I don’t know what poisonous news the young man got in the Lisbon Street courthouse that afternoon, but when he emerged he appeared to be in a foul mood. 

Chase, 15, of Lewiston plays his violin Friday in Dufresne Park in Lewiston. Mark LaFlamme/Sun Journal

Outside the courthouse, he stood on the sidewalk scowling at heavy midday traffic that impeded his attempts to cross. When traffic finally cleared, he stomped across Lisbon Street like a man trudging through deep snow. 

The eyebrows slanted down across the eyes like daggers. The heavy frown, the red face, the blazing eyes. Yep, this fellow’s disposition had turned sour indeed. 

But then a weird thing happened. Halfway across Dufresne Plaza, headed toward Park Street, the man first slowed and then stopped dead in his tracks. 

Now instead of thunderous outrage there appeared across his face a look of perplexity. Of wonder. You could see him almost sniffing at the air like an animal who senses something new in the jungle; something pleasing. 

It was music, high and sweet and barely heard above the unceasing hum of downtown city noise. The soft notes filled the air like birds you could hear but never see, and hearing those notes, the countenance of our friend from the courthouse changed completely. 

For just a few seconds, he stood there, squinting at the source of this strangely beautiful music as if doubting his own eyes. Over the course of seconds, his whole body seemed to relax. His stance went from rigid to at ease. The knots of muscle over his brow loosened and that look of fury subsided. 

Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast? 

Maybe it does, at that. 

Once the courthouse dude was gone, another man came bounding into the plaza. He didn’t look angry, this one, but he did look busy. This cat looked like a fellow who had a dozen errands to run and not a spare second to complete them. 

Yet he, too, slowed to a stop as he passed the middle of the park en route to Lisbon Street. He, too, turned around, and seemed to doubt his own eyes and ears for a moment. But the music was there, alright, floating over the plaza like a strange and wonderful breeze. The source of it was right there, too, once you knew to look for it. 

This man, who almost seemed to become entranced, walked to the center of the park, fished out some money from his pocket, and paid tribute to the music maker in traditional fashion. 

Soon after, an old man ambled into the plaza. Bearded and bedraggled, this downtown wanderer looked bored. Aimless. Perhaps a little bit frustrated by the empty nature of his day. 

Then he heard the music and went through the same transformation. He heard it, wondered over its reality a moment or two, and then plopped down onto a bench to hear more of it. Like the others before him, this man seemed transfixed by the music. He looked happy in a distant way, like one revisiting a cherished memory. 

Before long, he too fished some rumpled bills out of a pocket and forked over his tribute. 

Next up, a homeless man pushing a shopping cart heaped high with his most vital possessions. Another man on a mission, moving at full speed toward whatever was his destination. Another harried man who stopped, sought out the source of his sudden mood lift and then marveled over it, whatever problems he had at least temporarily forgotten. 

And then there was me, stepping out of the Sun Journal newsroom and into the plaza. Like everyone else, I was grumbling, agitated and in a hurry. 

News sources I sensed were holding information back. Calls that never came and story leads that went nowhere. I was in a pissy mood, all right. The whole day had just turned rotten. 

You know, until I heard the music. 

At first I thought it was an adagio. Was it Albinoni? Pachabel? Something more modern? 

The easiest way for me to find out was to approach the source of that soothing sound, and this is how I came to meet the young violinist who had so effortlessly soothed the savage dispositions of all who came within earshot. 

Chase, the lad’s name is, and he’s just 15 years old. Every Friday, as it happens, he rides his scooter to Dufresne Plaza to play music for the masses. 

When I met him, Chase was standing at the very center of the plaza with the violin tucked between his jaw and collar bone. Nearby was his instrument case into which a few dollar bills had been dropped by admirers. His scooter was propped up against a park bench that sat flanked by displays of bright pink petunias.  

Chase himself looked like a kid you’d associate more with the scooter than the violin. He wore sleep pants over socks and sandals. Up top, he was sporting an AC/DC “Back in Black” world tour T-shirt. 

But he’s a violinist, all right, and one who’s good enough to transform downtown energy from frantic and mundane to something ethereal and calming. 

Whether he’s some prodigy bound for musical stardom, I have no idea.

As it happens, Chase didn’t start learning the violin until his freshman year in high school when he decided this was the instrument for him. 

“One year later, here I am,” he said. “I guess it kind of runs in the family. Pretty much everyone in my family has some kind of musical talent, so I guess it carries through the bloodline.” 

Now he spends his Fridays riding his scooter around the skateboard park and plucking strings in Dufresne Park. What money he receives from admirers is used mainly to help his mother pay for whatever she needs. Chase DOES plan to go to college to study music, but right now that’s a hazy and unformed vision. 

On this particular afternoon as I watched him, Chase had been playing the piece “The River Flows In You,” a song I’d never heard of before but which now graces my playlist — if a piece of music is good enough to relax the buzzing brains of the chronically agitated, I figure there might be some magic in there. 

And speaking of magic, I wonder what might happen if Chase moved his act into the problem zones a little deeper into Lewiston’s downtown. Just how strong is the power of music to soothe the truly savage, anyway? 

I get a mental picture of downtown gangsters picking up the gentle notes from Chase’s violin just in the nick of time. Fingers wrapped around triggers suddenly slacken as the music floats like a sedative up Walnut Street, or Bartlett Street or Birch or Pine. Gunmen who had every intention of busting caps today are instead tucking those weapons back into their waistbands to enjoy a few more moments of those heavenly notes. 

Dope slingers making peace with rivals? Old grudges dissolved and forgotten? Cats and dogs declaring a truce and becoming forever friends? 

It’s probably unrealistic in the long run, sure, but nothing else seems to be working so I say we give it a go.