Called out once more last night from
an unseen corner of the dark. In this instance it was from within the middle of
the Haig Road hawker stalls, almost all of which were closed at that late hour.
The lights of the eating halls before the Haig Road housing towers might stay
on all night as a security measure. The old Malay hobo who has tipped seventy
needs to move from under there for the dark of the public benches beside the
bus-stop when he wants to bed down. An old drunk might remain at one of the
tables and sometimes cleaning crews pass through. One's name had not before
been called out from that echo-chamber.
It was Syed. Stopping a moment was enough to give him encouragement to rise from the table where he sat with two fellows. Sun of a Beach he sported on his white, clean and bright tee. Syed was always careful in his grooming and attire. An erect posture, raised, steady head. Months before a nodding acquaintance; then a few words and finally one or two conversations. News of the death of the American singer had brought Syed to mind earlier in the week. Syed was surprised and a little dubious. The surprise was all the greater when he was told that this famous voice had never been heard. It seemed extraordinary to Syed. Syed was a Music man. In the talk he had mentioned some of the performers from the roll-call of rock and R&B.
Syed gave his testimony on the quality of the voice. The god-given natural and the heart he mentioned. Immediately Syed brought out his iphone, a $900 plus job. Not two seconds he found the track he was after. Understandably in the last couple of days Syed might have gone back in homage. The ear piece he handed across. It took another few secs. to adjust the volume and in the end we had Whitney large as life.
I Will Always Love You — on the feet standing ten thirty pm two or three days after the singer had passed away in a hotel bathtub by reports. Testing had not as yet established substances. It was the substances that had recalled Syed; that and the music dimension.
After five or six years without almost a single tune, none personal and specific (the incidental and unavoidable, such as that offered by the neighbouring supermarket, aside), the effect of the music was without exaggeration narcotic. It was a particular kind of in-studio recording Syed had found, rather over-produced. Nonetheless the swell and rise of the voice, the reach and rhythm, had the head swimming, the eyes closing at more than one passage.
Syed stood close holding the phone. The lines were not long. The music worked so powerfully there was hardly space to cast eyes back to Syed no more than eighteen inches off. A counter on his screen, perhaps some measure of pitch and bass, had him following at a remove.
It was Syed. Stopping a moment was enough to give him encouragement to rise from the table where he sat with two fellows. Sun of a Beach he sported on his white, clean and bright tee. Syed was always careful in his grooming and attire. An erect posture, raised, steady head. Months before a nodding acquaintance; then a few words and finally one or two conversations. News of the death of the American singer had brought Syed to mind earlier in the week. Syed was surprised and a little dubious. The surprise was all the greater when he was told that this famous voice had never been heard. It seemed extraordinary to Syed. Syed was a Music man. In the talk he had mentioned some of the performers from the roll-call of rock and R&B.
Syed gave his testimony on the quality of the voice. The god-given natural and the heart he mentioned. Immediately Syed brought out his iphone, a $900 plus job. Not two seconds he found the track he was after. Understandably in the last couple of days Syed might have gone back in homage. The ear piece he handed across. It took another few secs. to adjust the volume and in the end we had Whitney large as life.
I Will Always Love You — on the feet standing ten thirty pm two or three days after the singer had passed away in a hotel bathtub by reports. Testing had not as yet established substances. It was the substances that had recalled Syed; that and the music dimension.
After five or six years without almost a single tune, none personal and specific (the incidental and unavoidable, such as that offered by the neighbouring supermarket, aside), the effect of the music was without exaggeration narcotic. It was a particular kind of in-studio recording Syed had found, rather over-produced. Nonetheless the swell and rise of the voice, the reach and rhythm, had the head swimming, the eyes closing at more than one passage.
Syed stood close holding the phone. The lines were not long. The music worked so powerfully there was hardly space to cast eyes back to Syed no more than eighteen inches off. A counter on his screen, perhaps some measure of pitch and bass, had him following at a remove.
The song was well known to him of
course. Whether he could hear any fragment where he stood was uncertain. For
Syed there was a quiet, contained pleasure and gratification in the gift he had
been able to bestow on his friend, his friend who was usually in a hurry,
preoccupied and always pleading too little time. The raised, motionless head, a
few blinks of the eyes and barely perceptible nods.
Syed is usually heavy-lidded. The raising of the chin accentuates his blinking. It seems he is doing well. The fellowship helps an enormous amount. Syed attends regularly. Support from one's fellows is very important. An American woman who admires Syed's sculpted muscles has been mentioned a couple of times. There are others, seemingly Malays and Indians over-represented, but that may be Syed's particular circle. The five daily prayers are an important structure too. There is little other. Syed's parents, originally from Yemen, passed away some years ago. If there are siblings they play a lesser role than the members of the Fellowship and his friends around lower Geylang. Like for others from his part of the world, America is for Syed pretty much the Great Satan. Syed has a fair degree of political awareness. The alternative America, however, Hendriks, Housten, Franklin, Esteban—there were one or two others mentioned last night—is as important as anything else in Syed's life. Regular work helps with structure. Changi SingAir cartage presently, five and a half days, eight hours regular: $1600 per month. Hands at the neck in the choking signal as Syed dramatizes the position: In Singapore they give you just enough to keep you from drowning. Syed's English often employs the rhythms of rap and carries music and film references. Worth teasing out more often than not to get the gloss. Certainly more often than in the case of much of the conversation one hears elsewhere in this city-state in locations that will remain nameless.
Syed is usually heavy-lidded. The raising of the chin accentuates his blinking. It seems he is doing well. The fellowship helps an enormous amount. Syed attends regularly. Support from one's fellows is very important. An American woman who admires Syed's sculpted muscles has been mentioned a couple of times. There are others, seemingly Malays and Indians over-represented, but that may be Syed's particular circle. The five daily prayers are an important structure too. There is little other. Syed's parents, originally from Yemen, passed away some years ago. If there are siblings they play a lesser role than the members of the Fellowship and his friends around lower Geylang. Like for others from his part of the world, America is for Syed pretty much the Great Satan. Syed has a fair degree of political awareness. The alternative America, however, Hendriks, Housten, Franklin, Esteban—there were one or two others mentioned last night—is as important as anything else in Syed's life. Regular work helps with structure. Changi SingAir cartage presently, five and a half days, eight hours regular: $1600 per month. Hands at the neck in the choking signal as Syed dramatizes the position: In Singapore they give you just enough to keep you from drowning. Syed's English often employs the rhythms of rap and carries music and film references. Worth teasing out more often than not to get the gloss. Certainly more often than in the case of much of the conversation one hears elsewhere in this city-state in locations that will remain nameless.
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