Written by Jim Pettenon, J-1 Exchange Student
In the mirror. Pudgy, but athletic. Does this work. No. Behind, shirts pile on bedlinen. This one looks good. Right. With these jeans. Sure. Blood pulsing through the veins. Light sweating of the brow. A date ahead. February 13th. No pressure though. 1830. Meeting at 2100. Spare time. Weird day. Miserable out there. 4.72 inches. Some sort of record. Not in the realm of control. Gotta put it aside.
A sheet of water drops from the roof. Narrowly avoided. Don’t ruin the vestments. Shouldn’t be wearing this jacket in these conditions. Oh well. Here now. Swing the door open. A glance throughout the room. Not here yet. Makes sense. Ten minutes early. Finds a spot up on the bar. Bartender asks if he’s after anything. Not just yet. Waiting for someone. Moments later, a rush of cold air. Door opens. She enters. Looks around. Spots him. A nervous smile exchanged as she approaches. Can feel the clamminess in his pits. Joins him at the bar. Introductions are made; small talk begins. How are you. Isn’t this weather wild. Did you work today. That sort of thing. Drinks arrive. Take the edge off. Seems to be going well, though can’t help but feel that he hasn’t quite settled into it. Brow still sweaty, glistening under the dim colored lights of the bar. Takes a swallow of her wine. Her lips painted, rouge. She smiles again, more confident this time. Conversation begins to flow more naturally. A mutual connection is discovered. Her sister’s friend works with his cousin. Begins to enjoy himself. Another round. The room shrinks, focusing. It’s just him and her now. Another drink finished. It’s almost 2330. Having such a great time. Would she want to continue the night. She meets his eyes. Another good bar down the road. Nodding, blushing, she agrees.
Behind the symphony of brass and guitar, a curtain peels apart. The man looks nervous. She walks just out of reach. Celebratory cheers embrace the couple. The man’s face melts, completely at ease now. Actually, handsome when relaxed. He taps her shoulder. With a nod of her head, he grabs her hand, and they melt into dance. The crowd of people. A mess of writhing bodies.
Music cascades over eardrums. The upbeat, sultry tones of jazz. Radio Veloso. Second band for the night. No, third. Caught the back half of Johnny Fritz. An earnest performer. Spoke from the heart. Voice from the heavens. Waltzing around in a great set of boots. The Independent at his whim. Spotlights illuminate parabolic columns of red velvet draped along the wall. Holding down the fort solo. No Albert. Something about a missed flight, or a delay. Or maybe Albert doesn’t exist. Not that it matters. Friends scattered. Having a good time. Dense crowd. Stuck near the entrance. Lots of movement. Need to find a better spot. Applause grows, Johnny croons good night. The crowd breathes out, space appearing. The bartenders’ pace picks up. An efficiency there that wasn’t a moment a go. Orders poured with one hand and payments processed with the other. Simultaneously. Lights dim. Chatter amongst the crowd softens within moments. An audible hum of anticipation remains. Shadowy figures take the stage. Drumbeat kicks in. Then a baseline. Warm, thick notes floss though the air as though honey from the hive. Delectable. The guitar enters. Electric, though not overprocessed. Has a raspy twang to it. A country feel. Lights come up. The frontman is here. The Head Honcho. Long dark hair hangs loosely off the back of his head. Adorned with a hunter orange trucker cap, a thick dark handlebar moustache. A black acoustic guitar. Calls to the crowd over the music, right hand beginning to strum as the left locates familiar chords on the fretboard. Playing modest triads, leading the song from the front. The guitarist responds, introducing himself to the audience. Fingers flick over steel. Carefully, with acute precision. Bassist next. The instruments’ headstock pointed proudly at the ceiling. A sharp attack of rhythm from cascading drumsticks on polyester. Introductions concluded. The show must go on. A voice that draws heavily on influences from early country ballads. Rich, deep tones. With the casual yodel. Unearthly cries from the mountain gods. Calling down on their flock. Intrinsic. Hips oscillate from left to right. Heads nod along to the beat. Sweat builds. Layers removed. Drinks finished. The crowd mellow, butter. Responding to the atmosphere created. Thrashes about. Hit after hit. They love him. Country boy embraced by the city. A final nod of the head. Drumsticks down. Applause continues for sometime. Cords unplugged; cases open. No hurry to leave. Sit in that for a bit. That sticky bliss. Crowd elated, flowing out. Into the wet night. A soft blanket of rain envelopes; cool, damp. White noise in the ears.
Where to next. Food is suggested. After 2300, Thursday night. Options limited. Glide of rubber on soaked bitumen. The car glides on by, taillights dragging in the gloom. Following its trajectory, pizza. The hum of neon. By the slice. Tantalising smells waft from a kitchen hidden. Cheese oozing. A fraction poorer. But worth it for the first bite. Still feeling the hum of the night. A jazz bar down the road. Madrone. Identification please. Turns the card over. Glances up, back at the photo. All good brother. Slide the card back into its place. Through the beaded curtain. Slice of life after hours. Circular tables run along the right wall. Bar opposing. Fully stocked. Whole thing basked in a deep red. Immediately on the right, band setting up. Four pieces. Find a table. Conversation resumes. Plans for the break. Favourite music. Elation from the previous gig. Drums kick in, giving the conversation a pace, a tempo. Two layered guitars. Some heads turn. Others remain engrossed in various conversations about god-knows-what. But the progression is enticing. And one member has yet to enter the fold. But he stands there, trumpet in hand, eyes closed. Waiting patiently. To strike. Filling the room with the smooth tones of brass. Infectious. Transported. Feet tapping along furiously to the interwoven patterns. Friends dancing. Temperatures rise rapidly. A new crowd enters. Accents of some kind. Scottish. Clearly here with one objective. To have a good time. The throng doubles in size. Gaining some attention. Heads that didn’t turn before are turning now. Some slowly drift into the fold. The tempo perfect. More through the entrance. Cheered into the room. Each entrance, an entrance. Smiles grow quickly and wide. The electric air inhaled, moving synchronously with the nearby bodies. Radio Veloso adjust the fervour of the audience. Maybe weren’t expecting a dance floor. But how could they not. The almost imperceptible transition out of the back of a song into the beginning of another. Four creatures working symbiotically listening for subtle changes in the rhythms and routines of each other; reacting, countering, acknowledging. Playing until exhaustion, until they can play no more. Bartender calls last drinks, musicians put their instruments down to a raucous applause.