cayó lentemente, penetrando
los ojos abiertos.

Ahora, en el mediodía sempiterno,
la luz interrumpe tu sombra con un dedo
perdido. Por lo momento, todavía
tienes tu palma entera que llenas
con un ramo de rosas blancas.
Su fragrancia te sigue

mientras que caminas por calles
de piedra y madera pudrida
hasta llegas a la puerta abierta.
Entra el recinto eterno con
ocho rincones esperándote.
Escucha la puerta encierra.

El mediodía sempiterno reaparece
en la escalera en caracol antes de ti.
El sol por este momento
queda, inmóvil en un círculo perfecto.
Sube contando cada paso, recordando
de nuevo el color del mar.


---


About your left hand,
a finger disappeared during
the night filled with corners
twisting endlessly towards the sky
that fell slowly, penetrating
your open eyes.

Now, at eternal noon, light
interrupts your shadow with its missing
finger. For the moment, you still
have your entire palm which you fill
with a bouquet of white roses.
Its fragrance follows you

as you walk through streets
of stone and rotting wood
until you arrive at the open door.
Enter this endless room with
eight corners awaiting you.
Hear the door close.

Eternal noon reappears
in the spiral staircase before you.
The sun stays, at this moment,
immobile in a perfect circle.
Go upstairs counting each step, recalling
again the color of the sea.

supine

City streets broken open
Underbellies gaping

With asphalt-crusted lips.
Gravel-laden tongues face the sky

Solemnly promise:
It will rain today.

Wait. One moment. Please.
It is the last time for—

Forgotten sentence
Swallowed like an ‘l’

Of rain falling
Into your open mouth.