8:00 PM,
December 6, 2000, in a small
Los Angeles bar:
The lights go down, or rather they don't, because they've been that way all night. Seven middle-aged but vibrant musicians take the cramped, cluttered stage. The whole vibe reminds me of the Foxfire.
The opening strains of Chemicals fill the air. A cigarette dangles from Billy's lips. His voice, their demeanor... Seems so aloof, but there's... something.
Electricity. TENSION.
It's like some musical incarnation of beat poetry. I'm hooked. I find my head bobbing, foot tapping. Silent, reserved recognition of the art happening a few bare feet before my eyes.
"Pave pave pave the world, pave pave the world."
The final, bizarre notes of Mamma Getting High on Chardonnay echo in my brain. I applaud. I smile.
"What a show," I think to myself. This is what music is all about.