Poetic Justice
T’was the night before the election.
All through Balanca’s, creatures were stirring, most of them soused. The scenesters clung to the bar, debonair, many hoping John Kerry soon would handle America’s cares.
The idea of G-Dub‘s re-election nestled snug (like skull-burrowing earwigs) in most of their heads, while visions of the Stella Link, Doris Henson and Silver Shore danced like Howard Dean off his meds.
Robert Moore — Sonic Spectrum host, KCUR 89.3 music director and master of ceremonies of this last-ditch rock-the-vote event — was in his kerchief, and I was in my cap as we settled in for a long autumn’s night of local bands on tap.
Shortly after 8 p.m., there arose such a clatter that I sprang from my bar stool to see what was the matter. To the front of the upstairs stage I flew like a flash and found the Roman Numerals trying desperately — and somewhat successfully — to channel the spirit of the Clash. Moments later, what to my wondering ears should appear but the melodic melange of the Sound You Say coaxing everyone to have another beer.
The partisan crowd at this “nonpartisan” show had already made its pick: Anyone, anybody, anything but that smug little monkey and his pacemaker-powered uncle Dick. More rapid than eagles, the vitriol came; echoing off the walls of Balanca’s, the enemy was called out by name.
Leave it to Shay Ving — the Silver Shore frontwoman and iconic indie haberdasher, dancer, prancer and vixen — to comment on Stupid and ponder the worst administration since Nixon. Shay’s voice slinked up the wall as we tried desperately to Daschle away the thought of Bush, et. al.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard Olympic Size rattling the roof while televisions played a montage of clips depicting Bush as a vindictive hayseed and offering proof. Then it was time for the String and Return to turn us all right ’round, before all who were lost heard Doris Henson and were found.
The night wore on, the liquor took, and Doris made the crowd merry. But looming over it all were Bush, Ashcroft and Cheney — aka Moe, Curly and Larry. The stump of America they held tight in their teeth, the dismal sight of Baghdad buried underneath. By now everyone had learned not to believe the telly and focused instead on Doris Henson shaking the floor like jelly.
In the wink of an eye, Stella Link made jaded hipsters nod their heads, allowing them to momentarily forget an election filled with dread. The Great Fire of 1666 finished by going straight to work, ringing in November 2 and hopes of getting rid of the jerk.
Just before the sun rose, the polls opened and the music closed. The remaining few clapped, shouted and let out a whistle, the reality of Election Day crashing down like a missile. And the giddy fatalists exclaimed as I drove out of sight, “Merry apocalypse to all, and to all, a good night.”
