Travels: Part 3: Again the Road
A more perfect day could not have been, with crisp fall air, and the foliage of the sylvan hills just beginning to break. Easy was the ride and the wearisome troubles of home and work slid away with each passing mile. I made my stop at an inn on the turnpike to refresh myself with a veggie burger, such an item that I had not known normally to be offered at these waysides, and change into a blouse more suitable for passing oneself off as a hipster in music land, rather than my usual garb more suited to daytime activities.
I confess I was eager to see them play. It had been my habit of late to listen to the album as I drove to and from work, and I found more and more pleasure in the endevour. Indeed I was eager with questions. Who are the Talmadge sisters and where is this marble hall? How can the bass have such a lively sound, when so often it is an instrument relegated to the background? The day previous I had given the album to a friend, who was quite desirous of hearing it. I contented myself with tuneful humming, and felt this was a good measure, not to have the album ringing in my ears before the show commenced.
The sun set, the scenery rolled past, and I began to fear I would be late. Indeed all manner of disconcerting thoughts entered my head. What if the show had been cancelled? What if there was no pleasure in my presence? Should I skulk quietly in the background, or dramatically announce myself. Would the band play well and be pleased, or adopt their traditional gloomy assessment of their performance? But I resolved that such thinking was in vain. I had no way to influence these matters, and I preferred the light and happy heart and countenance that had accompanied me thus far, so I adopted this manner with resolve.
My fear was also soothed by the signs I saw along the way, and by this I do not mean the road signs, but rather portents of what was to come and assents from the fates that I was going the right way. For who, when crossing over the “St. Paul River” or passing the “Evergreen Café, or “Hoffman Carpets” would not look at these like the wise soothsayer looks at entrails and see that fate had already ordained what was about to play out.
Over and over referencing my compass and charts I found the venue. Truly it was not in the best spot of town, but one of those areas reclaimed from a time of dim economy. In past years, thought I, I might be fearsome of these streets, but they were a few pleasant folk about, and even the man on the corner, who seemed to be primarily in converse with himself, gave me no pause.
I entered the hall. A man at the sound board took my money, and when I enquired about the whereabouts of the band, he rolled his eyes and said, "they should have been here hours ago."
I stifled my concern, and took a seat in the stark white hall.
I confess I was eager to see them play. It had been my habit of late to listen to the album as I drove to and from work, and I found more and more pleasure in the endevour. Indeed I was eager with questions. Who are the Talmadge sisters and where is this marble hall? How can the bass have such a lively sound, when so often it is an instrument relegated to the background? The day previous I had given the album to a friend, who was quite desirous of hearing it. I contented myself with tuneful humming, and felt this was a good measure, not to have the album ringing in my ears before the show commenced.
The sun set, the scenery rolled past, and I began to fear I would be late. Indeed all manner of disconcerting thoughts entered my head. What if the show had been cancelled? What if there was no pleasure in my presence? Should I skulk quietly in the background, or dramatically announce myself. Would the band play well and be pleased, or adopt their traditional gloomy assessment of their performance? But I resolved that such thinking was in vain. I had no way to influence these matters, and I preferred the light and happy heart and countenance that had accompanied me thus far, so I adopted this manner with resolve.
My fear was also soothed by the signs I saw along the way, and by this I do not mean the road signs, but rather portents of what was to come and assents from the fates that I was going the right way. For who, when crossing over the “St. Paul River” or passing the “Evergreen Café, or “Hoffman Carpets” would not look at these like the wise soothsayer looks at entrails and see that fate had already ordained what was about to play out.
Over and over referencing my compass and charts I found the venue. Truly it was not in the best spot of town, but one of those areas reclaimed from a time of dim economy. In past years, thought I, I might be fearsome of these streets, but they were a few pleasant folk about, and even the man on the corner, who seemed to be primarily in converse with himself, gave me no pause.
I entered the hall. A man at the sound board took my money, and when I enquired about the whereabouts of the band, he rolled his eyes and said, "they should have been here hours ago."
I stifled my concern, and took a seat in the stark white hall.
posted by Violet Beauregarde | 6:30 AM
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