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Working on “Twister”…
The stogies are smoked and the box has moved on to a different level, still smokin’, but smokin’ the electric blues, now.
Three strings, a pick and a slide. Moaning and groaning the blues, the old box finds new life in the hands of the player.
The man with the orange guitar was playing more notes than most guitars contain as the big bass thumped and the drummer sweated rolled flammed and paradiddled his way through the set.
Say there buddy, do you have the time?
Don’t have a watch can you spare a dime?
The crowd was yelling and stomping and cheering sweat-soaked dancers on the floor and booze hounds in the balcony no time to talk gotta sing along the saxophe is howling and bleating and the guitar spills notes until there is no more music left and the crowd stomps and cheers for an encore which comes and blows the room apart.
Folsom Prison Blues, Big Red Rocket of Love and Goodnight, Denver, we love you and out into the cold winter air the fans go and bars up and down Colfax fill up with a psychobilly breakdown.
It’s hard to beat a night of good music in a small venue where you can see the band’s faces even from the cheap seats.
Been a long time without music, standing on my head repairing pipes like a demented mole-man plumber then sick with the flu and busy busy bizzy! Back now, with a little ditty about living the dream.
The drum monkey beat the coconuts into submission as the guitar-slinger swung from tree to tree on a freeform freefall of fretwork…
Went out on the two wheeled steed into night air cold like an beautiful blond, and roared my way down the arteries of the city to Herman’s Hideaway, hoping for good music, good drinks and good company. First band of three, old fogies in ridiculous stage dress, played “classic rock” at 8/10 original tempo, like a WalkMan with dying batteries.
I almost despaired of hearing anything good until the second band, Sugarhouse, took the stage and blew the room up like an atom bomb on Bikini Atoll…
Halfway through their second song it occurred to me to grab some video.
It hit me one time…It hit me two times…It hit me thirty one times!
I think I’m in love!
The shutterbug beat the skins like a caveman wooing his mate, while the dirty biker plucked the strings and screamed into the wind. The vocals were lost in the mix, barely making their way into the whirlpool of noise swirling about the tiny room. Play it, sing it, pound out the beat in a Sunday afternoon jam-session…