Masculine Music

Belgrade, Serbia: it’s a sultry summer night in late October and my buddy Torch and I are dining outside at a restaurant we picked out based on vibes alone. “They don’t have an outdoor menu,” he says, “that’s a good sign.” The cabbage salad is kinda blowing my mind and I’m a connoisseur of cabbage salads. But what’s blowing my mind even more is the five-man band that’s moving from table to table serenading the diners. There’s an accordion (of course), an acoustic bass guitar, and three guys playing these cute little 5-string lutes called tamburicas.

The band stops at a table next to us where a couple is sitting. Girlfriend is dressed in all white and looks Instagram-ready; Boyfriend is more casually dressed with dark stubble and an expressive face. One of the tamburica players starts singing in a piercing ululating voice and the band launches into the song with gusto. Boyfriend picks it up and starts singing, and the band gracefully lets him take the lead; he’s clearly feeling the music, singing with passion while Girlfriend shoots a video. The band transitions seamlessly into the next song and the next, slowly building energy as Boyfriend sings, flashes the waiter two fingers for two shots of brandy, counts out a tip for the band in dinar notes.

Once I would have thought this was just good fun (a little music with dinner), or perhaps even a little annoying (they were playing pretty loud), but recently I’ve become more attuned to magic and sexuality, and now I can see that what the band is doing is not entertainment, it’s a magical ritual. They are beaming five kinds of manhood straight into Boyfriend’s chest. Of the tamburica players, there’s the tall baby-faced geeky one with glasses, the dark passionate one with a movie-star face and the top buttons of his shirt undone, the serious one who looks like a hardworking husband and father, the accordion player a lusty bon vivant gyrating his hips, and the bass player grinning from the back, his manner unassuming but his groove rock-solid. Five faces of masculinity playing in perfect selfless synchrony, and they’ve got Boyfriend looking good and feeling good, and I can see that Girlfriend is going to feel the benefits when they get home.

The two young men at the table to my left have been singing along too, and this has not escaped the band’s notice. They move to surround the two men, but remember, this is not entertainment: they notice that two young women are dining at the next table over, and they include them in the circle as well. Again, the men are singing and the women are swaying to the music, and I can see the spell being cast, the band has them moving together as one, and when they finish I see that a connection has been formed. The two pairs of friends have joined together, and I see them calling for four shots of brandy. The women seem a little more relaxed, and the men seem a little bolder. Who knows what might happen next, but the band’s work here is done.

As they ease by our table looking for their next job, Torch leans forward. “Don’t look at them,” he says. “Pretend we’re having a really intense conversation.” I lean forward too. “I think we’re safe,” I say intensely, “because I already slipped them 500 dinars.”¹ Much as I would love to feel the band’s magic more directly, Torch and I don’t know the songs, and we can’t sing along in Serbian, and our lovers are far away in other countries. The magic would be wasted on us. But I still want to feel it.

the band in Belgrade

Istanbul, Turkey: it’s a sultry summer night in early November, and my date and I have just arrived at my favorite restaurant in the city. It’s packed and we don’t have reservations, but the waiter tells us there’s a table available if we can be finished in two hours. The table is front and center, right by the guitar player. As I sit down next to him on the bench, he jokes, “if you sit here you have to sing.” “Okay,” I reply, “I can do that.” A kitten jumps onto the cushions and snuggles next to me, purring and leaning into my hand. The food is even better than I remembered. The guitar player is singing romantic songs in English, Spanish, and French. “No, I don’t want to fall in love…” he croons, “with you.”² I admit I’m resisting falling in love myself, but the atmosphere isn’t making it easy for me.

Later, when he gets up to take a break, I gather my courage and tell him I’m happy to take over and he says of course, please do. I take the guitar and sing three songs, two Turkish ones with my own English translations and one that I wrote. Cats jump up next to me, my date takes pictures. The diners applaud. I hand the guitar back to the singer and now the seal is broken, we sing along as he plays “Zombie” by The Cranberries. He takes a harmony while I hold the melody on the chorus. He sings a song I don’t know and I back him up with some oohs. I can feel the magic working on me. It feels good.

me and a feline friend in Istanbul

1. approximately $5

2. “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak