He looks like a regular street musician, a busker. His horn is tarnished and looks well used. He expertly fingers the valves and puckers his cheek in earnest effort. But when I passed by I was baffled. It wasn’t the sound of a horn I heard, it was a piano. He was playing Bohemian Rhapsody, no small feat for a regular piano player, much less a trumpet player. Each note was crisp and melodic and could have been coming from a baby grand.
I stared. He smiled and opened the spit valve of his horn to flush it out.
I was about to ask what was going on when he simply started playing again. This time emulating the tones of guitars hitting the first few chords of Smoke on the Water. I threw a fiver in his case.
