Refugee

Refugee

They lost the music.
Not the plot ?
Not the way ?
Just the music ?
JUST the music?
What else is there but the music?
The guitarist takes a firm grip, his left hand press down against
frets, the fingers of his
right hand pluck strings
Silence
Lights flash from polished wood, a bow sets violin string
quivering
Silence
A murmur of discontent begins in the back row and surfs down the
terraced seats
The drummer with angry eyes twirls sticks then bounces them off taut
pig skin
Silence

Outside, a group gathers, different from the usual crowd
'Let us go in - we have things to offer'
'The music is forbidden in our Home'
A giant, 'Crowd Safety' across his back, holds up his hand
'You don't belong here - go back'
'You are too old - go back'

Inside, musicians regroup, confused
The audience stomp, discordant, not music
The bass player gestures to the audience, pleading settles on his stool
flexes his
fingers
Vibrations are drawn from lengths of G-string
Silence
Currents of slow clapping ripple through the theatre
Not rhythmic, impatient, angry
'Make the music!' they call

Outside, more oldies sail up in a beaten up bus that smokes to a
stop
A wheel falls off
'Let us go in - we have things to offer'
'Leave the way you came'
Crowd Safety waves his baton
'We can't leave'
'Our bus has sunk'
'I'm just following orders' the giant excuses
'If it were up to me you could all come in'

Inside a small group near the door becomes aware of the fuss in the
street
'Beware' call the group
'There are oldies outside and they want to come in'
'Let them come' says a Lone Voice, hidden in the crowd
'They have something to offer'
'They have nowhere else to go'
'No, no' answers the majority
'They will change what we do'
'They will pollute the music'
'Haven't you noticed that there IS no music' reminds the Lone
Voice
'Send them back where they came from' demands the majority
'They are different from us'
'They don't fit in here'
'They don't know the same songs that we do'
More giants in jackets line up a the door to keep the music safe from
the oldies

Outside more buses full of oldies arrive in clouds of smoke and
scatterings of broken
parts
'No, no' says Crowd Safety
'They don't want you here'
'We have nowhere to go' say the oldies
'We can't stay in a Home where the music is forbidden'
'Anyway, the buses are broken and can't take us back'
''That's too bad' says Crowd Safety 'the best I can offer is this room
over here'
'There are bars on the windows and it's a bit small'
'You will be quite overcrowded and there's only one loo'
'That's OK' says an oldie 'it will just have to do'
'At least it is a Peaceful Solution'

Inside the argument is growing louder
With no music to sooth them, the savage beasts are rumpusing
'Make the music' demands the audience
'We can't' says the band
'It is gone'
'Let in the oldies' says the Lone Voice
'They will know what to do'
'They had the music once'
'Maybe they can find it again'

Outside one of the oldies, wiser than the others or sneakier, evades
the eye of Crowd
Safety
She is dressed like the audience
'Mutton dressed as lamb' they said at the Home

Through the doors of the theatre she slips unseen by the giants in
jackets fooled by
lace and Decor?
She stops for a moment at the top of the stairs
Is this what she has given up so much for?
Is this where she really wanted to be?
Ugly children with sad faces shouting discordantly
At least the Home was home
Then she hears the Lone Voice calling for her
Looking up, she sees the lose on the faces of the band
They've known the music and now it has gone
Head down to hide wrinkles, she slips through a crowd too angry to
notice one more
little chickie in denim and lace
Down, down the aisle she creeps in the dark, wondering when the
children all got to
be so tall
On and on presses the oldie while around her the argument rages
'Let them in' calls the Lone Voice
'Keep them out' calls the crowd
'Make the music, we want the music' cry them all

Above the cacophony a new sound is heard, faint at first and barely
noticed
'Stop', shouts the Lone Voice
'Stop the rumpus and listen'
As sound like sweet syrup floating through air begins at the stage and
ripples out
through the hall stilling the row
In the glow of the spot light a wrinkled oldie in denim and lace makes
music flow
from a bright silver flute
The guitarist takes a firm grip, his left hand press down against
frets, the fingers of his
right hand pluck strings
His music joins the flute colouring the shadows between her notes
Lights flash from polished wood, a bow sets violin string
quivering
The sounds add a tingle to the growing mix
The bass player fingers strings vibrations are drawn from lengths of
G-string to fill in
the deep spots the flute has left blank
The drummer whose eyes now sparkle with light twirls sticks then
bounces them off
taut pig skin and adds rhythm to the sound
Music - the music has been found