Clifton Glasgow, maestro of all maestros.
Clifton Glasgow, why did you have to go?
Clifton Glasgow, I’ll sit at your feet no more.
Clifton Glasgow, why did you have to go? ©
He would have been 81 years old today, my friend, my teacher, my life adviser, my exclusive musical performer.
He would be, almost certainly, had it not been for the Grim Reaper, who pounced suddenly upon him on John Beckles Drive as he was leisurely strolling home.
We are still awaiting justice for Clifton Yaw-Glasgow, and must face up to the probability that we will never have a satisfactory picture of what unfolded aback of the Queen Elizabeth Hospital that terrible morning of Wednesday, May 16. Despite everything that has passed and has been said since that tragic day, it seems no one knows what actually happened – or is prepared to say.
Four months have nigh gone and the police appear no wiser as to how this dreadful incident could have occurred. Meanwhile, a few voices in the wilderness keep asking: How? Why? Why not?
Clifton and his unworthy demise cannot be forgotten. I can only hope those people whose lives he touched with his dulcet live offerings might be stirred to question too this deafening silence over who snatched him away, and how.
When you heard those deft fingers a-picking,
Sweet melody deep in your soul;
With gentle but piquant strumming,
Your heart and attention he’d hold. ©
When the report of an old guy being knocked down by a ZR van first reached the newsroom, we all wondered who it might be and empathized with the family who would have the grim task of identifying the victim, who would sorrow over him, facing the uncertainty of a good prognosis at the hospital – but the report’s veracity had to be checked, and if passed, the story had to be pursued. It’s the nature of our job.
Timothy Slinger is usually on top of these things. He has heard it is Clifton Glasgow, he tells me. I do not believe it. I don’t want to believe it. I can’t believe it. I won’t have it!
I drop into my seat in a daze, and with eyes glazed – or so they feel.
“Not Clifton,” I repeat over and over to myself. “Not Clifton to whom I owe a visit!”
I am too distraught to call up Clara, Clifton’s loving and devoted wife, or any other family member for that matter. Timmy recognizes it and does the calling and checking himself. During my moments of denial he confirms the “old guy” who has been knocked over is Clifton Glasgow.
He is aware of the connection between Clifton and me, and feeling compelled to let me know, gives me the sad news – like a clinical surgeon.
As I ponder on what has happened,
I am burdened by a sad memory
Of Cliff and his guitar unbonded.
My God, why this cruelty?
Oh, Cliff’s grace and his style
And his ease to beguile
Was for me so life-satisfying.
Yes, his grace and his style,
And that ease to beguile
Leave an image that is unmistaken. ©
Today, I shall muse upon the alchemist Clifton Yaw-Glasgow who turned many a commonplace melody into the highest exotically executed tune. I shall hum along as his deft fingers go a-picking the English folk song Early One Morning (to which I introduced him), the Jamaican Linstead Market, El Verno del Congo’s cool Welcome The Morning Sun and the Beatles’ “goose-pimpling” Yesterday – which regrettably has come so suddenly!
• Ridley Greene is a Caribbean multi-award-winning journalist.