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.