Picture this: a low lit bar filled with strange characters, a haze of smoke rendering useless the flash-photography that the non-existent reporters are taking and a four member band playing on stage to an audience whose hearts and minds are several nautical leagues away from their bodies.
The sounds hark to their long gone youth. Once they walked in black and white clothing, pogo’d to Madness and saw a bouffant tyrant follow the steps of a tyrannical fascist that wanted rivers of blood. They look at their drinks, wonder when did it all go wrong and order another round, hoping that the courtesy peanuts might have the odd sesame seed this time (instead of and off chickpea that will unleash hell on their already weak digestive systems).
It’s Pisco Sour Hour and the album being peddled to the lost souls is A hammer to the camera lens. Maybe one of the customers will get the Gershwin reference (‘I’m on TV!’) and appreciate it not only due to the droll-factor, but because the song made the frown go for a ciggie. Another punter, a woman in the classy 60s dress and jacket combo, will remember that guy who stood her up at the prom dance and how she ended up with the love of her life after dancing with him in a dive bar with a good jukebox (‘It only hurts when I laugh’). The last one, a lanky guy who still paint himself as The Thin White Duke, will inquire about ‘Lordy’ and its sweet sax solo. It will buy the album and play the track once more while mimicking…
The band look at each other after no one else opens their wallet and let a few quid fly and go back to sax up (sorry) the place. Maybe now they will get the attention of the unconverted by a classy, morose ditty (‘Wrong shoes’), maybe a jazzy lite will be the energy shot they need in their arms (‘follow your nose’ – staple 70s MOR resonating in a thousand AM radios) or maybe they will get everyone to dance with ‘Country music’. If not, at least they played what their hearts dictated and that is the most rewarding thing you can do as a musician.