The night passes merrily, and surath’s confidence in him is not in vain. He is good.

And then something strange happens. The guitars and their masters, they undergo change. Human hands now the instruments, used by genteel wooden forms- shape sound, and command song.

Becky and I, we reclothe into what A. Bell calls auditors; the fully expected attenders in the continuum of audience segmented between the addressees and the eavesdropper. I feel like an eavesdropper sometimes. What right have I to be part of such glorious conversation. It’s unhuman, it’s mellow, it’s the easy-going intimacy borne out of four friendly hands. Strings so exquisitely plucked, so furiously picked and notes so delicately brought forth- the guitars have taken on life and start talking. They do. The exchange of brilliance between the two goes on; shifts with the wind, sways with the breeze; they harmonize, they gossip, they thrill. Sometimes a tune of a distinctly international flavour; we travel from jazz to rock and back to mere talk, sometimes one of them makes an observation, and they chat on that for awhile. Resonance metamaphorsizes into an elvish conference; they take turns, they parley. It’s an indian pow wow, it’s a curious questioning, it’s cozy pillowtalk, it’s a talkfest a tete-a-tete a repartee. Now they fence, now they snuggle up in each other’s treble and base clefs so that two strains are intertwined, melded and beauty abounds. It’s melody’s dance, it is.
Here I pause to give credit to dolmetsch for the clefs.

ah. ’twas a pleasant night, ’twas a sweet night of song.