Monday, June 27, 2011

Gala Sensitivos

Here's one to file under believe it or not, though it's true, every word. When Old Burlington, up there in Vermont, started remaking itself by closing off sections of Church Street to auto traffic, the beginnings of the pedestrian shoppers' mall of today, they actually hired Michael Hurley and sundry Sensitivo mutts of the time, myself included, to play for its grand opening gala, outside.

Talking 11 o'clock in the morning, on a stage across the street from Ken's Pizza. Now, we were living like free people that summer and fall up there in Franklin Co. We were poor and scruffy, for sure. Vermont Life magazine, it wasn't, but we were playing a lot so pretty tight, all things considered, and we pretty much did just about exactly what we wanted to with minimal interference. I mean, considering. A Boston Phoenix review that year had a lead sentence: "They looked like backwoods toughs." LOL. Well, prolly we did, to them. And to most of the nice folks on Church Street, too, I'd guess. So, things being like they was and all, we did show up to get paid and all and to boogie for those who dug it, but it was morning to most humans and us backwoods toughs were a couple short of a six pack already and a pipe or too lighter in the weed bag, milling around like you do, when you don't have anything to do before you go on, when here came Zoot Wilson all grins out of the little bar adjoining Ken's over to say howdy and he says, "Sisco, come on. I want to introduce you to my new best friend." Well, certainly. So we walk back over to the bar and he wasn't lying, he introduced me to his new best friend. Stoli vodka. Straight up by the rocks glass. So by the time this new ritual was getting second gear pretty good, of course, it was time to go on. When things just got stranger still on Shoppers' Street, with Michael launching into the miked fiddle, the opening strains and .... "Oh, a little wishbone, I make a wish for a potato ...." and so on. You all know the song. But there we was, alright, just like it said in the gala brochure. Indigenous music! Wild and wooly in shopper's world, playing snockgrass and the blues with perhaps alarming clarity, all things considered, and smelling of pot, beer, and the old wool shirt that's been in the back seat all winter. Yes, siree! Thank you, thank you. Here's one you might like ... "Old Mother Hubbard, went to the cupboard, to get her doggy a bone, but when she got there, the cupboard was bare, because the dog had a bone of his own -- hot dog -- the dog had a bone of his own...."

Seven folks in Montpelier alone would kill for video of that event.

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