The Best Actor in the Vase of Meiyu

Chapter 1169 A Lonely Lamp

Whoosh, whoosh, the wind is blowing hard.

The outside world has completely fallen into the night, with steaming smoke lingering in the air. Even the street lights and car lights cannot dispel the heavy night.

I looked at the time and it was only half past five.

Pushing open the door and walking into the bar, the creamy yellow light and alcohol with the aroma of wheat hit me in the face, wrapping my body and stretching my muscles.

The door creaked and shook, and the noisy roar and the cold cold current flickered, and finally when the door was completely closed, all were blocked out, and the world became quiet in an instant.

At this time, it was not yet dinner time, so there were not many people in the bar.

Moreover, the evening show had just begun, and the popular heavy underground singers from Manhattan and Brooklyn were still in the back, and the atmosphere was still warming up.

Looking around, there were only four tables of guests, and the whole space seemed particularly empty.

The guests were chatting and laughing, immersed in their own world and didn't notice the changes on the stage at all.

The sound of clinking wine glasses, the smell of cigarettes, the murmur of lively conversation, and all kinds of trivial noises from the kitchen and outside the door surged in.

Anson stepped onto the stage with his guitar on his back.

Confirm the microphone, sound system, lighting, etc. with ease.

Then he carried a stool onto the stage, sat down quietly, bathed in the light, and began to tune the strings.

Calm and focused, as if this was the only important thing in the world; careful and gentle, the movements on the guitar strings reveal love.

Involuntarily, an illusion arises that time seems to slow down in this space.

Inadvertently, my eyes drifted towards the stage and fell on that figure. I couldn't help but look at it a few more times, and my turbulent emotions calmed down quietly.

But he was unable to stay there for too long, as he retracted his gaze at his companion's call and continued the conversation, temporarily forgetting about the figure on the stage.

At the bar, Edward-Bowes was wiping the tabletop. He looked up at Anson, who was tuning his guitar, and sighed.

Anson said he was exploring a character and he was entering the character's world in his own way.

Obviously, things are not that simple.

However, Edward still didn't understand what was going on in these actors' heads.

What's more, Anson already has everything, he can call the wind and rain and make soldiers out of beans. What's wrong with continuing to be a vase, just like Adam Sandler, continuing to act crazy and stupid with peace of mind, repeating himself continuously in different movies, making large sums of US dollars easily, lying in his own mansion, and letting those trolls go to hell.

Isn’t this better than heaven?
But if you think about it carefully, Edward seems to have no way to condemn Anson.

Look at himself. When other bars are surrendering to pop and dance music, he still firmly believes that the atmosphere brought by "live performances" is different.

What they need is not the synthesized sounds produced by electronic synthesizers, losing themselves in endless rhythms and drum beats, leaving only nothingness after the brief pleasure, and the music is thrown into the trash can; but real instruments, real sounds, and real live performances, to build a bridge between performers and audiences and feel the melody.

Maybe, this is life.

They can always choose a simple way to quietly hide their edges and colors and go with the flow until they can't recognize themselves anymore.

They can also choose a complicated method, insisting on finding themselves and embracing themselves, facing the reality calmly, and exploring what life should be like in reality.

This is also the most special thing about New York, because there is still a group of stubborn idiots who insist on the latter, and every outlier can find his own corner here.

Just then Anson looked up, noticed Edward's gaze, and smiled.

Edward glared at Anson fiercely as if he was stung, and hurriedly looked away, covering himself up and pretending to be busy. Obviously, Anson did not have the ability to read minds and could not guess Edward's thoughts.

Anson lowered his eyes again and gently plucked the guitar strings with his fingertips.

Edward looked at Anson again, sighed softly, turned around and dimmed the lights around him, leaving only the beam of light above the stage.

The orange and gold colors are mixed with a hint of dark red, which falls down warmly and gently, shrouding the entire stage in a caramel-colored halo.

The exposed brick walls and pipes, simple stage and equipment, simplify things, and everything becomes the background, focusing on the singer.

A lamp, a chair, and a microphone.

Then, a guitar.

That's all.

There was no opening words or self-introduction. Anson's fingertips gently plucked the strings. The clear and melodious notes were like pebbles rolling and colliding in a gurgling stream, embarking on a distant journey in the misty morning light.

The performance is not loud, noisy or abrupt, and is perfectly invisible in the background.

Obviously, Anson had no intention of reminding the audience. He just wanted to play quietly. It didn't matter even if no one paid attention or appreciated his performance. He just needed a corner to quietly tell the story of his life.

That's enough.

The melody is clear and bright, melodious and graceful.

There are no lyrics. Anson just hums the melody softly. The notes ring between the resonance of his vocal cords, infusing the softness and delicacy from the depths of his soul into the melody, which slowly floats through the microphone and stirs up layers of ripples.

Somewhat surprisingly, I didn't sing loudly or indulge myself, but just hummed a little tune, which made the hustle and bustle of the outside world gradually fade away, and the bustle of the tavern rolled in the empty space.

Inadvertently, with a glance, my heart was already slowly falling and sinking before I realized it—

what is this?
It sounds very, very familiar, but I can't remember it at the moment.

Just then, Jim came to the table with beer and the guest grabbed him and asked.

Jim, "Oh, the Travelers Band, 'Five Hundred Miles.'

Suddenly I realized, that's it!
In music history, the Beatles' "Yesterday" is known as the most covered song, and the only song that can compare with it is "500-Miles".

This song was written in 1961 and included in the album of the same name by the trio The-Journeyman. Over the past years, countless singers around the world have covered it.

Later, the song was covered again in the 2013 movie “Inside Llewyn Davis,” awakening countless memories and becoming one of the most popular songs in the movie soundtrack.

Familiar melodies, familiar tunes, my mind seemed to have memories, but I couldn't remember them for a moment. When others gave the answer, I suddenly realized it, and memories came flooding back like a tide -

What is familiar is not the music, but the people who listened to the music with me, those stories and those memories.

Although there are no lyrics, the humming tune makes memories deep in my mind surge, and if I'm not paying attention I'll be trapped in my own vortex of time and space.

Looking ahead, the focus of vision slowly dissipated into the void.

Listen, that person is singing softly.

"I've been five hundred miles away from home before I knew it, leaving home, leaving home..."

(End of this chapter)