You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy!
A guy with two trumpets in his mouth.
2 trumpets, no kidding. I saw this recently at a little bar b que joint in Franklin, Tennessee, a suburb of Music City USA.
The trumpet player was as bald as uncle fester and pushing 50. But he could bring the Funk-a-delic, Jack.
This guy is a firm believer in bigger is better. Or at least 2 is better than one.
He stood on the front of the stage like a white version of dizzy Gillespie, with two trumpets protruding from his ample, elastic lips. His cheeks would turn bright red like a balloon ready to pop. Then his lungs would force the air through his lips and somehow into the mouth piece of each trumpet.
What a freak zone baby.
And this must be how you join this group, because the Sax player did the same thing. The sax player stood before us, grinding on an imaginery blow up doll, sexing up the front row of old women, with 2, count em, 2 saxophones dangling from his lips. I guess this group is cutting back on expenses. If you needed a second saxophone, wouldn’t you just hire a 2nd saxophone player?
Thankfully the drummer didn’t have 2 bass drums coming out of his ass.
I never did catch the name of this group but they were laying it down like a 20 dollar street hooker. I’m not even sure what that means, but it conjures up something nasty.
This band was pumping out some gritty blues, saturated with sweat and wiskey. I was in Franklin, Tennessee, but it felt like I was on a street corner in Memphis, without the high crime rate.
The 7 piece band was an ecclectic group of, well there is no better way to say it, aging rockers.
There were two guitarists. One guy looked like a sweat stain on an old gym shirt, but his fingers were greased lightning as he worked the strings like a pickpocket in a Dickens Novel.
As his hands slid up and down the guitar neck, old women in the audience smiled, as if hypnotized, ready to throw their grandma sized panties up on stage.
What is it with guitar players, i asked a guy on the bar stool next to me.
The other guitarist was also a fine musician. He had long stringy hair like Duane Allman returns from the grave. He would walk up to his pick pocket partner and give him a little guitar “what for” and then they would duel.
This anonymous band in a suburb of Music City was just ripping it up. they were so musicially dynamic, so professional, i couldn’t help but think, these guys have mastered the art of being a band.
These seven guys played off each other so beautifully, it was like watching Clooey and Pitt in Ocean’s 13. A roll of the eye. A subtle brush of the nose. The play was on. If not Ocean’s 13, maybe the sting with Redford and Newman.
The band was old and so was the crowd. They sang happy birthday to a 38 year old and she was like a spring chicken in the joint.
During a set break, I swear I smelled Mentholatum deep heating rub. Now that’s not something you smell every day. Not in a bar b Que joint, anyway.
Old but polished. This group played like fine wine, alternating heart felt solos and then jumping back in the melodic line with their band mates. It was like passing traffic in the diamond lane, then quickly merging back into the procession of vehicles.
It reminded me how much musical talent there is in a 25 square mile radius of Nashville, Tennessee.
“You wouldn’t hear this quality a jam in Davenport, Iowa,” I told the guy on the next barstool.
He smiled and lifted his Shiner Bock in my direction.
It’s just another slice of life from the crazy department.