I'm at a roadhouse blues concert, drinking myself into a fine humor, hoping it doesn’t turn into a stupor; I can get carried away under these circumstances. There's a group of happy people to my right clustering for a selfie. Oldsters are dancing amusingly. The vibe rolls over me. It's buoyant, and I'm sipping the first of my sweet, red vermouths with olives and orange slices. The corner table where I’m seated is the best in the house. I can triangulate between the stage, the bar, and‌ the front door. The band is excellent. Gritty and hot-blooded. Strong drink; the alcohol is already waking the demon, and I'm waiting to see where it takes me.Â
I'm also waiting for the gist of this evening to announce itself. This is a gray crowd; the Gen X musicians may be the youngest people in the room besides me. Seen in terms of music, I lament more than anything the graying of this genre. I wonder if there's something inherent in its musicality that turns younger people off, or if it's simply a question of cultural irrelevancy. Put a pin in that.
Back to the demons and the gist of the night. So far, it's about some old guy who I told to stop hovering over me. He’s doing some jerky version of "dancing", and has already pulled my hair twice. He keeps bumping my leg, and has excused himself with the phrase, "There's no room."
The demon fantasizes a bottle cracking over his head, and I tell it to shut the fuck up. This isn’t a real roadhouse.
The room’s become unbearably crowded, with people towering all around my table like trees swaying in the wind, but the music is so good, I don’t need to see the players. The skanky harp player/singer introduces the band in shaky Spanish as American expats eleven years in, gigging, living the life, playing Howlin' Wolf and John Lee Hooker. Then I learn they’re locals; faux Americans. I am considering if this is cultural appropriation. One of them even affects a subtly imperfect Spanish accent. Sort of like mine. The other asks the audience how you say slide guitar in Spanish. Damn, that’s diabolical attention to detail. The demon is baying like a hound.Â
I run into a couple of acquaintances and treat them with perfunctory politeness because I am only half in my skin. The other half of me is still mourning the loss of something I have never had and watching out for signs from God that it’s not too late to attain this impossible thing I dare not even mention. Yes, I’m once again torturing myself with thoughts of That One, who’s eight hundred km north of here. Don’t tell me the demon is taking me down the weepy path. I need to nix that, so I feel justified in clapping on the upbeat. Nobody around me understands this music enough to know that’s the way to clap to this tune. In my small way, I’m the bass drum substitute. The drummer went off to talk to someone. If this were a real roadhouse, he would have gone off to the head for head. I tell the demon to shut up again. I’m still clapping, but I will not dance. It’s not cool. I mean, the gist of this evening is that nothing is what it should be. Why should I dance?
Now the drummer is back in his seat, and the music is really cranking. I move up to the front near the stage. They have saved the best songs for last. Good move. For the next twenty minutes, the music completely takes over.Â
The harmonica is calling out the guitar, which is talking back to the keyboard, which is carousing with the drums. And the people, the booze, the toe that fucking old man stepped on, the One I pine for, my precarious lifestyle, and everything else are gone. All that I hear, see, and feel is the music.Â
So that was the gist of it.