The playing and performance of music is a mysterious practice. Sometimes it is as simple as breathing, sometimes it is as passionate as torrid lovemaking, and sometimes it is as mystical as angels in flight. This summer I learned that Lawrence Wiseman, a legend in Avery County North Carolina, had given up breath in this life and had moved on to the next. A few years ago I wrote a story about one of his later performances. I’d like to publish it here, out of respect to Lawrence and his family, and in a sense of wonder about the gift that music confers upon some special individuals like Lawrence:

The Ancient Fiddler
In his eighties, he isn’t too steady on his feet. His eyes seem more vacant than even the last time I saw him. But he is there, standing at the back of the auditorium.
“Come on up here, Lawrence,” the announcer calls from the stage. “Play the ‘Orange Blossom Special’.” It is fortunate that the call is so loud and clear, since he can no longer hear very well. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first man to ever record that famous song. Let’s give him a hand as he makes his way to the front.”
The old man stiffly shuffles to the stage and removes an apparently ancient fiddle from its simple, black case. The others on stage do what they can to help him position himself in front of an open microphone.
He scrunches up his face as he tries to hear if his fiddle is in tune, drawing the horsehair bow across the taut strings of the diminutive instrument. At first the sound seems tentative, uncertain. Expectant members of the audience hear little more than “sqwawks” and “plinks” as he feebly turns some tuning gears, ever so slightly modulating the sound.
Then he looks across at his bandmates. As he looks, a glow seems to come into his aged eyes, a flush colors his skin, and at an apparently invisible signal, the group begins to play.
At first there is just the sound of the bow being drawn slow and steady across the strings, the other instruments forming a steady restrained background sound. Then the fiddle teases, builds, rises in volume, pitch, and intensity until the audience is drawn as one to the edge of their seats. As they sit there waiting, anticipating, the band maintains the excruciatingly suspenseful strains until with one burst, the band explodes into the fast section of “The Orange Blossom Special.”
No longer, now, does the ancient fiddler seem unsteady or doddering. No longer does he seem tentative and marginal. Now his fiddle is soaring like a hawk. His whole body pulsates to the rhythm of the music. His face is animated like that of a trained athlete. And the energy in the audience is frenetic. Clapping stomping, whistling, cheering – the cacauphany of the crowd only serves to raise the performance level of the band. Stand up bass, banjo, guitar, mandolin, but most prominently the fiddle, spreads fire from the floor to the rafters. Soon the sound of the band merges with the towering crescendo of the crowd, the climax coming on one massive downbeat of every instrument at once, leaving the delirious audience to explode into unrestrained appreciation.
When the noise of the crowd diminishes just enough for someone to be heard again over the sound system, the announcer’s voice sounds:
“Well, how ‘bout it! Lawrence Wiseman, the first person ever to record ‘The Orange Blossom Special’! Not too bad for an old fella! In fact, not bad for any fella!”
Some members of the band walk over and pat the fiddle player on the back – not hard, but gently and with genuine respect. Some make eye contact and shake their heads in the restrained way that artists sometimes do, mouthing their words of praise since they still could not be heard over the crowd noise.
Then as the applause gradually fades to an appreciative murmur, the fiddle player, seems to morph back into the form of an old man, carefully carrying his fiddle to its awaiting case. Once more his skin appears pale and paper thin. Once more his back seems to sag in response to gravity, and his uncertain legs begin to shuffle him back to his place in the dark recesses of the auditorium.
People call to him as he passes, but his weak ears hear little. And his eyes seem focused on some destination that takes all his energy to reach. By the time he reaches the middle of the hall, the music resumes from the stage, enveloping all. And once more, he disappears – into memories, into history. — Bob Tatum