A punk combo
stuck in time
playin' the blues
between life and art
while the human race escalates
into the by n' by.
Bearded
hungry
cool
playin' as if nothin' really matters
and this is only life or death.
Just a beat trio
out
of time,
still.
But goin' at it furiously
workin' on the magic that comes
from rules and the breaking of rules
and the breaking of rules within rules.
Arousing the spirit of rituals the dead
audience forgot when they shut the door
on the past and threw away the key and
the live music moans about that forever
then finds the key and plays with that
sense of continuity, blowing on the outrageous
note of unity, then throws away the key
of course and begins really hopping like
"Oh no here's where we've got to deeply
know the music and each other and detach
from it all right now!"
And the guitarist's beret bobs like a cork
on the rhythmic ocean buoyed by the beat but
a wave of horn notes crashes over and it
disappears then is up again on top of the wave
as the syncopated guitar solo buoys the beret
and fluid wood guitar notes talk to the
black honey bebop of the clarinet and the
notes agree and go off together to get laid
or find enlightenment or both.
And the dog beneath the chair agrees and
stops thinking about food and
starts thumping the floor with his tail -
hurrying the beat just a little because he's still
kinda thinking about how hungry he is and
it's natural to rush the beat when yer a dog
and yer playin' the blues between life and death.
And the man in black agrees and sings the blues
between done and undone putting his
voice on the line between known and unknown,
not choosing either one just hummin', croonin',
and sayin' everything I could not
say in fourty thousand exasperated
philosophical offerings.
And the boys in the band are playing off each
other, and the instruments are playing themselves
or each other besides what else is there to
do in a little dive stuck between here and there
but play the blues, or jazz, or cowpunk and let
the mind let go of all the things it thinks it
has to do, think, and say and just BE!
Until you don't even think about that and
thinking and being become what they are
not what they think they should be.
But of course you know that even three musicians
playing the blues between why and why not
have to stop and eat and drink because they are
cool, and they are hungry, (the dog too).
So when the lady who runs the joint brings
out some food the boys in the band reel in the
notes cast on the harmonic sea and bring in the
tempo and focus it all on the door to wherever
and pound it all into one final inevitable
unconscious wail and then stop.
But wait! What is this?
A music critic is rushing the stage waving
a pad full of questions and the dog thinks,
"Even here, in the cafe between life and art,
there are critics". And the critic whines,
"at the end of your tune there is all this
abandoned thrashing and unmelodic blowing
and is that a relection of and a statement upon the
wild-alienating aspects of life in the post-post-
post- modern world?"
And
one musician lights a smoke.
Another musician says, "huh?"
The dog heads for the kitchen.
And the third musician says, "No".
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