The Musician,

The Butcher,

The Weaver,

and the Two Miserable Bastards

I have a story for you.

Solka was the town’s musician. Once a month, everyone would gather in the market place to celebrate life by dancing the night away, where Solka would provide the music. It was customary for the penultimate tune to be a Solka special, a brand new composition, which became increasingly experimental by the month and would generally receive mixed reviews;

‘Solka, that was terrible, you ruined my night, I think you should have your ears waxed!’ cried the Cobbler.

‘Yeh Solka, da woz well dodgy, yu gettin worz a’ dis, no bette, stik to old ones mayte,’ said the Tailor.

The Butcher raised her hands in the air, ‘hey, don’t be beatin’ up on the guy! Solka… don’t listen to them, they talk rubbish all night, I think you’re new song is great… I love it.’ The Butcher consults the Weaver, ‘it’s great stuff, right?’

They all turn to the Weaver, who shrugs, ‘I don’t know nothin’ bout music man, leave me alone.’

Solka would take a silent swig from his beer while grinning from ear to ear. This would vex the Tailor no end, ‘I don kno wat yu smile at yu bastar, but yu makin mi earz bleed!’, at which point the Tailor would take a sharp dig in the ribs from the Butcher.

And so it went, every month, every year, and every decade, until all the townsfolk had passed, including Solka the Musician.
Once the last of them had passed, they all gathered on the other side of the veil for a celebration of their lives lived. Solka joined the crowd, beer in hand, of course.

‘Solka!’ exclaimed the Butcher, ‘what you doing here with us, you should be up there playing your music?’

‘I thought I’d take a break and celebrate with you guys instead.’ Solka smiled sweetly.

The Cobbler and the Tailor looked at one another, and then at Solka, ‘no bein’ funni mayte bu’ probly bette chance of decen’ muzik from de angels right?’ said the Tailor.

‘Christ!’ exclaimed the Butcher, ‘you just can’t give the guy a break, can you, not even now?!’

Solka laughed, while re-directing their gaze to the angel musician who was right on time. The music started playing, and everyone jumped to their feet to dance. There was more love and laughter in the air that night than ever before, it was a great celebration.

‘Ang on a mini,’ exclaimed the Tailor, ’somthin’ wrong wid de muzic!’

The Butcher grabbed Solka’s arm, ‘oh my God Solka, the angels are playing your tunes!’

The Cobbler turned to Solka, ‘ok sunny, how much did you slip the angel?’

‘I always knu yu wer dodgy bastar Solka,’ said the Tailor.

‘You guys can just shut the hell up, because look, everyone is having an amazing time, including me… and the only miserable bastards here are you two!’ exclaimed the Butcher.

‘Well, I no care de angels pley yor staff Solka, iz still shit… wid capitol T!’ said the Tailor.

‘Are you ever gonna talk Solka, or are we faced with your grin for eternity?’ asked the Cobbler.

‘It’s not ‘my‘ shit guys, never was. I just listened carefully to what the angels were playing, and did my best to play it back to you, that’s all.’ said Solka. The Butcher gave Solka’s arm another squeeze.

The Cobbler turned to the Tailor, ‘it kinda grows on you…’

The Tailor turned to the Weaver and asked, ‘and yu, I supowz yu think iza fantaztik az well?’

The Weaver shrugs, ‘hey, like I said before, I don’t know nothin’ bout music man, leave me alone.’

From that day on, the Cobbler and the Butcher would always turn up to Solka’s gigs, and dance the night away.
The Weaver, well… he decided it was time to get educated, he’s now in music school, and loving it. He has a particular passion for bass guitar.
As for the Tailor, he eventually became one of Solka’s biggest fan’s, and now runs his fan club.

Δ

When I stand at the canvas, I never quite know what is about to take place. No matter how much planning, the work tends to do its own thing… if I’m lucky… if I’m listening… really carefully.

V

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