The Guitar Gently Weeps

Inspired by a true Singapore Story set in the 70s titled 'Sonny's Blues'

Sonny was late as he hobbled from the bus station, lugging his Fender Stratocaster over his frail shoulders, with a cigarette in one hand. It was typical of Sonny, a local guitar god to some to perpetually stride in a few minutes late for every of his live stage performances. But it was already an hour past his scheduled set, and the crowd were anxious to catch a glimpse of Singapore's very own 'Jimi Hendrix'.

Sonny burst through the back door, with his hair sprawled across his face, blanketing his forlorn and faraway look. Sonny looked worried, but the dim lights shrouded his boyish face, casting a gloomy shadow and the event organizers pulled him into his room hastily, so that he could make the necessary preperations to mesmerize the anticipating audience.

Tuning the strings of his Fender Stratocaster, Sonny could hear the muffled roars of the crowd outside. It only took him a few seconds to put his gear together and Sonny stood up and walked toward the vanity mirror. He scattered everything on the wooden table onto the floor and he frantically rummaged his jeans for his daily 'prescription'.

Sonny careully straightened up a line of pure China White cocaine with his guitar pick on the table's surface and in one swift motion, snorted it into his blood stream. The effect was instantaneous as he felt the ultimate high...perfect to take the crowd away into a dream holocaust. Looking at his reflection, Sonny knew that his bloodshot eyes were a massive giveaway. Sonny couldn't care less.

Sonny staggered onto the stage struggling to find his footing, refusing to acknowledge the rapturous applause. It wasn't because of pride, but Sonny was in such a fucking high, that it rendered him speechless. Dazed and confused, Sonny jammed his guitar jack into the amplifier and began tuning his guitar once more.

Requesting a stool, he carefully placed it in the middle of the stage, so that the spotlight would flood onto his petite frame. The thunderous applause ceased slowly and the silence that crept henceforth was chilling. The floodlights on Sonny was so bright that all he could see of the crowd was pitch darkness. This was perfect, Sonny thought to himself for he felt alone once again, an optimum clause for the perfect performance.

Sonny let the crowd in to his world of fantasy and mind boggling hallucination with his impeccable guitar playing. Forgiving Sonny for his punctuality, the crowd encouraged him to play even more, beyond his scheduled 1 hour set. Sonny obliged without haste and the night wore on past the witching hour of midnight. Sonny graced the end of his performance with a haunting 30 minute blues solo, cementing any doubt that this 20-year old is indeed the 'Jimi Hendrix' of Singapore.

Sonny's fame sky rocketed drastically within the underground scene since that daunting performance. And every penny earned was spent on his immense craving for hard substances. His health deteriorated but his skills didn't fade thanks to Gopal, the owner of the now defunct Gay World Pub who allowed the boy to practice his guitar playing every single night after the pub closes.

Ever since Sonny was 15, Gopal would allow Sonny to freely use the musical equipment on his stage to practice. And every single day, Sonny did not fail to turn up at 2am, when the crowd starts to disperse. Sonny would sit on the stage, and in the darkness, he would let loose those beautiful riffs.

Gopal could recall the days when Sonny first began playing. He was crap, but his determination to master the guitar impressed Gopal. Sonny's progress was quick, and within a year, Sonny could play almost all of Hendrix's songs. Being an orphan himself, Gopal began to treat Sonny like a son, showering him with food, money, cigarettes, and on rainy nights, a place to stay.

Sonny in return, never forgot Gopal's kindness when he inherited fame. Though Gopal refused to take Sonny's money, Sonny would somehow find ways to leave some cash in Gopal's drawer by the spiral staircase when Gopal is unaware. Not wanting to disappoint Sonny, Gopal reluctantly accepted this gesture and so this continued for many years.

Sonny still kept on practicing at the old Gay World Pub despite having to face Gopal's fatherly ramblings against his drug addiction. Sonny's dependence on cocaine grew beyond control that slowly, Sonny began to wilt away. Gopal could smell the end of Sonny life but his advice seemingly fell on deaf ears. It was amazing however, that each time Sonny practiced in the pub during those wee hours, Gopal would stand in the corner, hypnotised by Sonny's skills.

There was one night, on the eve of the New Year, that Sonny came bursting through Gopal's office, begging him to buy off his Fender Stratocaster. "What do you mean Sunny? I can't buy this guitar from you! This guitar is your life! Your soul needs this to live!", Gopal retorted. "Please Gopal..please. I need the money urgently. After all, I will buy it back from you when I have enough money. But for now...please Gopal. Help Me!", Sonny pleaded.

"Alright", Gopal conceded. "But promise me one thing boy. Promise me that you shall keep on coming back here every day to practice. I shall keep the guitar here for you. You can take it back anytime", Gopal reasoned with Sonny. Sonny nodded his head and looked down in shame as Gopal handed him the money. Gopal stood by the doorway as he watched Sonny scatter away into the night...probably to score some drugs...and ruin himself.

Sonny kept his word and visited the Gay World Pub every night to practice and though his guitar skills remain legendary, Sonny looked lifeless. Sonny's eyes seem to want to tell the world something, but somehow they seem reluctant to speak. Gopal, ever so fond of the boy, surrendered at the thought of saving Sonny from a premature end.

Gopal vividly remembered the night before Easter Sunday, when Sonny was late. It had been an hour since Gopal closed the pub for the night and yet Sonny was nowhere to be seen. Gopal tried hard to fall asleep but being already accustomed to Sonny's tunes, he found it impossible to fall asleep without listening to Sonny play.

Just as Gopal was about to get up and wait for Sonny at the entrance, he heard the main door creak open, followed by heavy footsteps. The footsteps came closer towards Gopal's room, accompanied by some weird noises before Gopal heard it walk away. Moments later, the angelic tones of Sonny's Fender Stratocaster was being played. There was no doubt, it was Sonny practicing his blues. Relieved, Gopal soon dozed off.

The next morning, Gopal received a shock as he was sipping coffee for in the The Straits Times, Sonny's ethereal face was sprawled across the front page. The police had apparently come across his stone cold body, covered in froth and vomit during a drug raid. Sonny had died the night before from a drug overdose.

Gopal stared at the report on the front page for a good few minutes, trying to explain the events of the previous night. There was no doubt it was Sonny playing the guitar that night. There was simply no one else who could communicate with the guitar the way Sonny does. Gopal crept into the main hall of the pub, and saw the Fender Stratocaster neatly placed on the guitar stand, like how Sonny would have usually done so.

Gopal's heart was coated with lead as he was disappointed with Sonny. Though it was inevitable that Sonny's drug use is bound to take a deathly toll, Gopal felt that he could have done something to help Sonny. At the very least, all Gopal wanted was to say goodbye.

Sonny's ghost came back every night to practice the guitar. Perhaps this was Sonny's way of saying goodbye. Perhaps, Sonny was just keeping his promise to Gopal. Perhaps, Sonny just wanted to play the blues so much, that even death could not part him from his Fender Stratocaster.

Gopal found it hard to run his business, with so many encapsulating memories of Sonny entailed with it. Gopal eventually closed down the pub. He received numerous generous offers for Sonny's guitar...but the old faithful Gopal still keeps it with him in his humble house till this very moment...hoping that one day, Sonny would come back to claim his 'Dearly Beloved' once more.

White Doves Cry

As a young boy, I fondly remember constantly getting into mischief, almost certain that almost all the time, I can get away with murder when my mother is around. Mother, a word that's synonymous on the lips of all children, is a figure of warmth, comfort and the epitomy of a safe haven, like a thick black cloud that repels the evil rays of the sun.

I never understood how a mother's kiss can heal the wounds on our knees when we fall from our bicycles. Nor can I comprehend how a mother's words and advice, spoken with such eloquent compassion, can bring comfort and clarity to one's thoughts. All they need to do is say that everything will be fine and astonishingly, we become so convinced by them that even the dull grey skies may seem blue.

I remember particularly a difficult period of time when I was barely 4 years old. My mother, after a prolonged decision making process, decided to go back to working full time since I was alot 'bigger' and less of a hassle to take care of. Entrusting me in the doting hands of my grandmother, I felt my circle of protection temporarily weakened, during the hours she went to work.

My sweet mother however made it a point that she left for work before I woke up every morning, and bribing me with toys and candy upon her return home so that I would not make a fuss. Though I'd trade all the gifts for having my mother with me at home, I could somehow understand the situation and so the trend went on for a while at least until a week before her 30th birthday.

On that fateful day, my mother was doubling her steps from the bus stop en route home. The skies were trembling and it was only a matter of time before it released its vehement anger on the world below. Approaching the final bend before our row of houses, the mean and gnarly Dobermans from our neighbours' house began barking and howling as my mother approached.

The gates rattled with fear as the dogs gnarled and press its mouths onto the steel frames, saliva dripping in hunger, relishing for some action at the expense of the passerbys. In a stroke of ill-luck, the rusty chains gave way, and the gates flew open, igniting the dogs on a hell bent chase for my mother.

Anticipating the need to run like how she did during her school champion running days, my mother kicked the high-heeled shoes off her feet and opened her strides. She was no match for the Dobermans though as they inched their way closer to human flesh.

The smaller of the two Dobermans sinked its fangs onto my mother's calf as she desperately used her handbag to ward the bigger dog off. The smaller one tightened its grip as blood oozed out from the gaping wound. Old Ah Hock, coincidently waiting for his daughter to return, was alert as ever as he rushed out with his wooden pole and whacked the crap out of the biting beasts, which instantaneously released its jaws. Fleeting back to where they came from, the night remained silent, less for my mother's cries in agony.

I remembered when half of the residences came out during the commotion to see what was going on. I stood by the doorway, holding back my tears, refusing to go up to my mother, for the fear of seeing her withering in pain. But I felt it, like as if the dogs had bitten me instead. Up till this day, I still wished that it was me lying on the road instead of my mother.

It didn't turned out as bad as it looked, for the jeans worn by my mother somehow prevented the bite from getting any worse. Nevertheless, I was rattled by it all, and since then, everytime my mother goes out to work, I cried and begged her not to walk past that house with the dogs.

I didn't believe her when she said she shall take the long route to the bus stop, and so everyday since then, before my mother wanted to leave for work, she had to lie by my side, till I dozed off, before she left.

As time went by, we moved away from that neighbourhood, to the comfort of a new estate where somehow the folks didn't favour dogs as pets. I grew off from my fear of dogs, and as I ventured into teenage life, I somehow wanted to see less of my mother, as how all teenagers do.

The story of how I begged for my mother to stay by my side, for the fear of getting mauled by dogs once again became the butt of many jokes as countless times, my mother would repeat the saga to my friends, to new neighbours, to my girlfriends, and to anyone who became acquainted with me.

Feeling a little embarassed, I would always laugh it off with the others, blaming it all on a passing phase which I successfully grew out of. Though it has been many years since my mother's passing, and with my own teenage children now 'despising' me, once again I'm left alone, standing by the window at an unearthly hour of 4 in the morning, awaiting my children to come back from some party somewhere.

The night was still, with the occasional drifting winds, hinting the coming of rain. The silence is broken by the barking and howling of dogs nearby, startling me from my coveted night smoke breaks. Even till this very day, I have kept it a secret. That every time I hear the barking of dogs, it brought me back to that fateful night. Perhaps I'm too much of a hard ass to admit, but I missed my mother so.

And I secretly wished, whilst looking out for my children by the window, that perhaps I would see the spirit of my mother, looking out for her grandchildren, or perhaps coming home for me... for every dog that barks, there's a white dove that cries.