Saturday, July 21, 2012

Part One, Blues and Soul

The ornate design of life looks like a silver ring stroking the strings of a guitar.   Enmeshed with sounds coming from the lungs of music, hosted by pleated dusty pant legs and polished worn through boot heels, its voice sings like a bluesy lullaby.  An instrumental solo and boom boom create the foundation for a melodic baritone soul.
Rick Taylor, ladies and gentlemen.

This room was packed when I was working, but now that I stand at the end of the bar and absorb the dimly lit scene that is the colour of a gilded bruise, I see only a few people still here - The couple at a high top speak as if they are long-time friends with hidden pasts as two other unsullied lovers rest their elbows close together.  The evening falls to the floor.

I drink Taylor’s voice like fermented syrup laced with thorns, tasting-oh-so-good as it catches the back of my throat.  I lean forward and he drags me willfully and I catch my breath, swallowing for the first time his sweet and sultry sticky soul.  This moment is magic.
We are all tourists today, and we all are held captive at the sight and sound of Rick Taylor.   
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