Impression reversal

The young man named Renly Hall stepped onto the stage, taking a seat at the center with a faint smile on his lips. He playfully remarked, "Thank you, Ed, for your introduction and kind words. But I believe that everyone here tonight isn't exactly here to watch an episode of "American Idol"."

During the live weeks of "American Idol", a segment had been set up where two singers performed the same song, and their performances were judged and compared.

Renly's banter clearly ridiculed this, causing the audience to erupt in laughter. However, George's distaste grew even stronger. Glib tongue! This didn't look like a singer at all; it was more akin to a talk show host. How ridiculous.

"Tonight is Monday, just after a weekend of hustle and bustle. Now it's time to unwind a bit," Renly held his guitar, appearing relaxed and in good spirits. This stage was his most familiar territory; the cozy and easy-going atmosphere of the live setting completely eased his state of mind. His words followed suit, "So, I'll perform a little tune, hoping to add a touch of smiles to this night."

George's brows furrowed once more. A little tune? A folk tune? These tunes were actually more challenging to create. A so-called little tune was essentially an improvisational exercise, and it reflected the composer's accumulation and foundation. While it might lack depth, its essence was richer. Definitely not something any creator could casually claim, "I've written a little tune." Otherwise, that would be presumptuous.

George couldn't help but sneer.

Seated on the stage, Renly lowered his head and gently plucked the guitar strings. The clear and resonant sound of the guitar strings flowed through the thick atmosphere of the bar like a clear stream, gently easing the commotion. The light, lazy, and carefree essence danced within the melody's score, while the carefree melody was like the sunlight at three o'clock on a summer afternoon, with the air carrying the moisture of dampness and the dryness of dust. It was refreshing and pleasant, making people unconsciously bask in it, and causing a gentle curve to form at the corners of their lips.

This momentarily left George in a daze.

"Los Angeles, she's a lady all dressed up for a riot" Renly's voice carried a slight smile, like a butterfly poised atop a blossom, gracefully flapping its wings. His mesmerizing vibrato bore a purity akin to milk, and the ambiance of the entire bar unconsciously relaxed.

[

With her hand on the remote control

She's flipping stations, watching car chases

Watching car chases

]

The melody was simple and the lyrics straightforward. All emotions appeared to be nonchalantly depicted, much like the simplest white shirt. Yet, true connoisseurs knew that the white shirt was actually the most sophisticated. George discerned a deep meaning from it and conjured up a beautiful scene in his mind:

A captivating lady, adorned amid the tumultuous crowd of a riot, stood quietly observing the ebb and flow of people and the ever-changing world. Her long hair, resembling a black waterfall, cascaded down behind her head, with a vivid red flower pinned in place, harmoniously juxtaposed against the blossoming skirt. Amid the chaos, a serene tranquility prevailed, an experience of world-worn wisdom navigating the turbulence, vividly delineating the power of time.

[

Seattle, she is lonely

Waiting in the northern woods

Soaking wet and green

Drinking caffeine

]

The white shirt seemed freshly laundered, the fragrance of jasmine mingling with the dry scent of sunlight. Even the singing style lacked any embellishment. The plain narrative carried aloofness and indifference, like quietly observing the ebb and flow of tides, the dance of clouds, inducing an air of casualness in the smile.

George couldn't help but close his eyes. The woman in the white dress stood forlornly beside the endless white birch woods. The continuous drizzle moistened the air, and the boundless green became lush and vibrant. Yet, amidst the aroma of coffee, she stood alone, waiting for a lover, a family member, a friend, or perhaps... waiting for herself. The sense of emptiness and loss, akin to wisps of mist, diffused and spread.

The guitar strings danced amidst the amber halo, evoking a carefree and unbridled wandering minstrel. The world quietened, but the cacophony around grew, creating such immense contrast that it entrapped one, rendering them unable to escape—a world only they could hear. Loneliness, desolation, sorrow, and loss... lightly wafted within the chest.

"New York, New York, she's resilient and rough, hanging out under streetlights and laughing, and laughing, laughing..." George's eyes welled up, a sudden pang of sourness surging as if standing amidst the vastness of New York City, amid the surging crowd, yet utterly alone. This loneliness amidst the laughter and revelry easily dismantled all defenses, ruthlessly struck the depths of the soul, and he found himself inadvertently leaning in to listen to the clear, mature voice singing, "... laughing at the days to come, she's laughing at the days to come."

New York, their New York, uniquely theirs. She was like a festive silhouette, always smiling, dancing, and lonely, never truly melding into the world. This was the quintessential New York disposition, only discernible to those who truly immersed themselves, who genuinely savored it, capturing that fleeting desolation.

Without warning, George's restlessness settled.

"San Francisco, she wears fishnets, and high, high heels..." The gentle, tender voice lifted, causing the corners of his mouth to follow suit, as if the entire world was gradually brightening, "With her lips open wide as she breathes out a sigh, moving slowly down the street with her back to the east, with her heart on her sleeve and her face to the sea."

That graceful silhouette, those enchanting high heels, the tattered shawl, akin to a Bohemian wanderer on the fringes of history, forever in wanderlust, headed westward, slowly, languidly, gently advancing into an unknown future. Life could never find solace, forever on the road, the unsettling vicissitudes already ingrained in the blood, lingering in every corner of the world.

"With her heart on her sleeve and her face to the sea."

The seemingly casual lyrics resonated like poetry, wisdom and philosophy concealed between the lines, as though having witnessed the world's vicissitudes, traversed the ebbs and flows of existence. This was a true little tune, polished by years, seasoned by time, impacted by society, tempered by the soul—transforming those intricate emotions into the simplest of melodies. It was as if casually humming a tune while sharing a beer during dinner, yet it bore witness to a life, to years lived.

George slowly opened his eyes, gazing at the central figure on the stage, still youthful and naive. His lips maintained a perpetual smile, as if he had unfurled wings, soaring with the wind like a carefree bird, embracing the sky and the earth, audaciously flying over mountains and seas. A faint smile was enough to illuminate the entire world.

Then, he softly sang, "With her heart on her sleeve and her face... to the... sea."

That heartwarming and serene disposition, facing the ocean in spring's embrace, traversed between the lively musical notes. The slightly ascending melody then slid along a graceful trajectory, descending lightly like the feather in "Forrest Gump", transcending time and space, gently wafting through the heart.

George's gaze remained fixed on that figure, lingering, unwilling to leave. He could perceive the minstrel-like sophistication and freedom, a sense of indulgence and nonconformity akin to wandering the world. The power of time seemed to glide rapidly across his fingertips, leaving behind traces unseen by others.

George's heart surged with excitement, the kind of uncontainable elation and exuberance that made him want to jump up. He'd faced many trials and tribulations, even shared a stage with Bob Dylan back in the day. In the industry, while not a venerable elder, he wasn't too far from it. But it had been so long, he couldn't even remember the last time he felt this thrilled. Was it when he first heard Norah Jones's debut album? Was that in 2001 or 2002?

What truly exhilarated George wasn't just this song, but the talent and aptitude radiating from the melody. Honestly, this song couldn't compare to the earlier "Ophelia". It might even be slightly less polished than "The A Team". However, it was a little tune, a chance discovery of a tune—simple chords coupled with straightforward lyrics, delivered in a simple manner. Yet, it was so exquisite that it rendered language colorless.

Although it was just a song, it was enough for George to be willing to meet the artist in person. He'd agreed to Stanley's invitation tonight, thinking it might be a wasted trip. Now, however, he'd found a rare treasure. This feeling was becoming hard for George to contain.

What was even more remarkable was that George would not forget his initial bias due to age disparity and the song's melancholy. The absolute contrast between them was as if encountering prodigies like LeAnn Rimes or Norah Jones who achieved fame at a young age, shaking people to their core. When Norah burst onto the scene with "Come Away with Me", her debut album, jazz was in demand, requiring a blend of voice, talent, and aptitude. It managed to excite the entire North American music scene. Now, had he stumbled upon a second Norah?

In an instant, the impression made a complete 180-degree turn.

Although he had overturned his own judgment, George didn't feel a shred of embarrassment. If he could encounter a genuine musical genius, a bit of embarrassment hardly mattered.

George was a pure music enthusiast, unwaveringly dedicated and wholeheartedly immersed in the art. He was even more focused than Stanley. Far from being flustered, he was getting more excited. He involuntarily sat up straight, his gaze intensely fixed on the stage. His spirit was highly concentrated, developing a profound interest in the upcoming performance.