A.J. Walker


The Great Zingaro

The Great Zingaro

Zingaro came from nowhere. Not so much plucked from obscurity but created from nothing.
He was the talk of the town, the city, the country and then the world. This mesmorising genius who could make grown men cry with just his four strings and a few minutes of his time.
We have to have Zingaro!” was the most heard line at all organising events.
We have no chance of getting Zingaro!” was the second most heard.
Zingaro did not tour. He turned up at places alone and unannounced; just him and his violin. Whatever was scheduled was cancelled; such was his reputation.
Some say that he had sold his soul at the crossroads, some say that the violin was enchanted. It mattered not to those who heard him. It was truly a once in a lifetime moment. Soothing and chilling, love, lust and hate all these feelings woven together by Zingaro’s unparalleled magic leaving those who heard him in untold raptures.
He turned up at the Philharmonic Hall on Friday morning. Unannounced, as ever. His brooding presence in his Johnny Cash black thick and heavy. The manager looked at him incredulous, hoping he wouldn’t faint, then giving thanks to every god he’d ever heard of. Zingaro in
his hall.
“You? Oh my! You want to see the hall? You want to play here?”
The silence was ended with a nod. Zingaro never spoke.
Zingaro carefully placed his jacket over the arm of a chair and shook the manager’s right hand, holding his violin firmly in the other.
The twitterverse and media meltdown was soon matched by real fighting for tickets outside the hall.
“Zingaro is in town!” was the headline in the local paper. “Zingo-mania!” ran the Metro tagline above a photo of riots of well-healed gents hustling through the foyer for the few precious tickets.
He played that night - his usual one hour slot - to twelve hundred of the luckiest people in England. Afterwards no-one could tell you what he had played, but that it was the most incredible hour of their lives. No one thought to record it; they never did. That was put down to being part of the magic, everyone was literally entranced for the hour.
That night a faceless man in a long black coat breezed through the hall’s foyer passing through the thronging crowd unnoticed as they tried to relive what they had just witnessed. He knocked on the door before walking straight in to Zingaro, who was waiting for him with the violin on his lap. A hand reached out from the folds of the shadows and Zingaro bowed slightly before passing the violin over without question.
The Great Zingaro was never heard from again and there are no recordings from his year of touring. Some say he was the greatest musician who ever lived, some say the devil took him after his deal was complete. Most just say “Who was Zingaro?” There is never a satisfactory answer.


WC: 499 - November 21st 2014 - on
Luminous Creatures