303-GO D NOTE
A weather change is in the air. We sadly wave goodbye to outgoing summer and happily wave hello to incoming fall.
This weekend starts early for some of us with the advent of Geeks Who Drink Trivia at 6:30pm tonight and then Kick Ass Karaoke at 9pm. And Every Thursday thereafter. Free. Fun.
Friday night we start with our Friday Afternoon Concert with Jeremy Dion at 5pm.
Then Friday night we have our second annual fundraiser for Colorado Trout Unlimited, an organization that helps keep the rivers in Colorado clean. From their website: "Come celebrate the end of summer this Friday night at the D Note in Old Towne Arvada with all your friends! The evening kicks off at 5pm with live music and a chance to win prizes and trips for the angler and non-angler alike. Admission is $10. All proceeds from this event benefit Colorado Trout Unlimited's river conservation programs. Big Universe will be back again with an entertaining mix of classic rock from Elvis to the Eagles, Aretha Franklin to Cyndi Lauper.
Saturday at 1pm we have Phoenix Dance's yearly Belly Dance Swap. Free performances and demos and lots of great shopping. For much more info check here.
7:30pm Saturday we have the Duke Street Kings all night. Classic rock and roll in the spirit of Mick Jagger and co.
Next Tuesday night we have Bob's Big Band in the house at 7pm for you fans of big band jazz. Free.
And then at 9pm Tuesday we have a progressive jazz rock band called Holophrase. Influences include Frank Zappa, The Faint, Bjork, King Crimson, Pink Floyd, Schoenberg, Portishead, Bright Eyes, The Mars Volta, Portugal The Man, Phillip Glass. There name "Holophrase" is cool too. We looked it up. It means "A single word (such as "Thanks") that is used to express a complete, meaningful thought."
Extra Credit: We ran across a poem by Elizabeth Bishop in an anthology that we wanted to share with you, as it struck us with the depth and sharpness of its language.
[On my birthday]
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.