mid September, ought eight

D :::::

Tilt your head and tell us what the above symbol looks like. To us it looks like tears of laughter. Best answer gets a round of drinks on us. Come on, give it a go.

This Friday night we have a CD release party for Blue Avenue. The doubly cool thing about the new CD is that the cover of it was shot on the train tracks in front of the D Note and features the Arvada Water Tower. That alone qualifies it for Phil's archives. But it is also a nifty CD. Check out the swell poster local genius artist Jack Redell designed for this show on the above link. Unique rootsy jazzy pop. After Blue Avenue we have the return of Burning Abigail. Unique funk flavored rock band that knows how to groove. Hmmm, two unique local bands with the intitials B.A. Wonder what that means? That we've earned a bachelor's degree? It's about time! $5

Saturday we got the spectacular Ruby James back in the house. She's coming through town as she tours through the country. No cover, but please tip her well. It's especially hard for musicians out there these days. After Ruby is local band Autumnal Fall and Dave Edwards. Music to ease the pain. $6

And furthermore, salsa, blues and pizza.

We love you long time,

oubt,

D

Extra Credit: How about a poem by Annalynn Hammond from an anthology of poetry from Diagram Magazine, which Dee Casalainas gave us as a gift a few years ago, that we just now found again under the mixing board?

THE GIRL WHO BECAME A TOM WAITS SONG
It must've happened when no one was looking,
'cause all of a sudden she was a walking accordion,
her arms a pair of slide trombones. There was a pipe organ
in her chest, a bowed saw between her legs
and two tiny midgets appeared on her shoulders
to play her earrings as cymbals. Her trachea
was a mineshaft, her lungs were made of iron ore
and Tom, he was riding on her back,
tipping his hat to a passing parade.

Eventually her body could no longer handle the party
of French, Cuban, Singaporean, American and Russian sailors
who'd decided to turn her stomach into a whiskey jug,
her guts into banjo strings and her vertebrae into river boats.
When Jesus and The Devil murdered each other in her duodenum,
she disinegrated into a wiggly motion like heat waves
off a Cadillac or the shuffling of cards.

Some nights she passes through New York bars
during the last round, and just as everyone begins to shrink
into their shot glasses, she slits the throat of the sax
and they jerk up their heads, spit out their cigarettes
and whisper through smoke, what the hell was that sound?