car, as usual, and i’m
his taxi driver.
my son asks me
if the day he was born
was the best day of
my life.
and i say “yes.
of course”.
“what about when
you and mum got
married?”, he quizzed.
“second. nearly as good.
can’t have one without the
other”.
he nods. and i didn’t go on
to tell him that the third best day
of my life was when he had
just turned two – and we were
driving to hawke’s bay
for christmas. he and his
mother asleep.
and i had the ipod connected
to the car stereo. and i had made
a playlist.
the theme from the tv show ‘taxi’
on a loop. (so that i didn’t have to
keep pressing play, or find
the repeat function – instead
i had the same track loaded
30 or 40 times…)
bob james’ perfect fender rhodes
instrumental – with
ralph macdonald on percussion and
idris muhammad on drums. sounds like
eric gale’s guitar slow-burning in the
lava-lamp glow.
i was their taxi driver. i’d look
to the left. then to the back-left.
that music from my childhood guiding
the way.
it was like i was the yellow-cab in a time-loop
(a new york minute?) driving over (and over)
the queensboro bridge.
checking my buckled passengers.
seven o’clock.
and
nine o’clock.
resting. their beautiful
faces. those wondrous souls.
all fire. all glitter and gold.
first and second.
(first equal of course!)
And the music my mantra, my
meditation, taking me back to the
friday nights when we’d wait
for dad to come home with the
fish’n’chips, when we’d laugh
at louie’s anger and jim’s madness
and the weird and silly and wonderful
latka…
me and my brother and my
mum and dad were maybe
at our closest watching m*a*s*h and family
ties, blackadder, the young ones, cheers,
married with children (and a few others).
definitely taxi!
but here i was…
driving the white lines with this
music that was taking me back
and taking me back as i was edging
ever-forward…in the yellow-cab of my
imagination.
whimsy. nostalgia.
and so much more than that.
(does there need to be more than that
though? those two things are so
beautiful, so joyous and sad all at once,
they’ve helped me along in so many ways
through so many ways…)
profound beauty all wrapped
up in that slick and lovely groove.
people would maybe call a song
like that ‘soulless’ – to me it’s the very
embodiment of soul…
and so it rolled on and on
and i did too.
checking their faces. me
elated. the calmest i’d been
in an age. or more.
and i was never
bobby wheeler.
i was their alex reiger.
but i was
better than alex reiger.
because they didn’t just
have me. i had them.
and we had the music.
even if it was only
me listening…
that was the third-best-day
of my life.
and if i whispered that
it was the best,
well, that was only
because they were
asleep.
and i
was their taxi.
by Simon Sweetman
 |
| Simon Sweetman doing an erudite poet impression with lots of old books behind him. Photographer unknown. |
Simon Sweetman is a podcast host, journalist and poet. He blogs every day at offthetracks.co.nz. When he’s not doing that he reads books, watches horror movies, walks the dog and photographs road cones – though not all at once. He has a brand new book of poems available called The Death of Music Journalism.
The Death of Music Journalism is available now in all good bookshops, as they say, or go direct to: https://thecubapress.nz/shop/the-death-of-music-journalism/
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