12 Hours

Starting at 11:00pm, a twelve hour ride…

Reporting live and direct from Yoshi’s San Francisco in the Fillmore district. I felt my way down here through the fog reading it like braille to come see the band Audiobraille. It’s the second day of summer, a Tuesday, 11:30 in the evening. In any other major city, at this time of night, at this time of year, in the geographic center of a city, there should be a plethora of activity from happy, giddy diners to wet mouthed, cigarette chomping barflys and other assorted patrons of the night…nothing particular is even required, city souls are drawn to the streets like moths to a flame for purposes that can only be fulfilled by the night. But on the mile or so walk encompassing about 15 city blocks all I encounter in the shrouded fog is an elderly, tee-tottering, Chinese woman carrying a bag of groceries.

Arriving at Fillmore and Eddy I spy a few Persian looking guys, glassy eyed and hairy armed, hanging out by some taxi cabs. Other than that it's a total Omega Man scene. I expect a tumbleweed to come rolling over my shoes. I’m just a step away from Yoshi’s and as I draw near I hear the echoing beat of percussions. I pay my $7 cover to the No Dozed ticket girl and stroll in. All the side tables are lightly populated and a small gaggle of people are on the dance floor dancing to the end of a session. I’ve arrived at the end of the first set, almost exactly as planned. After all these years I have my timing down to a voodoo science. I like a band when they are warmed up, blood flowing, joints oiled and ready to go. Them that have to go to work tomorrow have already departed or will soon be, the remainder of folk are mostly friends and fans of the band.

I have never lived in New York but I know this from visiting Gotham, the second night of summer would be poppin like an aortic valve and there would be more activity buzzing around than a gang of flies could manufacture descending on a fresh, warm carcass. Comparatively speaking that could be good or bad depending on your temperament. If you want an easy night where you can show up, get your drink, and just ease into a prime seat, San Francisco is your place. In New York city you are fighting for every inch 24 hours a day. It’s trench warfare.




The band is back and the second set is on. It doesn’t take but about a minute for the band to get the sonic sweetness flowing. The dance floor is three quarters populated with all kinds of dance styles being represented. There’s the guy with the dreads bouncing, poppin, and spinnin, like Rerun. There’s the Asian chair massage guy standing in front of the band doing what I call “the dalai lama”, arms spread out like he’s blessing the band with head bowed down in reverence. Then there’s the guy doing what I can only describe as, well, the “pull the shower cap off” dance and he’s into it, just one toe away from being in a dance induced trance. The couple in front of me dressed in urban wear do a non translating California Slide, improvising riffs that revolve around shrugging shoulders and rolling arms creating a wave effect that they ride without the slightest bit of pretension.

Audiobraille is a 5 piece band. I know 4 of the 5 from the neighborhood. Two live on the block. David is on sax, Zori, the lone female in the group, is on a set of tall conga drums, Joel is on the traditional drum set, and Michael is in the corner, almost off stage, on guitar. I’ve already extolled these musician’s virtues on previous blog entries so I’ll skip the history lesson and get right to the exposition. David is taking a contemplative break on stage and his sax gives way to the percussionists and bass. This brings up the meter as bass and drums taking center stage always brings out the primal. The dance floor gets livelier and the people in the shadows at light’s edge are irresistibly drawn into the core of the dance floor. Bodies start spasming to the beats and the scene becomes that painting from Good Times except now it’s all alive and in motion. The band finishes the piece to a healthy round of applause and wolf whistles.

Wearing a silky halter top and skin fitting silky pantalons, a nicely shaped woman dances seductively for a man sitting adjacent to me. She is moving like she is possessed by the spirit of Salome. The only problem is she’s smack dab in the middle of my field of view so I have no choice but to look at her. If I was sitting anywhere else I’d still be checking her out, it would just be governed by the element of stealth. Now I can be blatant and not really worry about it. I can sense the guy next to me becoming aware of my dilemma. Hopefully I am forgiven.

I picked a perfect place to watch the band. I have a seat about 12 feet from the smallish, low rise stage and a candle topped single table to front my beer on. I’m sitting back on the couch that stretches the length of the wall, legs folded over gentleman style, with notebook perched high on thigh and pen frantically scribbling hieroglyphics. My penmanship is my own set of cuneiform. It’s not legible to anyone but myself but people love to look at it. It has a form and vibe to it and if you watch me write you are in for a show. Then pen blazes across the paper with the ever recurring big looping “g”s and “y”s and punctuated dotting of “i”s, and slash crossing of “t”s. My “s”s literally snake across the page like ancient Nagas. I don’t know how it is for others when they write but for me the words and ideas flow like a churning river that I must navigate or be capsized. Listening to live music infects the physical act of my writing, like a cobra being charmed, my hand dances in unison with the music, in a way that never happens when I am listening to recorded music.

By far the best part about my seat are the 5 lovely girls that seat themselves next to me just a few minutes after I scoped my table. They are young, black haired, attractive, and Mediterranean, varying in body style from Marilyn Monroe voluptuous to European model sveltness. They are here to celebrate a 24th birthday, full of giddiness and perhaps a few drinks, this is probably the second or third stop for them. Striking up conversation with them is easy as they are drawn by the curiosity of my scribbling. They ask if I am a journalist. When I tell them I’m just writing a blog entry they still get excited, they think it’s cool. If I was 10 or 20 years younger I would be all up in their business but I am twice their age, although if I told them how old I was they wouldn’t believe it. It happens…every single time, and it does cause me to pause. Everybody tells me, women included, that I should just lie about my age and play the lothario. I’m still working on it. It is one thing to look young and sound young but to be truly young as in youth you have to be in the know in the way that youth is, like when they asked me if the Boom Boom Room was open, they were trying to line up their next destination. I didn’t know if it was closed or if there were any other bars open nearby. Twenty years ago that is information I would have known as it was information that was relevant to my existence, not so much anymore. It’s the same with music or movies, my tastes are far more refined and way more anachronistic in comparison to these mere children I was flirting with. The bar had stopped serving just as I was going to get a round for me, the birthday girl, and her friend. The round was my invitation to hang out with them for the rest of the night. Coming back empty handed is when they prompted me for suggestions for the next bar. Had I been able to come up with one off the cuff, away we three would have went, of that I have no doubt, but instead I flimm flammed and stammered and could only muster an impotent “I don’t know”. Not too sexy so I slink back in my seat and act the gentleman, sending them off with pleasant good byes and nice to meet yous. I am maybe a little disappointed in myself but at the same time a little smiley to know that at my age I can still capture the interest of attractive and juicy young dames by just being me, don’t need an act or a routine.

I don’t dwell on the girls, I just return my attention to the music. Just about everyone is on the small dance floor so I move down a few seats to get real close to the band so I can enjoy the music. Earlier a young gal had walked in who I considered the most attractive woman in the joint. I had only seen her in my peripheral view but that is how hot she was, I didn’t even have to see her full on to know. I purposely kept her in my peripheral view all night never letting her come into focus. I didn’t need to see her in detail, my imagination had already filled in the blanks and she was sheer perfection, in a way that fits my perception of women. As I get comfortable in my new seat bobbing to the beats the young woman in questions slides right into my view directly in front of where I am sitting. It seems she eased her way to the edge of the dance floor so she could dance a little slower than the action in the middle. As she puts her purse down on my table she looks me in the eye. She has a lovely and inviting face. She’s sizing me up and deciding if I am worthy enough to dance in front of. She gives me a sly smile and turns back to the music and starts to do her slow dance. She has a magnificent backside that is nicely framed by some form fitting denims and she is wearing a halter so I get to see her healthy arms and back and her honey colored long hair wearing itself effortlessly on her head. She is soft not muscular, fleshy not skinny. She is a young goddess and she has to know it. She slowly moves her hips back and forth and puts her arms up and I just sit back and enjoy it.

It’s past 1am and the band is still going, giving us a little extra as the place is supposed to be closed and locked up by now. The dancing goddess turns around every three minutes or so and looks at me and gives me a smile, I smile back. Her boyfriend who has been standing beside her the whole time is invited on stage to play the drums. It’s his birthday apparently and he sheepishly steps up. I am wondering if he can play. He doesn’t look like a drummer, he looks like a college kid from a low end frat. He sits down, takes his cue from the band and starts the time. At the very least he knows the basics of drumming and the band joins in. As they get into the set he starts to unstiff himself and starts to jam like a real drummer. He finishes up the set and gets a hero’s welcome from his girl and his buddies. After one more riffing and ripping session the band calls it a night. I mosey on up and congratulate each musician personally for a job well done. After making some small talk with David the sax player, I gather up my Flip video cam and my writing materials and head for the exit. Along the way the dancing goddess is walking towards me. As she passes she gives me a little smile and a small tug on my sleeve. I turn around as I pass her and give her a big smile and a small wave goodbye. For me that is twice in a night, getting the attention of ferociously young and very attractive women. If I was twenty years younger it would not have been the same. I probably would have acted like a fool. But at my age I have acquired the detached aloofness that takes years to develop that can be attractive to young women who are curious and up for the challenge of interrupting my veneer with their youthful charm and beauty. The men of their age are boys in their eyes and when I look at the young guys that is exactly what I see, boys. Boys are fun for young women but sometimes they want to experience a man, a real man.

I walk out of the doors and through the lobby and exit to the sidewalk. I run into David surrounded by a group of boy/men giving him accolades for his mastery of the sax. One is rolling a euro style cigarette, crutched on one end and fluted at the other. Instead of tobacco and hash this one is filled with Northern California’s finest. It’s fired up and passed around while the young men talk about the band they are in. They ask me what do I play and what band I am in. This happens a lot, I think it’s the mohawk. I tell them I’m just here to listen to the music yet they keep asking me what band I am in. I know the herb ain’t that strong, I think when they first saw me earlier in the evening they clocked me for a musician and in their minds they could not be wrong because they are young and in the know. For them I was going to be a guy in a band even if I wasn’t.

We talk a little World Cup and then part ways. I head into the quiet fog with soccer on my mind because my next stop is the World Cup game to be played at 7am between the United States and Algeria. It’s a huge game and I’m meeting my friend David (not the sax player) at Mad Dog in the Fog to watch it. Since I’ll be drinking beer in less than five hours I wonder if I should even bother going to bed, maybe I’ll pull an all nighter and sleep it off after the soccer game.

I’ll let you know how the game went and how the rest of my 12 hours unfolded in part two of “12 Hours”.