Joining the Cherry Town Guitar Quartet suggested more of a funneling-down rather than an application. That's not to say that there aren't guitar quartets, local or otherwise, that commanded extensive audition and commitment—just rest assured that the CTGQ wasn't one of them.
Made up exclusively of pallid guys, the guitar quartet was run and instructed by Joe, the pale-faced and prominently-chinned virtuoso. Joe wore knit sweaters, the homey looking ones, with snowflakes and tree scenes. Their domestic appearance contrasted with the tailored and professional way Joe managed to wear them. Simply put, Joe was mild-mannered. Below the appearance was a near imperceptible, sardonic smile that suggested that his meek appearance was something that he chose and not something that was assigned to him. It was unclear whether his students followed his lead, or if the four of them happened to be cut from the same cloth to begin with, but everybody that found a place in the guitar quartet looked and behaved the same way.
Rehearsals took place every other day, for an hour or so in the midmorning. Guitar repertoire was approached with a steady balance of patience and a polite lack of resistance. The guitar group could be characterized by the way one of the guitarists, Eugene, walked from building to building. When I saw him walking, it was sunny, and he was moving impossibly slow, and ridged, in neglected clothes, looking pleasant and permanently perplexed, unreachable. His gait could have been written off as a consequence of a pot-smoking habit, but his unkept detachment could've just as likely been born out of an overtaking interest in woodworking, video games, or books.
For months the guitar quartet had been preparing for an upcoming recital. We rehearsed in the band room, which was too large for the quartet and the modest volume coming off of five nylon string guitars. We would gather in the back-right of the room, on one side of the empty choral risers. There was enough space, both physically and sonically for the cleaning crew to move freely in the space during our work. Huddled in a circle, the guitarists looked to be in hiding from the room itself.
On the day of the performance, we ran straight through our material, which amounted to about fifteen minutes of music. Before this we had practiced the music measure by measure, frequently stopping, and we had no idea how the pieces should hang alongside one another, let alone how one individual piece moved within itself. Listening to ourselves play, we thought our show would end up sounding disjointed, right-noted, and respectful. Joe invited us to dinner before the concert at Mariachi Loco, which made me feel honored—a sentiment I could never clearly articulate to Joe, even after a few years of studying guitar with him on my own, on the second floor of his antiqued, wooden home. I didn't need to say anything to, or hear anything from Joe to be grateful to know him or spend time remembering what he was like.
Sat at the Mexican restaurant, with red plastic cups, the kinds of cups that resemble the dishwasher that cleans them more than the cups themselves, the four middling classical guitarists and one great classical guitarist ordered five burritos. There wasn't much conversation, but each guy felt fine and unconcerned about the performance ahead. Joe took care of the bill which was as touching as the invitation to dinner. We walked out on the setting sun and headed over to the concert hall, situated only a few hundred yards from Mariachi Loco.
That night we were the first to perform of a few groups. Jazz ensembles, choirs, and brass quintets had all prepared lively sets and brought with them friends and family that made up a cheerful audience. On our part, we didn't bring much of an audience or much of a program (those who came in support of the guitar quartet were perfectly considerate and respectful, and there isn't any use in contrasting them further against the gaiety that surrounded them).
With the lights on us and the show begun, the guitar quartet sat in a semi-circle. For the first ten minutes, Joe carefully tuned our guitars one by one. This betrayed Joe's lack of faith in the intonation of our group. None of us guitarists minded the overbearing start, but it had a slow and downtrodden effect on the audience. We went on to play a recital that was fine. Nobody, including ourselves, would remember what we played halfway through the performance of the second act. After the concert, we left separately, in our own heads, my thoughts kept company by the glowing interior of Mariachi Loco. Seen through the window, waiters and hosts made order of the place after the final rush for the night.
Later on, I walked down main street, where every marquee in town was lit up, with lines formed, tickets bought, and crowds about to hear somebody or a group of people perform. Musicians, comedians, entertainers, movies. I thought about about all the agents, emails, bookings, sales, hellos, goodbyes, itineraries, reviews, retrospectives, and all the noise around keeping things moving—and my role in it all, inherited by my brief participation in the Cherry Town Guitar Quartet, was a spot in line, ticket in hand, as my schedule and my wife's allowed.
