Artistic License

Dear Diary,

Last night I was lamenting over my old French radio interview when suddenly the phone rang. It was Maxime, naturally. The drummer akin to Keith Moon, synonymous with 'Animal' from the Muppet Show: the licentious lad living for pleasure, hedonism, drink, aye. The very best of men. A Frenchman that is not. For he... is a Vosgienne. Aye.

So. Maxime was as lonesome as I. Drunk, so be it. He craved my company, and I his. Drums and electric guitar. We spoke for hours. I cannot go for the gig I've here and being "Fürer" in the blues band (Blue Team from the O.U.).

What's going on? This morning I awoke to sunny skies but a magpie flying right passed my path, in front of my eyes, a foot. Aye. T'was to be a lamentable day. Cassandra, where are thou?

On my way to Church friends spied me crossing the town square and called. I heed the call and diverted to musicians and poets to have strong drink, first thing Sunday morning, a few laughs, and, of course, talking philosophy.

Before long we were down the road. Elves. Stars. Dust. Aye, smoke and sac 'the special stuff' with all manner of intoxication. The gig is coming. Soon. A deadline, dreaded and fearful yet without trace of terror, but a cavalier attitutude toward musical mercentile. Aye. Pro-class.

So anyway, word on the grapevine was that Harry was in Portsmouth. So. I rang the Landlady. Ensuring Gulliver be paid, properly, as is the custom professionally, musicianship. Aye. A maestro. Bluegrass.

The boss said Harry was here, but that they'd pay all three of us. Excellent. We will do what we did last week: my psychological vicious cycle, flashbacks from a tender time with the best godamn Bluegrass babe that ever walked these fair shores. I am referring, of course, to Rosie.

I insisted we play "Turkey". No dice. Bummer. So we played Kitchen Girl and Old Joe Clark. I can never forget her. Ever haunted by the spectre of her virtuosity. Scarring, mentally, muddling, forever trapped by the sweet sound of her majestic Banjolouki. What can a man do?...

Play the fiddle. Southern-fried chicken style Yeeha! Yessiree! It's drunken barn-dance time, ho-down, Munroe and Watson Bluegrass chicken lickin' finger pickin. Oh yeah! Come on!

I must do my best. Half-cut already on all manner of concoction. Aye. It matters not. Artistic license. Chilled out before the butterfly gig. Other musicians. Jamming. On the Flex. Give it up for Maximus Fleximus.

Anglyn (England)