Chilling in the Doghouse
Huddle around those hot solos, it's beginning to get nighty at jamtime, winter-night nighty, dark and chill. Reminds you you're a bag of bones, 98.6 degrees in your sanguine soup but body, it's cold outside. "I Didn't Know What Clime It Was" is not quite the lead-off number for the first Sunday set. For Andrew and his alto, it's double time, some of the time. He'll make the time a time when bop could wear short sleeves, maybe a sweaty August evening at the Village Gate under a kinder, gentler Republican, when our cars and hearts were big and getting bigger. Ben's keyboard was an upright, tickling us past the threat of A-bombs and Freudian therapy, Michael was walking us safely between the starry skyscrapers, up to Sugar Hill. I know what time it is now.
Do you know what time it can be? Have you met that muse at the 7 Mile, looking just like a cute waitress happy in her work, or you wish she were, and you wish you were, forever frisky, an organic run of 32nd notes in a tight t-shirt. Love lava flows downhill towards these flatlands, where it's stirred by Tony across a warm and fertile plain.
It's how we slide around the ecstasy that marks our moves, what familiar and unfamiliar places we find while altering the chords. How do we look now, to those looking? How do we sound to ourselves? Will somebody pay us for this? Will something grow moistened by the scent of our sweat? Will someone soothe us between solos? Will some moving arm arco us to the Land of Nod?
The Goddess Vanessa ascends to send our Brisbane ministrations into the ether, where somewhere sentient beings may really care. We're broadcasting now, way beyond Sunday, onto the smallest and largest folds of an elastic existence. And you, what are you making of it, right now? Are we blowing into you, plucking you, fingering you, snapping your rim-shot? I'm hearing that, I'm hearing you. You are the end-user, you are the in-the-beginning. You are the cover charge between nativity and mortality. You have a reservation.
We are what you come to, we are what lets you sound good, smell good, taste good. We are the menu and the playbill. We are the casual at your christening, at your funeral. We are the funky clunk at the bottom of the tip bucket. We are the percussive friction of your palms, the particular tickle of your cochlea.