Bobby Taylor: The Gig

Spring '14 TOC

        Fhoomp, fhoomp, fhoomp. The kid kicks the bass drum, a door he’s trying to knock down.
        Boodwaang, boodwaang. He sucks on his harp bending the notes down into the dirty places. And kuda, kuda, kuda, chang … kuda, kuda, kuda, chang, chang, chang--hands diving into the guitar strings digging for buttons he’s exploding off the shirt of a pissed-off lover and the lawyer bangs his drink on the table and lifts it high high high and brings it down--thuwuuunk.

        The lawyer’s sister and her boyfriend match the lawyer’s whiskey stupid with their Pinot Colada  sweetness,  and love, and touching hands, and lighting cigarettes with matches (remember matches?) and the kid pushes it in, pushes the music into their bodies and they want it. Nobody can say no. We wants another drink! And they tip when the kid does this; when he sings and blows that harp chowuuuuuunging into the dirty places and MAN, this is the buzz, this is the friction they will remember when they say: “We used to hear the kid in this little bar playing his twenty year old brains out.” 

        All the locals and the newbies order more burn and watch the kid work the crowd: the mayor, lawyers, real estate agents and Pat. Pat the 60 year old teenager finds her a new lay every night, starts with her lean lean over to these young bucks an inch of make-up to say “I come here every night” and the kid goes straight into another song he’s making up on the spot. And they know, he lets them know, this is freaking amazing--he is freaking amazing.

        CYMCOMPATO, this kid with the crowd, three songs ahead, and never stopping, sexing the crowd, making wine out of grapes. But, it’s only Pat sitting by herself in the corner sizing the kid up the way she does when it’s slow like this; it’s only Pat and the bartender wondering how long they’re gonna have to listen to the Kid play that crap he plays when there’s no crowd, and he gets drunk, and that makes it worse. Maybe, maybe, Oh Mr. Somebody just walked in and there’s another and the kid finishes that suck-ass folk song and starts to whup that bass drum and bend the music and bite it. Man, the night just started.
        Fhoomp, fhoomp, fhoomp …the kid kicks the bass drum.

        Bobby Taylor


Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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