Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Musical Vastness

Nights fueled with drinking and debauchery are the best kind.

I had previously arranged with Faust to go and experience all that is Vast. The group changed and changed until finally I found myself exposed and fielding a call from the bard that the ride was waiting patiently for me outside. I skipped out the door and down the stairs trying not to kill myself on the ice or the snow or the fun of the evening and ran towards the ride. Faust sat shot gun and his lovely girl friend of the fabulous bosom Audrey Hepburn was driving.

Chicago is lovely at night as we speed through the city, the traffic, the lights, the insanity of moving from one place to another, working our way towards the inevitable goal, music in the city. Music to divine by. Parking was found not easily but close, Audrey after some shaking back and forth with the car managed to fit into the spot with only a minor bump of a rear bumper. Being that this is Chicago it demanded that a person run across the street to let us know that the car behind us had been touch during our parking debacle. We knew this, but they ranted anyway.

“It’s okay, you should just know.”

“I know I already got out and checked, there is no damage and everything is fine.”

“Right, but you should just know.”

Faust and I sat white knuckled and stayed out of it letting Audrey handle it. Between the two of us I think it would have turned into a fight, but she’s cool under pressure and eventually smoothes it over to everyone’s satisfaction.

“Let’s go get pizza,” she says and we skip across the street.

Chicago pizza. We walked into the parlor that was full of load music and punks, and queers, and students, and pizza eaters. The pizza jockey behind the counter slings pizza dough into the air spinning a perfect circle that lands neatly over his upraised arm. It smells like heaven and flour and sauce and real cheese. It smells good and feels warm and I cursed myself for stupidly filling up on pita bread and spinach dip before leaving. Silly vegetarian.

The timing was right and as we left the parlor Chicago winter was starting to wake up from a slumber. “What the hell am I doing with all this warmth,” it said to the dark streets and the citizens sick of snow, “let it be cold.” And there was a gust of wind that froze the nipples off of all of us as we two stepped down the street towards the Double Door.

Our tickets were waiting inside wear soon we found ourselves poised to take in the band. We had spots close to the stage, drinks in hand, and the will to be there. Two groups were up before the Vast expansion of our musical horizons that we expected to see later. The first group was full of white suburban punk anger, shouting out their rage as they tore apart a trashcan with teeth and forhead, braining that poor aluminum something fierce. The screamed and people tapped their feet and jumped around.

We met the rest of the party while the punks screamed on page. We had Vanilla and J and soon to be followed by the Somaon who would be presumably be wearing more than the sarong he had wrapped himself in last time I had seen him. Vanilla was a wonderfully nice guy and J was even better. From head to two she exuded that kind of mysterious punky naughtiness that I aspire too. Maybe it was that or maybe it was the red fishnet stockings over her black garters and the fact that her skirts seemed to keep inviting my hand to find it’s way underneath.

Faust is the instigator, “you should show J your bracelets.”

I smile. And agree thinking later, but a few minutes later I’ve got myself locked around J and we are all tied up and ready to go. Her hand is warm pressed in mine and I like the feel of her wrist locked so close to mine. We play like girls will play and smile and are amused. I keep her all tied up for a bit until we twist the bracelet around so badly that I have to set her free or risk becoming forever intertwined. I suspect there are worse fates but we are here for the music.

The second band up is some grunge pop set that plays pretty music without really inspiring. We talk and laugh and enjoy ourselves and stake a claim to our spot even more firmly waiting for the main show.

Which was coming.

Which started with the half naked long haired Irishman who played violin joined very shortly by the only person we want to see, Jon Crosby, taking the stage, with his guitar and his back up and his voice. The voice walks in separate, it’s own special aura, taking it’s place in front of that microphone and preparing to wow the crowd. We are in awe before he opens his lips. He sings to us and we respond, we understand, we are musical creatures feeding on the only thing that will truly satisfy us tonight.

He sings to us….

Precious one, you have abandoned me
Oooh, so let me in
Because I'm out…

And we let him in. And we swoon. We jump, and we dance, and we laugh and we cry and we are united in our love and our deep desire swirling and changing like the lights on the stage. Fluid movement and everything lost and nothing and redeemed by the voice that leads us through the darkness. The debauchery was between our ears and mingled with the alcohol flowing between our lips and the vibrations of the instruments strumming through the air and between our legs.

The best kind of nights.


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