Mustang Sally
Call her a red-haired Jewish
soul eyed brick wall Los Angeles blues belter wide stance evil eye coffee
espresso stare melt you into the sidewalk. You needn’t say more unless you feel
like it.
Big Irish lug nut sits on the
ride cymbal, too lost in his two four fills to hear
the singer, nothing more than
a shoulder blade on his middle tom.
Still, two days later he
draws the picture in full fashion: shafts of sun piping the next door
brickpile; longneck Buds, a shower of smoke, guitar case coffins; stage stack
of Clapton drivers, one China rip and roll sax.
Mustang Sally holds up a
strong pale hand, cantering the tempo. The band stays rutstuck lagging, but not
me, me and my high hat frills. I follow her fingers all the way down with the
cue of my sticks: twelve bars, twelve bars and home.
Photo by MJV
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