The Sleepy Hollow feels a little hollower
Barry (The Captain) Meintjes is no longer on bass as the band plays ‘I Shall Be Released’.
He isn’t behind the counter at Marshall’s Music or (more likely for Barry) in front of the counter helping a youngster choose their first instrument, anymore.
There’s no “gruffriendly” voice at the end of the telephone when you need technical advice. Nor is he behind the console at his home studio, headquarters of the Hairylegged Lentil Eaters, for whom he played sublime bass guitar. The place where countless locals have recorded everything from first, fumbling attempts at songwriting to rare lyrical delicacies from well-seasoned songwriters.
Yet all of that musical loss pales in the light of the friend we have lost.
He had a heart bigger than any Zeppelin rock anthem, a humanity more profound than any Dylan protest song and an empathy more gentle than any Joni Mitchell ballad. For all his status as a musical giant in the KZN Midlands, Barry (known as Pablo to his friends) was an even bigger human being. And the wheelchair he was confined to for the last decade of his life did nothing to quench his gentle nature, his lust for life or his love for great music.
Everyone has their stories about Barry. For me, a relative newcomer to the KZN Midlands music scene (I arrived with my family in 2007), Barry was the oracle. He was its friendly, welcoming face and going to visit him at his Sleepy Hollow Music home studio in Prestbury was an occasion. He always had some musical advice (or a Captain and Coke) to share, a video of some musical history for you to watch, or a story of his latest pet conspiracy theory to relate. He had the rare ability to listen without judgement and advise without conditions.
There is little ceremony in the Meintjes home. Barry and his wife Les have always been some of the warmest, most welcoming people I know. The Captain was a large part of the reason I felt accepted in the local music pond, which is a smallish one. But small ponds, by their nature, can be difficult to jump into. Not because the local fish are threatening, but just because they have known each other really well and for a very long time.
The Meintjes home (and, as a result, Marshall Music, since he owned it) was the place everyone could go to and talk music or, even better, make music. A bit like a musical village green, you’d inevitably run into some other muso while visiting the shop or the studio. And so the family grew, with Barry as its dad in many ways.
My wife and children all know and love Barry. Almost all the instruments we’ve bought the kids over the years have come from the shop — and those instruments have been more than a means of making music. They have been a large part of my own fathering. I learned from Barry and I think, I hope, I’ve managed to apply some of his gentle generosity in the process of bonding with my children through the songs.
My wife’s favourite story about Pablo (and one few people have heard) is of being subtly harassed by a man at Checkers in the Cascades Centre. Knowing the shop was a safe place, she went to see the Captain. As anyone who knew him will tell you, Barry was never one to back down from a bully. And so it was that our seventy-year-old friend set off in search of the young, buff, culprit... his baseball bat across the armrests of his wheelchair.
Barry’s sense of humour was infectious. He always reminded me slightly of an amused fox — vulpine grin unmistakable on his whiskered face, and in his mischievous eyes. If anyone doubts my assessment, visit his YouTube channel and search “The Turtus Saga”. Luxuriate in the verbosity of the Hairy-legged Lentil Eaters’ musical adaptation of the poem Pablo wrote in his youth. Who can belong to a band with a name like that without a sense of humour, anyhow?
The sparkle in Barry’s eye was the very soul of gentle humour.
It’s been quenched temporarily, but actually, that sparkle lives in all of us who knew, loved and now remember Pablo. Da capo al fine.