The singer in the cafe

The singer in the cafe

Before he picked up his guitar and walked onto the stage, I didn't know he was a singer in this coffee shop. The singer is like a statue standing in a noisy bazaar, smiling, isolating the congested crowd and sound from this small world. With this in mind, he finished singing, got up, took off the guitar, and ended the performance time neatly, which was still not enough-maybe I was the only one in the audience who thought so.

Before he picked up his guitar and walked onto the stage, I didn't know he was a singer in this coffee shop.

That is not a stage, in the not spacious coffee shop to set aside a small space, only enough for one person, a microphone rack, a guitar foothold. The environment is also a little noisy, customers are chatting loudly in a pile, as if the place is like a mahjong table or vegetable market, without a trace of elegant atmosphere. As soon as he opened his mouth, however, the small piece of land focused on the guitar, the man and the clear voice as if it were a spotlight. After singing an English song, I can hear a little sadness of youth on and off, but it is not a way to talk about sorrow. You don't have to rely on fans for affection. It is hard to hear and even more difficult to be moved by the sensual and physiological aspects.

The singer is like a statue standing in a noisy bazaar, smiling, isolating the congested crowd and sound from this small world. The expression on the face is clearly the resonance of music and people, because it is one, too aware of each other's benefits, can not help but smile, is a kind of deep sympathy. The music flowed from his fingertips, from his slightly vibrating Adam's apple, and flowed slowly in the space, as if there was a strong aroma of coffee. When the song was over, no one applauded, and he didn't feel disappointed and went on to sing the next song. A popular song, simplified to only light chords and shallow chords, is so beautiful that it is speechless, abstemious and rich. I wish he could sing a lot and keep singing. With this in mind, he finished singing, got up, took off the guitar, and ended the performance time neatly, which was still not enough-maybe I was the only one in the audience who thought so.

I went up to have a casual chat with him and learned that he was not an art student and that his piano skills were practiced by himself. "Nice fingering. "I said, he smiled shyly and said," Thank you. "it's no wonder he can sing so naturally and comfortably without the charisma of a runway singer. He said he sang in other places, which, as far as I know, was an artistic, niche coffee shop. "it's still too noisy here." I felt a little sorry for him, but he didn't seem to mind. After putting away the equipment, he put on the piano, said goodbye to me, strode out of here, and plunged into the thickening night outside the door.

In terms of appearance and strength, he is no worse than any contestant in a talent show. He should have more bosom friends who appreciate him and have a broader future. But he is only one of the countless night singers in the city, and perhaps some of them are better than him, singing other people's songs in this way, whether they are appreciated or not, for the sake of self-satisfaction and survival. Come to think of it, I really feel sorry for them.

Art, it is generally believed that it has always been nothingness, can not feed, nor does it provide any practical utility. Those who deal with art also seem to be pragmatists. Once, at a time when I was exhausted with words, I complained to a friend: any other skill, and don't deal with words any more. It's like a chronic suicide. But after settling down, he sat still and fought hard against the keyboard. There was no room for regret and no need for his choice. I wonder if the singer has the same idea in his heart. In any case, still silently wish in my heart that the person who met by chance can walk out of a more comfortable way.

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