Monty's Comment.

there´s one word that perfectly descibes this confused professor:
simpatico.
i met rufus at the f.e.a.r. festival in rome one year ago. he asked me
for the time- he must had misplaced his watch in some pocket- and we
began to talk. about the concert, about music, and about those young
encouraged uptowners performing up on stage.
what i immediately found interesting about this person was his friendly
and thoughtful expression. it seemed like he was always trying to
remember some melody.
after the show we arrested a couple of beers in an empty bar in
trastevere- actually i had three and he had about a baker's dozen...

fast forward one year-
rufus sitting in my bureau presenting his 8 track e.p. "country calls-
rufus plays" to me.
he's wearing the same brown jacket with the leather pads on the ellbows
as at f.e.a.r. one year ago; his left foot is tapping to the beat and
his fingers are twirling his beard. we're sitting face to face, and as
i look in his brown eyes they remind me of the eyes of a whale or an
elephant: rinkled, warm. somehow suffering.
his tracks are authentic, digesting beat conventions and musical
neurosis this middle-aged man is sick of. his drift-off melodies create
romantic wanderlust, while various noise of bits and pieces in the
background amplify his state of being locked inside his own little
world.
'holy maccaroni, itchy feet,' i think to myself, starting to feel a bit
mandelbrocky myself.
"how should i say,"
nice coat, who shot the couch?
shave your ears, they're hairy?
no.
"welcome on board, rufus."