Jogja Song

This street was full of tears. Smiles, joy and some tears too in the classic way.

       Boy with his dad outside Ayem Pedas tonight on Sosrowijayan corner. From the first moment there was an involuntary twitch produced seeing Dad carefully position the lad one step outside the entrance and to the side. With his guitar Dad stood himself on the outer flank. Half an hour before the usual uninspired Trannie pair had been along and as usual stood themselves inside the entrance of the eatery. More forward and confident those lasses. The trinket seller with his shelves along the railing either side of the entrance to the eatery made way immediately for this second pair without needing to be asked.

         Clearly father and son; the genetic line, the form, shape and size perfectly self-evident. Youngster was twelve or thirteen, tall for his age; dad may have recently crossed forty, weathered in the usual way in this region for his class.

         The guitar was simple strumming, adequate and adept enough. For the greater part Dad concentrated on his strings; there may have been some humming accompaniment. Later when the boy went around for the collection the mature voice rose to fill the gap.

         The whole of the effect was delivered by the vibrant young voice. Without needing to try the boy gave out notes and rhythms in brief swells that easily rose above the hubbub of the traffic and the strollers cramming the walkway. It was an instantly striking voice capable of registers that were only hinted in this performance. One was immediately taken by such a voice, lifted by the movement and carried as if by a sudden tide.

         Again as in the previous October with the large chorus of older teens a couple of hundred metres up the road, it was difficult to watch the singer here. This kind of force and feeling seemed overly intimate and probing for naked public display. This lad had not learned the song from the radio or television alone. From earliest childhood Dad and possibly Mum too had been heard lightening their days with song in their room along the river here perhaps.

         It was early days in the busking for the boy. He did not know where to position himself and as he sang he stretched his right arm behind his back taking the left below the elbow. The gaze was turned anywhere but toward his audience. With his father beside him he bore up somehow and carried the lyric to its end in a couple of looping refrains.

         Then further, as had happened three years before in Singapore in the case of a mutilated beggar, the bule, the white foreigner at the tables was given a wide berth for the collection. Given the lad’s callowness it had been half-expected. No doubt about it: not much could be expected from the outsider. Often nothing in fact. One needed to rely on one’s own kind.

         A not entirely unhappy love song was the guess. Had it been possible to concentrate on the lyrics some of the wording might have been picked out.