I had every intention to review a concert.
A review with cute witticisms-
And polarizing opinions-
I saw on a stage a man who crooned, blinking at me, whistling whimsical.

You see—it’s intended to be framed in poetry.

Carefully orchestrated and spontaneous Bird pulled us in two directions; and yet, we weren’t Stretch Armstrong’s—there was nowhere to go but up… and we would never dream of relinquishing the warm-fuzzy hum dwelling within the pit of our stomachs for loftier heights. We found a place instead for ourselves, away from the intoxicated, the girl who shouted, “I want your money, Bird. Give it to me,” the couples, hair raised from tender touching, who occupied a rented moment. We found a place between the burning red lights and pleasantly spaced instruments (colors and shapes Seuss could admire). When the lights glowed low, there were shadows dancing on a plastic ceiling, creating fanciful shapes.

This concert—so like a dream—an adventure beginning and ending on perfectly devised notes—the skeptic could describe it as stoic, but there was no hint of the apathetic charmer behind the performer’s mask. Tossing aside emotion, Bird could have embedded us deeply, but he chose a reticent route. Wooed us instead with simple backgrounds, amiable lights, a Pan-like figure playing upon a clarinet. Not devoid of emotion, we were somewhere beyond it, somewhere surreal. Emotion can be cheap, comedy more difficult, but this was something else.

Some adventure, my dad would say, after deviating paths on a dark highway or while hiking. We would whistle when we were lost and wishing to be found. Against a backdrop of rain, against the crowd, whistling not to be found but to conduct, he led us through a tangled puzzle (a crescendo of words and music, stratiform), a maze of his own devices. The perspiration that could cause such perfectly balanced notes to fall, indefatigable…looking back, it seems impossible we would ever believe we were the ones stretching ourselves thin.