The D.C. Blues Implosion
It's last rites for the blues at the New Vegas Lounge.
Cover Story
In the name of St. Cecilia, holy patroness of music, may those who deny the terrifying power of your heavenly art be condemned to an eternity of open-mike nights at the New Vegas Lounge.
Let them hear the pathetic whine of despair from an off-key harmonica blown by a gangly college kid who displays all the rhythm of a Motorola pager.
Let them endure the interplay between his classmates on guitar and bass, as they struggle through a "blues" version of "Little Drummer Boy."
Let them listen to a long-suffering lawyer shriek and shimmy and solo, as he provides irrefutable proof that for some people, a day job is where it begins and ends.
"The more you drink, the better we sound," the evening's host, a drummer named Bigfoot, tells the sparse audience that has straggled into the Vegas.
If only that were true. No amount of booze could work such a spell. Not even a professional musician like Bigfootalways outnumbered, even in a triocan salvage such a maddening racket. And St. Cecilia save the customers trapped in their seats when Bigfoot takes a breather and his own advice, heading to the bar to bum a Jack Daniel's.
That's precisely what has happened now, and Bigfoot smiles perversely at the shipwreck of sound he has abandoned on the stage.... Continued
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