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| www.lambchop.net |
published on thebomberjacket.com
The strings swelled as he sat at the piano with his back to an audience that was chatting quietly around candle lit tables. He readjusted his top hat, stroked his moustache, and then rested his fingers on the keys. I was expecting Sinatra when he started playing, but he lazily exuded, “Don’t know what the fuck they talk about…” It seemed as if his voice were foamier that the overly frothy beer that was leaving circles on the top of the old wooden piano. Still, there was something sweet about the gentle vulgarity. His soothing nonsensical words spoke about his coughing grandfather and coffee makers and whether or not he should talk about seagulls. Then he then cued an imaginary flute section that only he grooved along to, because only he could hear it.
