FOURTEEN DREAMS. TWO MUSICIANS. ONE ALBUM.

1. 
Nestled in the centre of Budapest, stands an edifice called the Budapest Music Center (BMC). It could be a real tangible thing or it could just be
a dream- that is something I will never know for sure. As I walked around the empty streets surrounding it on a quiet lonely Sunday, the space was deserted and a strange kind of silence weighed heavily in the air. Later that day, in a labyrinth of sound, two musicians were to meet and record what could just as easily have been a dream. One was Greek, speaking the language of sun and sea; the other, German, versed in shadows and structure. Between them: vibraphone and contrabass, instruments that belong to different elements — one to air, the other to earth. The music, like the building it was to be forged in, was nestled between composition and improvisation, as if no one knew whether it is being discovered, remembered, composed, or dreamed (as in my case). In its phrases I heard fragments of jazz, the lucid geometries of contemporary notation, and the ancient pulse of folk songs whose origins are no longer known. As I stood there and witnessed, without even wanting to, I began to dream.

2. 
On the second floor of the center, an old man* in a wheelchair slowly glides past me nonchalantly. Whilst trying to step out of his way my phone is activated in my pocket and plays a melody, the song is Feed the Fire. His ears visibly twitch and tune in and I hear him mutter something in Hungarian.The only word I could pick out was “Bach”, then something that surely was a swear word. They say here he is a famous composer who likes detail. I like detail too. But the music of Feed the Fire has already touched his soul whether he wanted it or not. As the walking bass kicks in he slowly wheels into the library without much ado, still muttering to himself forgotten mantras in Hungarian.

3.
I’m on the Danube dropping a handstand next to oversized boats carrying American tourists through Europe. I try to hold the stance as long as the files of overweight couples stream out with earpieces listening to the history of both Buda and Pest. The vibes of She Dreams seem to come from either the sky or the ship’s loudspeaker - I can’t quite tell - and it’s a melody that stays with you long after first hearing. It takes a sudden minor turn in the piece’s coda just as the full tragedy of the spectacle before me dissolves and my arms finally give in.
* György Kurtág, composer

4.
I’m tracking my 7th double espresso at a coffee bar close to the dream edifice of the BMC. The barrister is sweet and timeless and it feels just right to keep returning for caffeine and innocent small talk. The vibraphone coming from the tiny bluetooth speaker has a space tremolo – A boldly delicious slice of watermelon is the track and it shot me back in time to the 1920’s. There seems to be a formality and method in the open space of this music. Unlike my dream state the form drives forth with intention and clarity, like it’s reminding me of something long forgotten but still intact in my bone marrow somewhere.

5.
There is a wide open skylight above my bed in the centre and as the moonlight floods in I dream I’ve shrunk to a 5cm figure and have entered into the interior of the double bass through one of those beautiful S-like patterns on its face. The pizzicatos of O on a theme by Gawlik vibrate my tiny form and  I hear the vibraphone from within the maple wood. The final decrescendo is delicious. I felt it could go on forever and I would die a happy death inside the bass – maybe I did.

6.
Early morning sunrise by the Danube and as I run I am stopped by an elderly man who wants to ask me about my leather strap up sandals. He points to the sky and speaks out the word “Zeus”. He has a Mongolian tint in his face with his deeply set eyes weather-beaten face and though he only speaks Hungarian we manage with some gestures to understand that we have both seen some things in life we love: horses, meat, rivers, women, the sky, and music. As he speaks the tiny bell on his wrist bracelet rattles in time with his words. In my head I have the track Low Gravity and the foot bells of the bassist seem to match perfectly the cadence of my new friend I silently name Genghis - once seen, once, left, yet forever in heart.

7.
I’m in a brightly illuminated dive bar well after midnight buying a round for the 7 tables of stoic Hungarians. The first song sounds out on the speaker as the bassist cues the jukebox – Trickle - as the bass is bowed the drinkers signal slight apprehension and a heavy silence pervades. Then the strong 
picking on the gut strings under the vibes and the evolving uni-sono line locks in and the room starts to move with the groove. Smiles and glasses clinking underpin the trickling melody. It’s a unique blend of joy and Hungarian restraint.

8.
By night there is an old beaten up grand piano in the centre and because the only other inhabitant (the aforementioned composer) is apparently deaf it can be played fortissimo after midnight. I’m playing some lines with the bassist based on the song Melodie as I remember it from the session. The song had a kind of natural polyphony that only improvisation can achieve and together we recreate it an inebriated way. Like so many of the songs of this duo, something begins, takes form for a fleeting moment, but is then quickly and elegantly transformed into something else. A bit like life.

9.
I love the Way you’re breaking my Heart is beyond my personal dreamscape timescale. It could be happening right now in Budapest or it could be in the 1930’s in a distant land far over the Atlantic. Listening to it reminds me of the moment I wake in another random hotel having no idea where I am and being completely happy to remain in that state of disorientation for as long as possible. That’s about how long I’d like to stay in this song- as long as it goes. If that really is the voice of the Vibraphone player then perhaps there is hope after all. But maybe I am just a lost dreamer adrift in Buda.

10.
A Marimba sounds. The heavy wood which takes me to the pacific. I am in a karaoke bar filled with Filipinos and Columbians. The theme song from Titanic is called and I reach to the tin whistle which just happens to be residing in my pocket. The barkeepers are delighted and immediately put the mic close to the whistle. It is a moment of bliss. Out of the ecstasy of this moment the song New Life emerges. I could be on Tahiti in a village party, or I could be in this Budapest karaoke bar, this I will also never know and never need to.

11.
The duo plays a gig in the club of the dream centre on the final night and the crowd is silent and concentrated. All of the songs I had heard before, but with all 133 ears tuned in deeply to the music, it took on a new form (there was one patron with one ear - yes, I counted them). Aisling hit me especially hard but the reasons for that would be far too personal to include in this dream. Pain should not be called out by its name. But neither beauty. They can and should remain unnamed. Let poets and musicians approach them and circle their wagons around them. 

12.
I need to escape so much beauty so I run south on the river to an island named Margit-Sziget. Hungarian beauties in bikinis and high heels strut by the open pool as I do freestyle laps, bilateral breathing all the way. The mixture of this and the sounds of their language reinforce the dream aspect of this vibrant scene. There is a broken loudspeaker playing the song Your own. At a certain point I let myself sink in the water as the tremolo on the vibraphone and the sound of a familiar Saxophone floats above. Through the ripples in the water the sky turns violet and the high heels make poly rhythms on the concrete.

13.
As I hear the words I miss your grace, there is no place for you and I, it’s do or die, the bartender is telling me she likes the smell of my perfume. But I have no perfume on me. The only scent on me is one of rejection, loss, and solitude. I thank her all the same and return to the song which finishes with the words “afar”. There is a heavily charged pause in the air before the crowd erupts into applause, shattering the fragile aether but with good intentions.

14.
The building of the Budapest Music Center has sharp edges of concrete. The music does not. Rather its ones are smooth and contoured. Yet both have one thing in common: when I stand on the corner next to the farmers market and observe and remember them both, they both fade and blend into the open sky- the physical one I see and the sky that stays when I close my eyes until the colours all fade into black. It could easily be a mirage, like all of these songs. The marimba closes this album in setting up the bass melody of Alma Mia. It is hopelessly romantic. Maybe I was there. Maybe I was not. Maybe I am hopelessly romantic. Maybe I’m simply lost. Maybe nothing of this existed at all. But how beautiful the memory is. And was. And always will be. 

Hayden Chisholm