Blur at the Bottom of the Harvest of the Noe Valley Aubergine

Andrew stayed in town for three weeks in October. We rehearsed a handful of new tunes. We played some gigs. This last clump of shows followed in the wake of over fifty appearances this past year. So. The last full band appearances (and really, the past 18 months) have blended together into a single glob in my head. Here's the glob:

We launch into our set opener. I pound the keys. The kickdrum thumps, cymbals shimmer, the bass vibrates the whole stage. Some smiling faces peer up at us from the side of the stage. I smile back. Riffs. Chords. Basslines. Backbeats. Tunes. I sing the words of "Syllable": "wish I were a centipede" and I mean it, dude! The lyrics of "Lucy", "Opposite Man", "Emily". Gary harmonizes, miraculously matching my jagged phrases. The song is winding up. Vaulting onto the piano I demonstrate the love that dare not speak its name. I hop off the keyboard. Applause! Thanks y'all!! I sip a tasty beer. We ease into another tune. The set ebbs and flows and pitches and yaws and wows and flutters. We play "50,000 Names" followed by "Opposite Opposite Man". "Bow-legged Romeo shrugs down the street, the wind at his collar and a poem in his teeth". The audience has been watching curiously, appraising, and now when the drums make their surprise entrance in the middle of this stealth ballad, they are drawn into the storyline and forget themselves--just like us. "Comforting the Castaways" maintains the collective state of suspended disbelief. Then "Make Them Beg" snakes through its syncopations and reaches an insistent peak. I knee and stomp the piano clanging discordant bliss while the bass rumbles and duels with the drums. Applause! The show is done. We drag our instruments offstage into a waiting vehicle. It's raining. Sad streets steam silently silvered in the smoky fog. We drive away from the venue. Towards home.