Random: “Hallelujah”

Written by Tanker Dane
Inspired by Jeff Buckley “Hallelujah” (Lyrics by Leonard Cohen)

It is no longer, this instrument they played. Though not in its final resting place, for it will be found again, just not by the well-intentioned or inspired, nor by the suitable, even the capable. But it matters not. Anyone is invited to find it this time, provided they can: corroded and covered in algae, the neck warped, frets rusted and the double truss rod buried in sediment. The ivory bindings around the soundboard split from the time spent submerged, the acoustic body once hollow, now flooded and the adopted dwelling of a flathead catfish.
A guitar having wept, bled, screamed and soared lies on its side. All at once splashed down, adrift, sunken, and silent since the incident. Infamous and extraordinary, never anything less than sublime. To be strummed once more near impossible die to its wretched condition, yet this guitar, having been responsible for one musical miracle after another, just may and must be the subject of its own divine rescue. The age unknown. Its initial purpose unclear, but assuredly simple as compared to its eventual calling and final catastrophe.
This unassuming lute first handed down, then inherited, bartered, bought and sold, gifted, won and lost, then finally found. The most innocent way its most glorious. Nicked and scratched, smashed and cracked, the instrument wrecked and repaired as often as it changed hands. And changed shape. The lute was the shape of a pear, then a circle, then a square, before it got into the hands of the man who split it in half and played it in two. Went unrecognized doe an extended time as a table, then a toy. Picked out of the trash and given away by a man to a boy, who gave it a name. Then stolen twice: first by a thief, then by the boy who stole it back from the thief, who renamed it the same.
The name never stuck, as no name would after several hundred years. A gitarer, a quintern, a guitarra…with each owner it became anew, in name, in shape, in sound, in song, but never in string.
The strings never changed, never shaped nor allowed the instrument out of tune. The string gut wrapped tight on the original lute remained, even now, underwater. Each string shimmering in the stabs of sunlight cutting through the kelp layered above, tempting and taunting the schools of sunnies and the stubborn rainbow trout who pass every half moon. The strings are neither prey, nor predictably attached to a rod and reel, but bare prints. Fingerprints. Multiple fingerprints, tens of thousands on each of the five strings, perhaps more. The G almost double the D, the E less than a quarter more than the A, all of them unable to compete with the C. Whether solo or strummed in a chord, all of the intact, unable to be wiped or swept away with the changing times or tides. Equally apparent, but hardly in importance. In fact, only a minute fraction stand above the rest. The most recent fingerprints, played just minutes before the instrument was befallen, would remain the most recent. Played by the hand stripped of flesh and flopped on its side in bone beside the instrument, responsible for fingerprints. Prints producing the finest notes. The most natural notes, notable notes, notorious notes. The notes responsible for the refrain.
“The final refrain!” and the accompaniment. “The accompaniment at last!” and the tempo. “The exact tempo!” and the melody. “The perfect melody!” this guitar, crafted by the hand of a carpenter, crafter for the composition, the perfect composition, the only composition. The possibility the right notes would be played, the proper chords struck? A near impossibility, no doubt. But not for one, the destined one, the defiant one.
Never a note or notes ever played to compare to these. For all of its time, all of its music, all of its solos, improvs, freestyles, riffs…this guitar never sounded so grand yet ghostly, so harrowing and haunting, so hallelujah. The hand of the man to play the part, to fulfill its intent of truth, is to be saved as soon as it ceases, sacrificed as soon as his gift is given, with one final breath – his song to the world…to save the world.