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Hot Buttered Rum.
Quick quiz. What is hot buttered rum? A) A cockles warming cocktail consumed on a mountain, cold afternoon
If you are scratching your head and asking, where is "D" (All of the above), you are correct in a mind numbing, cocktail, jam band kind of way. Well sort of. I spent a Friday evening in Petaluma, CA rocking to a set stopping, twenty two minute rendition of Elton John's "Rocket Man" which was accompanied, actually performed, by two mandolins, a banjo, a bass, a kazoo and oversized glitter, star glasses, a la Mr. John. The song was a hit and a welcomed turn of the ear away from twang and less than tony lyrics involving Aunt Rose, rivers, rafting, redwoods, mountain passes, rounding the mountain, crossing the valleys, being stuck in the valley, being stuck in traffic behind a tractor, being stuck on a broken heart back porch, but no references to Brokeback Mountain. This group of Zach Braff look-a-likes turned the volume up loud on their Marshall stacks (to the disdain of the man behind the PA who sat tortured as if kneeling on a wooden church bench, hands clasped knuckles white, for two hours) and caused a commotion on the dance floor that had more legs moving in awkward angles than the post-dinner, backyard concert that Michael Landon was apt to perform for the Ingalls' girls on Little House on the Prairie. The music cut through cowboy caps and pinballed around peanut heads. I finished my beer and the band played on, rocking my sobriety. I tried to get caught up in the action. It did look fun until I realized that I can't dance this dance or any dance for the matter of fact. My realization was confirmed for three minutes and forty five seconds as the band tried to figure out how to climb a tree and swim in a creek. Their fingers plucked strings furiously and they lyrically overcame these obstacles, but I fared for the worse. I tried but could not figure out what to do with my hands, sans 20 ounce red plastic beer cup, while dancing. The song ended with my hands in my pockets pushing against my hips, forcing them in one direction or the other in silence. Out of sync with the band, out of sync with the teenage kids who floated listlessly into my space in trance-like circles. Get away, I murmured to myself. Do unto your underage girlfriend exactly what her shotgun-toting father said not to do. Do not pass go, do not collect a 12-gauge in your ass and do not dance in my space unless you want my sneaker in your ass - a cow skin cowboy boot would have been better, but I was the only one without them surgically attached to my peds. All in all, the show was great. A high-energy, pulse plucking introduction to Bluegrass. Next stop: Kentucky to pick up the String Cheese Incident caravan; hopefully they will have an "Almost Famous"-inspired Elton John cover tune on the set list. However, there was no sign of chewing, dipping, spitting, rolled sleeves on a farmer's shirt, Petaluma native, Thad Isdahl. If anyone knows of this man, wanted dead or alive, on a milk carton or in the post-office, please e-mail me directly. Thank you.
Post - September'06 Back to home...
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