The Last One

Track 8 - Volume 1
Production: Blackbird Productions (The Author)


The following track is a micro-story, written as a novel but performed over a beat. This is the first of many, and each one will be accompanied by the lyrics as they were written. This one was inspired by a story I read by user matingslinkys, on Reddit.

“Today you get to pick young’n,” he said with a grin. He was old, about 90, but his excitement made him seem ten. He was talking about the vinyls that he kept in his room: stacked high, categorized, any genre, every volume. He always put one on whenever I came to visit, and though his memory wasn’t the best, when he played a song it became explicit. Every single record was like a chapter in his life. Every single song a paragraph; the nostalgia was rife. I had heard about his first wife, and the one after that. About the first fight he ever won, the first time he produced a track. It fascinated me, and eager to hear more, I picked out a random record. One that I hadn’t seen before. I put it on the turntable and put the needle on, the sound of horns filled the room, the kind that makes you shiver with warmth.

“Wow, this one brings me back,” he said. “It’s one of glory. It’s the reason I fell in love with music. Now let me tell you a story.”

“I was about twelve years old when I first heard that sax. I didn’t know that such a sound could be made. So powerful; but so relaxed. I knew at that moment what I was destined for. Though I didn’t play music it was a feeling I could not ignore. I was lucky too, or maybe music is in my genes, cause when I asked my dad if I could get one I could see him beam. He got me one the next day, beat-up but with soul. I practiced all hours of the day, only stopping when I was told. Even though my sound was a far cry from the Parker’s and the Coltranes, I mean at first I couldn’t even do a vibrato when I sustained. But still I kept at it, eventually made it my career,” He trailed off, had a look in his eyes like he was back there.

I could see his fingers mimicking the solo in the song, and after a few more I had to ask him if something was wrong.

“Nothings wrong young'n, but I have to get some rest. I’ll see you next time.” he said, and not wanting to bother I just left.

The next time I came to visit, he was standing in front of his records. He had a notebook in one hand, filled with numbers and crossed out words. It was the first time I ever saw him as an old man. The energy he once had was gone, but before I could ask about it, he began.

“There’s not enough time,” he said. “I’m too old; I did the math.”

I couldn’t tell what he meant. “What are you talking about?” I asked. He looked at me; eyes dim, as if his inner light was fading.

“The time to listen to all this music,” he said. I could feel his passion abating. “It’s funny because growing up you think you have all this time. You’ll get that record later, listen to that one song down the line,” He tried to smile, but he couldn’t stop the tears, it’s as if he knew when he was going to die, which was only later that year.

When he passed he bequeathed all of his records to me. When I got them I went out and got a record player immediately. It took me years to get through even half of it, but in one I found a note. It said:

“This is the last one I listened to. I just thought you’d like to know.”