"You really got a hold on me."
Saturday, July 5th, 2008.
11 PM.
Pehrspace.
Downtown Los Angeles.
"Hey, anybody want another beer?"
"Sure."
"Word. I'll get em."
Inside.
The room is darkly lit, amplified only by a pale red light. And his wail. The room is silent, nodding in unisom. And his wail. He sits behind a keyboard, lace pantyhose covering his face. A bowler hat sits atop his head. And he wails. Outside I stood by the grill in Downtown Los Angeles. Inside I became trnasfixed by the Southern Fried soul reminscent of that heard down south on the Bayou. His guitarist released a rebel guttural wail from his stool with no microphone. We were enraptured. There was no way I was going to break through this to get to the beer on the otherside. I merely clapped my hands and reported back outside. Beerless. Cause my mind was lost in something else.
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