Nightglow

Sleeping against a bass drum in the back seat of a roaring Dodge work van may seem like an Almost Famous fantasy to a bedroom-singing dreamer, but the working musician’s songs of the open road are often less romantic.

With a gig-less week to fill, our Midwestern skin was quickly reddened by the gold of the Florida sky, punishing thru our dusty windows to re-ignite our sun-burning desire to perform our genrefree cocktail of tunes upon the virgin ears of another city.

“Panamaaa,” we sang with only a ghost note of rock-n-roll irony, as our van and its’ mates howled into the feverish Americana and cliché-hardening playground of a southern spring break partyland.

“DJ starts at 9,” smiled a sun-freckled hostess.

No sonic space for a live band at this inn.

So off we roll to more unsuspecting venues, still self-absorbed with the “let us play” attitude, and relentless ambition of Neal Cassady’s broken thumb.

“DJ tonight,” frowned an already exhausted bar manager.

“He has a projector that plays the music videos too,” beamed the next southern-import hostess without a hint of Dixie.

Venue to venue the answer the same, live music gets lost in this digital game.

The sun set alongside our spirits as our now sanded Indiana shoes kicked into the great white mouth of “Sharkies”, yet another ocean-side-aquatic-life-themed club.

“A live band? From the Midwest? 3 hours of your own material?!” bounced the enthusiastic baby boomer barkeep.

“Leave it to the Zeppelin-loving generation to actually want to host some live music”, we sang, hurling our heavy equipment on stage with the drifting ease of the surrounding ‘breakers Marlboro smoke.

Our notes filled the ocean air, bright horns overflowing my tenor sung melodies like the draft beer toppling from every ‘breakers cup, moistening the dance floor literally and within metaphor.

We sold t-shirts to mo-hawked Texans, CD’s to starry-eyed sorority sisters, and poured red bull and vodka’s with bustling bartenders – the night had become ours.

A booze-soaked college getaway may be an enlightened travelers nightmare, but with an open ear to the night, you may just hear a wandering group of troubadours blowing the songs of their souls into the mystic ocean waves, cascading over the warp of predictable juke box DJ’s to connect with the One.

We gave great thanks to the open arms that eagerly helped us wrestle our gear back into our dear old Dodge.

"Be extra careful with the bass drum, that just may be my pillow tonight."