-kings county orchestra- *by someone planning to keep his seat until it’s time to cross over* (frankie leone, just a man) *these streets my streets of brooklyn don’t tune their instruments wait for a maestro or perform the same tune twice they play this symphony effortlessly strings start the morning with a sunrise bringing to life first the chords of east new york bowing forward to bushwick’s strings and lastly north williamsburg’s awakening dirty windows of a loft of an old warehouse building filling the tiny bedroom of a lost boy a lost boy whose tried to find himself in the most irrational places finally finding what he’s chased to catastrophic ends hearing himself in cursive as rays vibrate his pen he feels relief as a duo joins him the single mother in sheepshead bay doing what she can to make ends meet melodically sighing a deep sadness thinking of her child’s father gripping a bottle of malt liquor near the bowery mission aided by the park slope bar owner a tired expression his pick playing knowing his bar’s strings will be cut soon by a lawyer in a cubicle stamping forms without emotion all three remind the audience wearing bow-ties and evening gowns what’s important or maybe what isn’t until the section’s soloist begins the puerto-rican boy instilling hope with sounds of his foot-steps walking to school through sunset park thinking of how amazing the girl sitting in front of him looked in those jeans yesterday the solo ends as his teacher begins attendance and he tries not to stare too hard the percussion comes in right on time opening with the construction worker passionately playing his jackhammer in a gentrifying neighborhood smashing in progress and higher rents abruptly balanced by the hustler that does what he has to on the block in brownsville sickly and sadly justified because even new jacks know only one person can eat off a corner hollow tipped notes from the barrel of his drum aren’t making threats just delivering the only promises brooklyn makes those that play the game all-the-while the steady beat of trucks stopping and going on flatbush avenue in and out of bushwick warehouses up and down the brooklyn queens expressway hold the section together the winds itch to be heard, coming to life with the russian woman in brighton beach breathing instrumental words to her daughter in a realistic tempo “america’s beautiful and can bring your dreams be like these americans, but never hold their belief the world will conspire to take care of you” her sound’s accentuated by the hasidic man’s steps hitting notes of confident purpose through south williamsburg keying deliberately away from hateful outsiders they are only men, their judgements meaningless a final pair of musicians bring the crescendo the teenager in bedstuy getting a cut laughing rich notes in tune with his barber who plays a joking melody about being angry with o.j. that fool’s kept out of the news too long all three sections strings percussion winds synchronized perfectly the audience feeling life struggle beauty hardness love resentment and hope but all good things end the italian head usher from the small remaining italian community in bensonhurst smiles in approval from the aisle wearing a perfectly tailored suit holding a rocks glass of chivas regal and fading the sun with a casual turn of the knob quieting the music until tomorrow as a lost boy prepares the cap for his instrument you’ve just heard this symphony you’ve just heard these streets my streets of brooklyn you’ve just heard a lost boy’s humble contribution to the kings county orchestra.* * *borough of lost boys dot com.*
Posted on: Fri, 12 Jul 2013 18:15:02 +0000
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