Shake it Baby

Ever since I was a wee baby gal, I've had it bad for rockabilly. When I was a kid, it manifested as a crush on Elvis Presley. At least, that's what my family thought. In truth, it was an auditory addiction to the heavy handed basslines and piano only found in the boogie woogie, deep blues and rockabilly. I wish to hell my family had recognized it for what it was, and indulged my interest as more than just a silly crush. Ah, well, they did their best. To be fair, I acquired quite a nice little collection of Elvis vinyl, some of which I still have. I wore them out, spending hours on end plugged into a serious pair of headphones larger than my head when all the other kiddies were out doing things with sticks and balls and such. To this day, I know all the lyrics to most Elivs tunes, and when I hear something by him that I hadn't before, I'm truly surprised. But sadly, all those years ago, I knew nothing of Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins or Chuck Berry, let alone Muddy Waters or Etta James. I wish I had, it might have changed my life. 

Lately, I've been going down to Palmer's Bar to check out Cadillac Kolstad, who all but channels a young Jerry Lee Lewis. These performances have touched a place in me that's been dormant for awhile, that smitten little girl discovering what an elixir for the soul music is. If I weren't already married (I love you honey) I think I might propose to this dude. 

If you're an avid lover of music, I don't need to explain the feeling of watching a live performance by a favorite performer, close enough that you could reach out and touch him. When I'm immersed in the murky depths of an intimate blues bar, standup basslines reaching down into my guts, connecting to my musicians on what is as close to a spiritual level as I could ever hope to be. . . Well. It's transcendent. 

To me, music is the most pristine of all the arts. It's the only human endeavor outside of food and sex that is truly universal. I have the utmost respect for people with musical talent, and not learning an instrument or how to perform music is probably the only real regret of my life. 

Last week, the standup bass player at Palmer's had bandages wrapped around all of his fingers. As he played, the bandages began to unravel, and then ultimately they all fell off. I imagined how painful his fingertips must have been for him to wrap them that way to begin with, but then as they unraveled, of course he just played faster and harder. He played through that song and lots of others, until, I have to imagine, his fingers bled. It reminded me of working through a bad burn on the line, being in the zen state, knowing that the show must go on, maybe even reveling in the pain a little bit.

When I look into the eyes of those musicians, a feel another thing. Envy. While I might be able to dance my way through a busy Saturday night in a swampy kitchen, putting up plates for a hundred hungry diners, reveling in the high of hard work, I'm not sure I'll ever feel the ascendent pleasure of creating the kind of beauty that is the emotional equivalent of a drug. I'll always only be an observer and an accomplice, and that makes me sad.