Jeff Burke had been playing bassoon in the Dundas Station tunnel for an hour, long enough that the rhythm of the trains were syncing to his phrasing. Toronto moved the way it always did, people dropping coins, dropping glances, dropping life stories in the two seconds it took to pass him. Halfway through an improvised rendition of \u201cBaba O’Riley,\u201d which always made morning commuters blink, when he felt the temperature of the tunnel shift. Jeff glanced up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There he stood. Keith Jarrett. Jeff nearly dropped the bassoon. Jarrett raised a hand, saluted him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cKeep playing,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His reed felt like it developed its own heartbeat. He started playing again, choosing a long tone that drifted upward. Jarrett nodded. Jeff improvised around nothing and everything, fragments of bassoon \u00e9tudes, pop riffs he\u2019d twisted for subway acoustics. Jarrett stepped closer, hands in his pockets. At one point he closed his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you know,\u201d he said softly, \u201cit is rare to hear someone play like you, telling the truth in every note.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Jeff didn\u2019t know what to say. \u201cToronto\u2019s lucky,\u201d Jarrett said. Jeff blinked. \u201cIt\u2019s just what I do.\u201d A train roared into the station, drowning everything in metallic thunder. When it pulled away, the tunnel returned to its usual gray hum. Keith Jarrett had left for soundcheck at Roy Thompson Hall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Jeff was pleased about the whole thing.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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