Baisho Matsumoto

I saw this man for the first time last month. This was some man, middle aged, Japanese, wearing all that he was on his beautiful gown's sleeve. He exuded charm and warmth and brightness, from every pore. He was funny and alive. Just some man, some amazing man. You could open him up and feel the love and passion for what he was doing, for life itself just spill out and wash over everyone there in the audience, and beyond. He was a spectacle. A spectacular thing. An inspiration. A garden of so many plants and flowers and trees. A garden filled with them. His wife was in tow, with her beautiful, strange voice floating over his instrumentation. He played several instruments, the names of which I sadly do not know. I must research this before it slips from my memory. He sings briefly in some otherworldly tone, he plays his instruments with his heart and soul and fingers and mind, all moving in unison. All inside the music, at the centre of the very songs, beating them forth. It is colossal and awe-inspiring. I speak a few languages, nothing special, nothing to brag about, but he communicates with the audience in his native Japanese, and as we are in Poland a lady translates into Polish. Having been here less than one month and knowing no Japanese I find myself in the unusual predicament of understanding neither of the two tongues being licked all over my ears, quite simply I am audibly lost. However, this cartoon character of a man is so literally animated with gestures and facial expressions it is hard not to understand some of his beautiful messages and feelings. It certainly feels like being transported to some part of Japan and sharing a wonderful little celebration of that country's culture and identity. To you, Mr. Baisho Matsumoto, and your wife for her accompaniment, thank you kindly. I hope to encounter your warmth on your travels, or my own, again some time.