Societal Satire in Shorts

Getting the Band Back Together

S. G. Lacey

     

The Balcony: 8:17 PM
        The music is in full throat, a melodic mix of sounds which my ears isolate and identify: the high-pitched whine of the fiddle, the low repetitive cadence produced by the dobro, the rapidly changing, but individually discernable, notes from the harmonica. 

        These resonances are nearly as intoxicating on my mind as the Flying Grasshopper I’m drinking.  The combination of mint and booze awakens me like mouthwash in the morning, which this concoction doesn’t taste that dissimilar from.  Decades ago, while in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, I’d stumbled upon this libation.  Now it’s all I drink.   
        My son works security here at the ballroom, and once in a while he can get me free tickets.  Tonight, is one of those occasions.  
         Now retired and living alone, I’m always looking for excuses to get out of the house.  Having been to over 30 shows at this venue by now, I’m completely comfortable navigating the layout.  Plus, this old haunt has a great sound system and acoustics. 
        Usually I check my peacoat, but decided to keep it on tonight on account of the damp evening chill.  Emanating from the heavy wool cloth is the sweet, earthy aroma of tobacco; many a pipe has been enjoyed in this jacket on my porch rocking chair.  Instinctively yearning, I resolve to maneuver down to the outdoor smoking area during intermission.
        Presently, I’m standing at the very back of the theatre, leaning against a wooden column which easily supports my feeble frame.  This is ornately carved in some sort of plant-based motif, I can feel the individual leaves and flowers etched in the coarse grain of the post.
         I move my hand slowly along the wood, matching the low bellows of the stand-up base, which I know is setting time in the background, even though I can’t see the instrument or operator from here.  Joining in is a distinct sound from the right edge of the stage, some string and bow instrument, a haunting melody. 
        Maybe I’ll move forward to the front of the balcony. 
       This current song has some familiarity to me, but the instruments are different from the original version.  My age, and upbringing, have left me as a classic rock junkie, so I scroll through the memory banks.  The composition is dominated by a lead instrument, sometimes solo, with two complementary harmonics overlaid throughout.   
         Listening intently for another few seconds, the riff finally crystalizes in my mind.     
         “Jessica” by the Allman Brothers.  That’s it.  
       The lead guitar has been replaced with a banjo, the supportive electric piano swapped for a fiddle, and the bottom harmony converted from organ to upright base.  I always appreciate a good instrumental; they really highlight the individual sounds of each piece, without becoming muddled by a singer’s voice.
        Shuffling ahead slowly, engrossed by this remastered tune, the toe of my dress shoe snags on a slight step up in the uneven wooden floor, and I nearly tumble over.  My oversized glasses inevitably slide forward, fortuitously catching on the pointed tip of my boney nose.  One crisis averted.
        Unfortunately, I’m not so lucky with my hat, a felt item received from my niece last Christmas.  It flies completely off, and disappears in the murky ether of the crowd.  I stand frozen on the balcony floor, unsure of my next move.  
         “Is this your dark green fedora, sir?” a soothing female voice inquiries from somewhere in front of me.
      “Yes ma’am.” I reply, finally exhaling, and offer out one of my thin, frail hands as confirmation.  The soft brim is gently deposited into my palm.  I immediately flip it over, placing the item back on my balding head.  “Thank you kindly.” 
       Dark green, that’s weird.  I always assumed the hat was black.  Either way, it feels good to have this cap back in its natural place, since I don’t have much hair up top to keep me warm these days.   
        Hopefully this clumsiness isn’t from too much vodka.  If I’m going to carry this cane around like an old man, I may as well use it to help get around.  I’ll stay put and enjoy the rest of the set from the back of the gallery. 

 

The Pit:  9:08 PM    
      Lights flash across the stage, wide arcs of neon purple, green, and orange that track between the various band members, intermittently rotating downward to illuminate the lively crowd.
       Standing in the front row of the pit, where I can almost touch the stage, I’m fully immersed in a surging sea on humans.  Not more than 8 feet from the speaker, which is nearly as tall as me, I can feel the music pulsing into my body, sending tingling sensations all the way to my extremities.
        The band has been jamming nearly non-stop for over an hour now, and despite being in good shape, I’m sweating profusely.  It’s hot with all these warm bodies around.  I should probably take off the royal blue beanie covering my head and ears, but decide against it.  Apparently, I’m not the only one sweating in this throng; there’s a subtle, but mounting, smell of body odor, fortunately mingled with the more favorable aromas of marijuana.
         This show is a fortuitous find.  I was just wandering by earlier this evening, searching for a sports bar to catch up on the baseball scores, and saw this theater’s display for “BLUEGRASS TONIGHT”, as identified in the standard black, blocky lettering.  For $15 I couldn’t resist, and the generous mixed drinks are only $5 each, plus tip of course.  The affordable pricing probably explains why they have such strong attendance on a Thursday night.
        As the next song starts up, I instantly recognize the quick, energetic chords of the intro, and know the lyrics to this ballad by heart.  A Richard Thompson classic.  I sing along, lip-synching with the lead vocalist, as he strums away on a tiny mandolin.
          “Said Red Molly to James, ‘That’s a fine motor bike’.”
          In my excitement, I bump into a young woman about my age, wearing a tight-fitting black tank top, spilling half my Old Fashioned, and the orange rind, out of the plastic cup, and onto her arm.  She mouths something inaudible.  I just nod to her, pointing to my ears, and flash a friendly smile. 
        Suddenly, this gal grabs my forearm.  Initially, I’m worried this is an outburst of anger, but quickly realize the lass has other motives.  Within seconds, we’re bouncing and twirling to the music.  I try to keep time with her erratic writhing, while also matching my movements to the vibrations transited onto the dance floor from the massive subwoofers, and the deft finger movements across the strings being played right in front of me.  
         I can’t understand anything she’s saying, but we can synch up without talking.  She must like my Indian motorcycles tee-shirt.  Good thing I decide to pop in for this concert.  
        The song ends, and with it, apparently, my dancing adventure.  The cute redhead leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the lips.   As she vanishes back into the crowd, I take the last swig of my cocktail, the rye whiskey mixing with the strong vapors from her lip balm in an intoxicating combination.  
       On the stage above, white strobe lights pulse behind the band, combining with the machine fog in a mesmerizing haze.  The band sets into another rousing bluegrass refrain, so lively the music feels like it’s throbbing through the entire venue.
          Time to find another drink.  And another dance partner.

 

The VIP: 10:26 PM    
       This is the best seat in the house.  On an elevated perch in front of the balcony, I can survey the entire floor area from my raised position.  Right now, the stage is teaming with activity, 7 musicians with different instruments all working in unison, like a choreographed ballet.  
       Large even for a bluegrass band, nearly every type of stringed instrument is represented.  Fiddle, banjo, resonator and acoustic guitars, mandolin, upright bass, and even a rouge harmonica, all emitting their own haunting sounds.  From my prime vantage point, I can see the effort each performer is putting into their craft, arm muscles tense with exertion, while feet gently tap out the cadence of the current tune.
        I want to dance; it’s been so long since I’ve “shaken a leg” on the dance floor.  However, the pit is not easily accessible from here. 
     Instead, I settle for another sip of my drink, which sits conveniently on the rail in front of me, then pluck the pineapple slice garnish from the rim of the glass, and pop it in my mouth.  The tropical fruit provides sweet and tart compliment to the warming heat of the dark rum in my boozy concoction.
      Looking down, I notice a few reflective specks of glitter in the cup.  I never get to dress up any more, and haven’t worn a skirt in years.  These concert adventures are one of my few outlets, so I’ve gone all out.  
       My unruly, crimped blonde hair is oriented straight up in a pony tail, held in place by a series of colorful scrunchies.  My makeup is applied thick and heavy: dark mascara-coated eyelashes, rouge blush liberally covering both cheeks, sparkly eyeshadow on both upper and lower eyelids.  That must be the source of the sparkly particulates.  
     Large plastic earrings, composed of interconnected geometric shapes, and a dangling gold necklace with clunky, interconnected loops, complete the persona.  Straight back to high school for me.  
        I’ve been waiting all night for one song.  They have to play it, they always do.  I’ve seen this band half dozen times in the past few years, and this act never disappoints with some signature 80’s pop covers to close out their performance.  With only a few minutes left before the 10:30 PM noise cutoff at this venue, my anthem has to be coming soon.
       On cue, the band sets out on its last masterpiece of the evening, starting with a single solitary acoustic guitar, then ramping up incrementally until all 7 instruments are collaborating in perfectly choreographed, upbeat congruence.   
        Considering my history with this group, I ways splurge for the VIP seats.  Looking down in front of the stage, I see the crowd has been whipped into an energetic frenzy.  Bodies sway rhythmically like wind across a lake, most perfectly matching the cadence of the band’s emissions, while a few, more inebriated souls, have poorer timing.  Regardless, everyone seems to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.    
        After 3 minutes of bliss, the final chorus comes back one more drawn-out time.
       “Taaake on meee.  Taaake me ooon.”
       The performance crescendos with 3 singers executing staggered lyrical rounds, ending with the high-pitched soprano voice elongating the last shrieking note.  A-Ha would be proud.
      It’s like reliving high school prom every time I hear that song.  Afraid of missing it, I haven’t moved from this spot since the show began over 2 and a half hours ago.  Now, hopefully I can get someone to help me backstage for an autograph.  Plus, my bladder is complaining after 3 Mai Tais.

The Bar: 11:11 PM
        The show is over, but fortunately for me, not the boozing.  I’ve got the overhead lights turned down low, suggesting closing time is near, and have lit a few vanilla-scented candles, which are scattered along the length of the heavily lacquered oak bar top.  These wax beauties help improve both the air quality, and general ambience in the space late night.
        My last patrons, a motley trio, remain huddled in the far corner of my back saloon at the theater.  I identify them based on their drink preferences throughout the evening, all of which are pretty rare orders for our usual draft beer clientele.  These weeknight bluegrass cover band shows do tend to draw a diverse audience though.  
        Perched on a stool is an elderly man, wearing dark-lensed glasses, and a gaudy emerald hat.  Holding a cane in one hand, and a cocktail glass in the other, he delicately sips on a neon green liquid not far in color from his headwear.  
       Next to this veteran, a young lad, wearing a knit cap, teeters unsteadily.  Maybe he should borrow gramp’s cane.  There’s a constant, annoying, clinking noise of a large, square, ice cube, my last, in a nearly empty rocks glass, his last, if I have any say in the matter.  
         The final participant in this ragtag assemblage is a heavyset female in a wheelchair.  Her appearance is straight out of a Madonna rave.  I’ve provided this woman with my tallest hurricane glass, from which she leans forward frequently to sip a fruit-garnished Mai Tai, using a long, flexible straw that we normally reserve for children during daytime theatre play events.      
         These three are engaged in lively conversation, but not in the traditional sense.  As I watch with intrigue, the senior gentleman leans down and whispers something to the large woman, who then makes a series of energetic hand gestures towards the drunk boy.  The young kid laughs, slapping the elder on the back, clearly startling him.  Unphased, the lad fires off a rapid series of body signs to the lady, who nods and blurts out “Cheers!”, loud enough for the entire bar to hear, if I had any other customers left.  
        In animated fashion, the group raises their glasses in a toast, the younger two making sure to clink the old man’s stationary cup.  
       This bizarre scene is a true testament to the unifying power of music.  Granted, a little alcohol doesn’t hurt the socializing.  And they’ve been great tippers.  
        Turning away with a smirk, I take a long pull from an unclaimed IPA siting on the rail, basking in its bitterness on the tongue, and aromatic citrus finish.  Refreshed, I move towards the beer taps, anxious to clean up and get home.