Leo Kottke

We finally found a place to park at the top of the hill near San Jacinto and Tenth. It was dark, but it wasn't far to go. We walked down the hill and down Congress Avenue in into the Paramount.

We sat in the mezzanine staring at the walls and the ceiling. The view was good from there -- a man by himself on the stage sitting in a puddle of light.

When he first walked out, he began to play without even saying a word. He played one song and then another before he spoke. Before he even said one word, he walked onto stage and sat down in that puddle of light and played two songs.

The sounds of his fingerstyle on his twelve string filled the place. And when he set it down for a while, the crispness and clarity of the six was an amazing thing to hear.

He spoke between the songs -- told stories, made us laugh -- but mostly his guitars were in charge, even interrupting him at times. As he spoke, he would tune, and he would play, and he would explore his guitars almost as if we weren't there. And twice he stopped in mid-sentence and began the next song.

We sat in the balcony, gazing at the walls and looking at the ceiling and staring at a man sitting in a little puddle of light creating sounds on a guitar that simply have no peer.

When it was over, we walked up the hill in the dark and the wind back to Tenth and San Jacinto. We got into the car and drove home and went to bed. And when I woke up, that music was still playing in my head.

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