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The Soloist: A Lost Dream, an Unlikely Friendship, and the Redemptive Power of Music
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About The Soloist: A Lost Dream, An Unlikely
Product Description The New York Times bestselling true story that inspired the major motion picture—an “unforgettable tale of hope, heart and humanity”(People). Journalist Steve Lopez discovered of Nathaniel Ayers, a former classical bass student at Julliard, playing his heart out on a two-string violin on Los Angeles’s Skid Row. Deeply affected by the beauty of Ayers’s music, Lopez took it upon himself to change the prodigy's life—only to find that their relationship would have a profound change on his own. “An intimate portrait of mental illness, of atrocious social neglect, and the struggle to resurrect a fallen prodigy.”—Mark Bowden, author of Black Hawk Down Review Praise for Steve Lopez and The Soloist “Lopez is a terrific reporter. The Soloist is poignant, wise, and funny.”—Sylvia Nasar, author of A Beautiful Mind “A heartbreaking, yet ultimately hopeful, read.”— Essence “An utterly compelling tale.”—Pete Earley, author of Crazy: A Father's Search Through America's Mental Health Madness “With self-effacing humor, fast-paced yet elegant prose, and unsparing honesty, Lopez tells an inspiring story of heartbreak and hope.”— Publishers Weekly (starred review) “Compelling and gruffly tender...Lopez deserves congratulations for being the one person who did not avert his eyes and walk past the grubby man with the violin.”—Edward Humes, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist writing for the Los Angeles Times About the Author Steve Lopez is the author of several books, including The Sunday Macaroni Club and The Soloist. In 2009, The Soloist was made into a movie starring Robert Downey Jr. and Jamie Foxx. Lopez is a columnist with the Los Angeles Times and lives in California. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Preface I'm on foot in downtown Los Angeles, hustling back to the office with another deadline looming. That's when I see him. He's dressed in rags on a busy downtown street corner, playing Beethoven on a battered violin that looks like it's been pulled from a dumpster. "That sounded pretty good," I say when he finishes. He jumps back three steps, eyeing me with suspicion. I see the name Stevie Wonder carved into the face of the violin, along with felt–pen doodles. "Oh, thank you very much," he says, obviously flattered. "Are you serious?" "I'm not a musician," I answer. "But yes. It sounded good to me." He is black, just beyond fifty, with butterscotch eyes that warm to the compliment. He is standing next to a shopping cart heaped over with all his belongings, and yet despite grubby, soiled clothing, there's a rumpled elegance about him. He speaks with a slight regional accent I can't place. Maybe he's from the Midwest or up near the Great Lakes, and he seems to have been told to always stand up straight, enunciate, carry himself with pride and respect others. "I'm trying to get back in shape," he says. "But I'm going to get back in there, playing better. I just need to keep practicing." "So you like Stevie Wonder?" I ask. "Oh, yes, certainly. 'You Are the Sunshine of My Life.' 'My Cherie Amour.' I guess I shouldn't have written his name on my violin, though." I write a column for the Los Angeles Times. The job is a little like fishing. You go out and drop a line, cast a net. I'm figuring this vagrant violinist is a column. Has to be. "I'm in a hurry at the moment," I tell him, "but I'd like to come back and hear you play again." "Oh, all right," he says, smiling appreciatively but with trepidation. He looks like a man who has learned to trust no one. "Do you always play in this spot?" I ask. "Yes," he says, pointing across the street with his bow to Per–shing Square, in the heart of downtown Los Angeles. "I like to be near the Beethoven statue for inspiration." This guy could turn out to be a rare find in a city of undiscovered gems, fiddling away in the company of Beethoven. I would drop everything if I could, and spend a few hours pulling the story out of him, but
