Guitar Me

The first time I saw and heard Cat Ralston was at a New Year’s Eve party Inez dragged me to at the Cat’s Meow. His music moved me that evening, although he himself didn’t. In keeping with the atmosphere of ringing in the new year, it was crowded in the club and they were a rowdy bunch. They mostly quieted down during the sets that Ralston played, backed up by his brother on the bass. But, although I was fascinated—and felt a little warm—from the music, Inez kept saying that Ralston wasn’t playing his best—that he was irritated by the noise. And, indeed, he scowled through his playing and, Inez said, cut his sets short.

He wasn’t a young man. He was probably pushing fifty and was mostly bald on top, although his arms were muscular. He had a sensitive face, though, which I kept wishing wasn’t set in a scowl. And when he closed his eyes while he was playing, he seemed to soar onto an upper, sensual plain. His fingers were, of course, limber and expressive, and I tried looking at them rather than the irritated frown on his face. I found myself soaring with him, although at the time I connected the buzz I was getting and the urge—which I followed—to feel Inez up while he played to the cheap champagne we were drinking.

Inez, who was clearly disturbed that Ralston was on edge, suggested that we leave early. I was ready to go, because Ralston’s irritation somewhat irritated me too. It was his club. If he didn’t want a boisterous crowd in on New Year’s Eve, he should tailor the deal, I thought. I stopped in an art museum parking lot on the way home—it was already after midnight—and we fucked in the backseat of my Sebring convertible. It was my second most successful performance with Inez ever. I didn’t then connect it with the guitar music, although it was what kept going through my mind while we fucked—mostly Ralston’s rendition of “Corcovado.”