Angeles on the set list

The day Matthew arrived in Los Angeles, melancholy hung in the smog, even as the happiness of a sunshine world pierced the untroubled skyline. His stay will be a brief two days, arriving for two specific and opposing reasons; life and death. His livelihood as a musician brings him to LA the same day as the funeral of his dearly departed grandfather.

Mere hours after the funeral, Matthew enters the UnUrban Café, the type of place that exists only after a city has arrived. He sidles into the back where the stage rests. An eclectic mix of chairs, old theatre seats, and the small stage, he rests his guitar at the front to wait until the other musician finishes. He sits, foot anxious and restless, tapping.

The funeral was at two. The rest of his family arrives, and departs, directly from the airport, not staying the night. Neither his grandfather, nor any other member of his family, grew up in Los Angeles. But his Grandfather wished to be buried with his people of the past. His family hadn’t had ancestors there for several generations, which is why Matthew didn’t understand his grandfather’s will, but nonetheless his grandfather returned to rest with them. His parents sat in the front row, closest to the casket, along with his aunts and uncles. He finds it strange it’s been so long since the family’s gathered, but now they’re here. The air holds the unifying disconnect of seeing long lost family, and the smell of roses.

Up on stage, Matthew greets his small crowd with warmth; a mixture of hope that the donation jar would get him to the next town (and maybe a meal,) and of genuine love for the intimate connection music inspires in total strangers. Music. A connection created that feels even closer than at the funeral, with a whole family of strangers. Matthew knew his grandfather well, but there was a whole life lived before him. His grandfather’s cousin. A childhood friend. A neighbor Matthew just never met, along with many others. A connection. Music. Death. Death connects us all to our past. But so does music. This music, it’s got a history; John Henry’s hammer, Poncho Villas’ guns, his grandfather’s guitar. But they’re all dead. He’s onstage, alive, but has their music in his fingertips.

Being a Catholic mass, Matthew had the time to get lost in his head; explored his confusion of why his grandfather wanted to be buried in LA (thinking he chose it, not understanding the compulsion he felt), of why his lost ancestors mattered, of the link lost from grandfather to grandson, losing that grounding he unknowingly felt which is the same way gravity keeps a close eye on one’s feet allowing them to stand firm but still move, the same connection which flows through blood with a gravity of generations. Matthew has yet to connect that his loss is his grandfather’s loss and compulsion to rest with his people. His grandfather was the cornerstone of his past, and present. Where is his future?

Without his anchor, Matthew wanders. On stage, he realizes he’s playing distracted, ruining his set. Distracted all day, he’s disconnected from everything. He stands alone on his island, with his guitar. He feels the connection to death, but not to music. He cuts his set short.

He steps into the night air. Los Angeles whisper his name. You’ve come home, they say. What is it about this place, he wonders. They whisper, hoping he will listen. His soul is stirred, but confusion still reigns.

He’s caught in the throng leaving. All depart.