Just Another Show

Dear Diary,

What the Flex just happened?! Jesus Christ! My God! What a night! I turned up at the gig, sozzled already, an hour late, what happened man?! I'm so fcuked right now. Dealers and Artful Dodgers aplenty. Swathes of flutson and jetson lie here, bottom feeders, pond-life. It's well passed 11 o' clock and I've clocked off for the night.

I've been talking to foreign Communists and local Anarchists. Philosophies so profound.

Right now though, it's sombre. Maudlin. I spied a lone magpie on my way here, and knew it would be this way. Alas. I turned up only to meet with bitter dissappointment. The Portsmouth gig has been cancelled. Conflicting love interests, new relations betwixt mine musical compadre and our Boss (effectively) with an old-flame of his. Not happening. Nothing. Nada.

Anyway, so I turns up, fcuked already on super strength cyder, naturally. I'm late. It's not cool, but it is, sort of.

So I turn up to the gig. An hour late. Explained my recent troubles to a sympathetic amd emphthatic work-force of friends. Not the fair-weather friend kind neither, mates.

So anyhow, I gets up on the stage, and play without trace of rage, no maiden, no mistress, nor smoke. So what happened? I played three new numbers, new to Harry anyway, we were On the Flex. He managed to adapt, improvise, for most pary. If not playing the melody, he twiddled alonv with some lead. It was alright.

After an hour or so, Gulliver arrived. He had two instruments with him. I asked if he could play Turkey (in the Straw) and he couldn't. He is living in the shadow of my favourite hacker, the bestest banjoist ever, Rosie-Rush'. Gulliver could never live up to her giddy high standard of banjo playing, I was most dismayed. It mattered not, Gulliver had the semi-simplistic claw-hammer style. Somewhere between resplendant Rosie and mundane McCormick. He had McCormicks simplicity and improvisational abilities and lacked the polished graft finesse of the magnificent hacker, the ghost in the machine, the phantom whom I miss musically so very much. Words cannot explain.

Let me explain a little something about Maxy Waxy: music is his life. It's what I do. My business. Bluegrass: where my heart is at. All consuming fire never to be extinguished save through finding fellow musicians. Bluegrass. It's what I do.

Now contextualised, let us recount the fireside tale of the night, the gig, my show. What happened? Man! Crazy shit. Far fcukin' out! So, phantom psycho' babe enchantress is not there except in spirit, but who is there? Besides a pub full of drunken clientele, and Harry of course, the man of the moment, Gulliver, pulls out a dusty old violin.

This man detested amplification - as do I. We rocked out acoustically, with only the fiddle, and the guitar, in concert, synchronicity. It was seriously On the fcuking Flex! All thoughts of the phantom psychotropic priestess of pain were lost, for the briefest instance. Then, like the slow-melting ice-sculpture that is music, it melted, faded away. He picked up the banjo again. No Turkey. Claw-Hammer style. As much as I endeavoured to enjoy it, all I could think about was jamming with her. I miss her music so much, the old hacker.

Sincerely,

Maximus.