alcala0001
10-08-2010, 09:44 PM
I know I just submitted a story, but the muse struck again. What can I do?
I swing the big grill of my '85 Caddilac Fleetwood DeElegance Coup into the narrow drive of the Limelight Lounge. The neon scatters pink diamonds across my dirty windshield and reflects in the puddles on the street. The house is packed, lookin' good for a saturday night. I pull up in the spot next to the beat-to-hell Ford Econoline -The Beast, as we dubbed it. I prefer not to arrive in the van. Jimmy's little cousin was keeping my spot. Good kid. Jimmy's been teaching him the drums and says he's coming along nicely. I swing the large door wide and step out on the wet asphalt. The smell of rain and wet city greets me. I take one last pull on my cigarette and crush it under my alligator shoe, exhaling as I close the door and run a hand over my head checking my hair. I stroll to the back of the Caddy and open the trunk. Mobsters would call this a 5-body trunk. I call it big enough to carry my Les Paul and my custom leather boutique amplifier and still have room for a case of beer. Jimmy's cousin runs over and muscles the amp out of the trunk while I scoop up my guitar case. Nobody touches my baby but me.
We walk around the back and there's a couple kissing and groping against the wall, taking advantage of the break in the rain. There's a hint of pot in the air and cigarette cherries glow in the shadows, where the bulb over the door refuses to illuminate. The big dude at the door nods and steps aside. Country music plays on the house P.A. as I walk into a wall of smoke and the sweet smell of old spilt beer. The short hallway to the rear of the stage is plastered with photos and notes. Chico Chism is on the wall next to Icon, a local metal group. Our band photo is next to a flyer for piano lessons, a few tabs with phone numbers are torn off of the bottom. The guys are setting up now and Ken gives me a nod as he patches cables behind his keyboard. I step up on the stage and Jimmy's cousin sets up my amp. I survey the crowd as I pop the latch on my tweed case and lift the lid. Some familiar faces, lots of new ones. I lift the case to reveal the pink crushed velvet cradling my '80 Les Paul. The transparent finish shines like glass in the house lights. The sunburst pain job starts as a tobacco brown revealing the rich mahogany grain and fades to black at the guitar body's edges. The gold hardware sets it off. Mother of pearl inlays adorn the fingerboard. She doesn't have a name like BB King's Lucille, or Eric Clapton's Blackie, but make no mistake, she's my #1 girl.
Jimmy gives a few kicks on his bass drum and gives a thumbs-up to Joe at the mixing board, it rattles my chest. Sonia brings us a tray of cold Silver Bullets. Not my beer of choice, but the first round is always free. I take a pull of the cold beer and put it next to the wedge-shaped monitor facing me on the corner of the stage. She's already tuned, but I give a few test chords as Joe dials me in to the sweet spot. Looks like we're ready to go. I don't see Mike anywhere. His gear's already set up, hiding in the corner, tubes and switches glowing at stage left, The long slender neck of his beat up Jazz Bass is leaning on his cigarette-scarred amp. He must be out there working his magic. I give the fellas a nod and they return it. Show time. The house lights dim and Jimmy pounds out a fast beat, bass drum booming, hi-hat hissing and snare drum popping. ken's keyboard roars to life and if you close your eyes you'd swear it was an old Hammond organ instead of a digital stream of 1s and 0s. The crowd parts as Mike runs from the darkly lit bar, his arm still reaching back to the girl he was with in the darkness. He swings a leg over and pulls himself up, dashing to his bass, slinging it on his shoulder and rolling up the volume knob. Mike's thumping bass line walks up and down, keeping the groove tight. I open her up. My guitar howls and snarls, screams and wails. I grab the microphone. "Hello ladies and gentlemen!" The crowd woops and hollers, swaying to the beat. "We gonna give you a show tonight! Are you ready?! Because The Blues is happening here!" Oh yea. The Blues is happening here.
I swing the big grill of my '85 Caddilac Fleetwood DeElegance Coup into the narrow drive of the Limelight Lounge. The neon scatters pink diamonds across my dirty windshield and reflects in the puddles on the street. The house is packed, lookin' good for a saturday night. I pull up in the spot next to the beat-to-hell Ford Econoline -The Beast, as we dubbed it. I prefer not to arrive in the van. Jimmy's little cousin was keeping my spot. Good kid. Jimmy's been teaching him the drums and says he's coming along nicely. I swing the large door wide and step out on the wet asphalt. The smell of rain and wet city greets me. I take one last pull on my cigarette and crush it under my alligator shoe, exhaling as I close the door and run a hand over my head checking my hair. I stroll to the back of the Caddy and open the trunk. Mobsters would call this a 5-body trunk. I call it big enough to carry my Les Paul and my custom leather boutique amplifier and still have room for a case of beer. Jimmy's cousin runs over and muscles the amp out of the trunk while I scoop up my guitar case. Nobody touches my baby but me.
We walk around the back and there's a couple kissing and groping against the wall, taking advantage of the break in the rain. There's a hint of pot in the air and cigarette cherries glow in the shadows, where the bulb over the door refuses to illuminate. The big dude at the door nods and steps aside. Country music plays on the house P.A. as I walk into a wall of smoke and the sweet smell of old spilt beer. The short hallway to the rear of the stage is plastered with photos and notes. Chico Chism is on the wall next to Icon, a local metal group. Our band photo is next to a flyer for piano lessons, a few tabs with phone numbers are torn off of the bottom. The guys are setting up now and Ken gives me a nod as he patches cables behind his keyboard. I step up on the stage and Jimmy's cousin sets up my amp. I survey the crowd as I pop the latch on my tweed case and lift the lid. Some familiar faces, lots of new ones. I lift the case to reveal the pink crushed velvet cradling my '80 Les Paul. The transparent finish shines like glass in the house lights. The sunburst pain job starts as a tobacco brown revealing the rich mahogany grain and fades to black at the guitar body's edges. The gold hardware sets it off. Mother of pearl inlays adorn the fingerboard. She doesn't have a name like BB King's Lucille, or Eric Clapton's Blackie, but make no mistake, she's my #1 girl.
Jimmy gives a few kicks on his bass drum and gives a thumbs-up to Joe at the mixing board, it rattles my chest. Sonia brings us a tray of cold Silver Bullets. Not my beer of choice, but the first round is always free. I take a pull of the cold beer and put it next to the wedge-shaped monitor facing me on the corner of the stage. She's already tuned, but I give a few test chords as Joe dials me in to the sweet spot. Looks like we're ready to go. I don't see Mike anywhere. His gear's already set up, hiding in the corner, tubes and switches glowing at stage left, The long slender neck of his beat up Jazz Bass is leaning on his cigarette-scarred amp. He must be out there working his magic. I give the fellas a nod and they return it. Show time. The house lights dim and Jimmy pounds out a fast beat, bass drum booming, hi-hat hissing and snare drum popping. ken's keyboard roars to life and if you close your eyes you'd swear it was an old Hammond organ instead of a digital stream of 1s and 0s. The crowd parts as Mike runs from the darkly lit bar, his arm still reaching back to the girl he was with in the darkness. He swings a leg over and pulls himself up, dashing to his bass, slinging it on his shoulder and rolling up the volume knob. Mike's thumping bass line walks up and down, keeping the groove tight. I open her up. My guitar howls and snarls, screams and wails. I grab the microphone. "Hello ladies and gentlemen!" The crowd woops and hollers, swaying to the beat. "We gonna give you a show tonight! Are you ready?! Because The Blues is happening here!" Oh yea. The Blues is happening here.