The house I lived in before this one was built around a tree. The tree was enclosed in glass, and inquisitive nocturnal creatures such as raccoons could be seen nightly. There was a sleeping porch atop the back shed and carport. In the carport was an upright piano. And it was in tune. And, until that day when it vanished sometime between morning and evening, at least once a month, at around three in the morning, someone would come and play beautiful music on that piano. Some of the music owed a debt to Thelonious Monk; some betrayed evidence of serious training in the classical repertoire.

I love those evenings when strains of melody are borne on the breeze from afar. This happens more often at night than in the daytime. Some people don’t love it at all, of course, thinking of it as noise, and I myself prefer the full range of sound, from the lowest bass to the most delicate treble. Unfortunately, it’s the bass and percussion that seem to be the last to decay over distance.

This weekend brought accomplished music from somewhere nearby. Had it not been so late, I would have been very tempted to track the music to its source, which must have been very close at hand. Avatars of Django and Stephane were playing, along with all proper accompaniment.

Long ago, I worked in a converted rooming house that was reputed once to have been home to Janis Joplin. Back when certain neighborhood structures were communes, some of them were musicians’ establishments. Even now, there are many working musicians nearby, but they practice elsewhere. I had never heard this particular aggregation before, but I certainly hope to hear it again, and often.