[I found this in my notes from some years ago. I had forgotten that I had written about this extraordinary experience and thought it worth posting. It really happened, though it was so like a dream that I remain in slight disbelief about it.]

Today I heard the most wonderful busker. She was performing in a busy, commercial seaside high street; she played a four-string plucked instrument called a ‘pipa’, which she described as a Chinese lute. I heard her from across the street and there was something familiar about the music. As I approached and listened more closely I was thrilled to discover that I knew exactly what she was playing. It was the most unlikely of things: an almain by one of the great English lutenists, Robert Johnson — the same Johnson whose entire solo output I had just transcribed for guitar. I had that extraordinary feeling wherein my whole body seemed to tremble excitedly, as if an angel had just tickled my spine. It felt like the impossible had happened — almost a miracle. What are the chances of hearing such this obscure piece on any instrument in any high street, then for a passerby to not only recognise it, but have such a longstanding and intimate connection to the music?

This was not superficial crossover music, but a sincere and beautiful communion of traditions. She was improvising on the melody with great skill and musicality. I imagine Dowland, Bacheler, Johnson et al. would have done the same. At one point she employed a beautiful and characteristic tremolo — not a technique I usually enjoy, but here it was perfect. The pipa is played with fingerpicks, and any classical guitarist will tell you how difficult an even and lyrical tremolo is to develop when using alternating fingers, as opposed to a plectrum.

I am captivated by solo instruments like the gamba or guitar (or indeed the pipa) — instruments that one holds or cradles. Their sound is quiet, reflective, and so unlike most of modern life. They do not shout at you or compete for you attention; rather, they draw you in to their soundworld. This was another reason why I was so affected by hearing this busker. She was wonderfully out of place — an unexpected sanctuary from the noise and bustle that surrounded her. Her music was quiet and so fragile, yet by virtue of its beauty, which so clearly differentiated it from its surroundings, it was easily able to penetrate even this, the most loud and viscous of aural landscapes.