Oh.
We practiced.
When we weren’t sinning
We were singing.
The group wasn’t always complete
For rehearsals.
In fact
Actually...
Hardly ever.
Between check-ins
With parole officers
Curfews
Therapy appointments
12 Step Meetings
Addictions
Blackouts
And actual crime
It was nearly impossible
To get everyone of us...
All 23 of us in the ensemble
Together in the same room
At one time.
But we did the best we could
Considering
And we put our whole spirit into it.
We didn’t mess around.
We got down to business
Whether it was a handful
Or the whole enchilada.
THAT’S really important
If you’re singing the gospel.
We ‘inherited’
A pump organ
From an ‘anonymous donor’
Which really enriched our sound
But seeing
As our church
Was usually held
In various unsavory
Bars and locales
It could be a real bitch
To drag around.
At first
We had no one
To play it
Until we found a sinner
That could.
We found our organist
In one crack-whore
From the more-than-dangerous
Northern part of town.
She self-professed
That she could suck a mean dick
At the drop of the pants
As long as there was
A ‘party’ involved.
She would make it to most every gig
And she was surely missed
When she’d pull an MIA.
She had this habit
Of going all somnubulistic
And pulled out some weird, warm vibrations
Out of that instrument.
Otherworldly
And haunting.
Once in a blue moon
She appeared to lose conciousness
Her arms and torso
Pressing flat out down on the keyboard
For an extended period of time
Her head resting on the wooden bridge
While the band continued to pump behind her...
The organ making a terrific noise.
Sometimes a minute...
Or two...
Or five...
The longest being seven and a half minutes.
She would eventually jerk up
All wobbly
Spinning eyes
And she would keep on playing
Like nothing ever happened.
She told us her name was
‘Labios Calientes Juanita’.
Several male members of the choir
Vouched for her skills
While not on the organ
But theirs.
The bass player
Was tall as a muthafucking muthafucker
And black as fuck
Too.
We called him
‘Black’.
He could throw down a line so deep
Like he was sinking a lure in the mudbed
For catfish.
The white chicks always wanted him.
They’d all curl up at the foot of the stage
Like they were at his feet
Even though he would
Groove back at the gravity
Of the drum kit.
They’d throw their wet panties
And crumpled up papers
With their phone numbers on them
Right there at his Italian made
Fancy skin leather shoes.
He didn’t say much.
Instead he let his fingers do the talking
Moving up and down
The long neck of the bass
Just like he’d be doing to the spine
Of one of those bitches later.
He looked like a tall dark shadow
In a suit
Playing that thing
Cigarette forever dangling loosely
Between his wet red lips.
The ash growing ever longer
Hanging there
As if to confirm to
The girls’ theories
Of the virile treasure
Hidden behind the crotch of his
Creased
Gabardine
Cuffed pantelones.
The guitar player
Was relocated from upstate.
He had taken the lives of a few civilians
In so-called
‘Self Defence’
But the court
Didn’t see it that way.
So he did his time
Upstate
And eleven years later
He was granted parole
Being set loose
In his hometown of Baltimore...
A safe city by no means.
Especially for someone
Recently released from the prison population
Hungry to explore
His ‘New Public Citizen Status’’.
This so-called ‘group’
Was part of his therapy/outpatient program.
We all had a good laugh on that one
When he first told us.
But we keep our secrets
And the bastard
Had talent.
On timbales we had Pito ‘The Bug’ Rodriguez
A third tier drug dealer
That dabbled in coke, heroin, meth, molly
And prescription meds
Like Temazepam, Adderall, Seroquel
Valium, Xanax and Oxycodone.
Though he no longer worked the street level
He was still curb smart
And tough as sugar cane for a wiley
Sinewy Latin brother.
As prolific as he was
With his knowledge of various highs
And cocktailed mind alterations
He was as talented on the ‘bales.
He was as much into playing
A slow, tearful soul groove
As he was igniting up
On a rousting, balls-out gospel number
Sticks flying in a blur
Cowbell beat ringing
Rimshots and rolls on the tight drumheads.
That Timbalero
Could dance too!
He would contort and sway
Roll his shoulders
Spin around on his heels
Never missing a beat.
‘The Bug’
Was integral to the success
Of our band.
We had two vocalists.
A he and a she.
The she was Sister Claudia.
She was a BBBW dominitrix
That ran gigs out of the
Midway Truck Stop
On Holabird Avenue.
Her voice would hit you like a command.
It would reach down
Into your guts and bowels
And just pull everything loose.
I’m not into
Big women
But I would have to tell you
That I grew to have a thing
For Claudia
Just by the way she sang.
The he was Big Syl.
Syl also could reach deep down inside.
Except
Instead of going for the groin
He went for the heart and mind.
And the wallets
If he was let loose
Into the audience.
He was an ace pick-pocket.
Sometimes
There was several hundred
Extra dollars on the table
At the end of the night
Besides tips
And door when we could get it.
He also made the girls horny.
In his case
It didn’t matter whether
They were
White, black or Latino
Skinny or fat
Or pretty even.
I NEVER
Saw him go home
Empty handed.
The choir was a riff-raff
Spectrum of degenerates.
Petty offences
Kidnapping
Peddling without a license
Armed robbery
B&E
Voyerism
Assault
Shoplifting...
There were fifteen to twenty
At any given time.
Not, again, that they were all there at once.
But it was a spiritual and talented choir.
Voices that shined.
We always brought the house DOWN!
And we always ended
With the encore
“Oh Lord Don’t Let Us Do The Time”
To standing ovation
And drinks were bought
For all of us
No matter how many
Were in the band
That night.
No comments:
Post a Comment