We're both a jazz and blues club. Tonight there's an incredible
all women blues band. They're middle aged so they've earned their journeyman's
papers in life. So when they sing about being mistreated, there's passion
there. The keyboard player with her Brillo pad snow-white hair snarled like a
chained alley dog. Speaking of alleys, I could walk down a dark alley with the
drummer and only she would emerge on the other side. She's a beast. They played
some standard blues tunes—one of which transitioned into Sly and the Family
Stone’s Everyday People. When they finished one incredible song, the bass
player says, "Wow! We've never played that song together--I'm surprised we
ended it so well." It shouldn't be a surprise, since they are all superb
musicians. As one of them had quipped, "Unlike guy musicians, women
talk--with these ladies, we all communicate.” The crowd wanted to dance, so
every corner was filled with spastic footwork, hip wiggles, and gyrations. A
gentleman with a well-trimmed beard and a mustache that hinted at a handlebar
sat at the bar with a snifter. He has come from a theater performance -- in
fact, his 53rd play he's attended within a year. He was enjoying the rhythmic
writhing of one lass who noticed him noticing her. She signaled for him to join
her. He obliged. I was afraid for Mr. Theater with his thick-knot tie and
pocket-watch demeanor, but he surprised all observers. He did a unique halting touch,
glide, swirl thing that suited him and somehow his dramatic flair complimented the shimmies and
pelvic thrusts of the young woman. Don’t ask me how or why.... but it seemed to
work.
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