Behind the Melody

A dark figure stands alone on the side of a bridge. A saxophone, reflecting the lights of street lamps and passing cars, is clutched in his hands. He stands motionless for what seems like an eternity. Cars go by. As the street lamps flicker the one closest to him goes out, leaving him in complete darkness. Every now and then another car goes by, illuminating the figure standing silently on the side of the bridge for an instant before driving by.
After what seems like years a single note pierces the still and quiet air. Not a loud note, nor a sharp one. A simple G, alone and without company, sustained for a few seconds and then lost amid a flurry of passing cars. The sound begins again. The G pierces the air again, followed by a slow and mournful melody. Each note reveals the innermost recesses of the artist's soul, disappearing as fast as they come. Far to fast for anyone to read upon them the true feelings of the man, but long enough for a casual listener to bathe in the sheer beauty of every note and phrase. Finally the song comes to a close, and the dark figure sustains the last note for several seconds as the cars go by.
He does not wait for the applause of a non-existent audience. The world has already rejected this man and the music he brings. Now he has nothing more to do but to play his mournful tunes to all who will listen, and all too often he finds his only audience to be the raging currents beneath the ill-lit bridge. Another tune starts up. As the notes and phrases progress, a listener can detect a basic melody hidden deep within the notes. Every action is precise, every decision contributes to the song, every song is part of a concert, and every concert is played out on this bridge, while the only that this man ever receives is the sound of waves clapping heartily on the rocks below. Sometimes he allows his mind to wander, and wonders why he shouldn't end it now, throwing himself and his saxophone down onto the jagged rocks. His answer to this question is simple. As long as he can please someone with the sound of his music, he's like to remain alive, and he always pleases himself.
"Too far ahead of his time." the critics had said after going to the little hole of a club where he played.  

"Complicated and uninteresting" read the review on the night in which he had played "My Favorite Things". The owner of the club had promised to keep him for as long as possible. He stayed at the club for one week before the owner had no choice but to send him on his way.
 After a week playing in an almost empty jazz club, he was left with nowhere to go. The lone figure on the side of the bridge finally picks up his saxophone and begins to play again. He plays "My Funny Valentine"...his favorite. He always holds the last note in his heart. The notes came and went. Some are sustained for a long time, some are released almost immediately. With each improvised phrase the artist reveals himself, and then just as quickly, the notes disappear and the musician returns to his hiding place behind the melody.