She loves the blues. She complains that we never go anywhere, that our relationship is going nowhere. She is right. We go to Antone's. I did not know it had moved here! The old entrance to The Still-Shakey's is gone. Now we enter on the side past the ghosts of pizza chefs and disco queens. I do not want to be here.
Seven men blow seven horns on a stage that replaces the deejay booth that replaces the magic piano. We find a table close to the crowded dance floor. We do not talk much. We do not dance.
The music drills into my head. The drive home is silent except for the ringing I will hear in my aching ears for the next 24 hours.
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Christmas Eve on bar stools. Brad's family is far away. Mine is scattered. Steve is escaping his for the night, and Gilbert despises the holiday season while only tolerating his wife's Christmas tree. We sit at the Antone's bar sipping cold beer and staring at a soundless television as a guitarist warms up on stage. Besides us, maybe five paying customers are here on what must be the slowest club night of the year. Certainly a recipe for bar stool depression, I think, and sigh deeply.
On the television, "Sodom and Gomorrah" is showing. Toga-clad men strut through ancient, sinful times, or at least the Hollywood, badly colorized version of them. Since the sound is off, we step in with dialogue for the citizens.
"Good evening, centurion. Would you happen to have some cheese?" asks the muscular man in the blue toga.
"Cheese? Why no, I do not have cheese," replies the older man bearing a sword. "But my stomach does love this substance dearly. Perhaps the passing serving wench can assist us. No. She has walked past us without a word. This is indeed a dilemma "
For the next hour the four of us create a new plot for the proud toga wearers, all of it centered around the quest for some most-excellent cheese. Occasionally, we pause to take a drink of beer or watch the guitar wizard perform on stage. But soon we are back in cheesy old Sodom and Gomorrah. We laugh as one and order another round.
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The doors to Junior Brown's ever-popular Sunday night show at the Continental Club are shut tightly tonight. No one else will be admitted. Junior is getting too trendily popular. Last time Gilbert and I saw this show, Quentin Tarantino and Richard Linklater sat on stools next to us and affixed a glossy "cool" seal of approval on everything.
Instead we head north, decide to stop in at Antone's. Maceo Parker has already been on stage for two hours. Admission price is reduced to $5 for latecomers like us. This is James Brown's former sax player, Gilbert explains.
Shakey's-Still-Antones is rattling with the blues. The club is nearing fire-code-breaking full of life. We order two Shiner Bock and wedge our way into the crowd. Heads and bodies bob around us. My own head begins to move as if I it has been sucked into some borg-like being brimming with soul. Good God almighty.
To the side of us, women crawl up onto the bar, stand for a moment, then begin to sway back and forth unselfconsciously. One of them kicks her foot out with glee. She is a dead ringer for Jennifer.
Gilbert yells, "Pass the peas!" and, on cue, Maceo bursts into the song of the same name. We hoot and look at each with grins that say, "We are where it's at. Cool."
The crowd envelops us in its groove. From somewhere in the building, I swear, I catch the faint aroma of pizza cooking. The walls greedily suck the energy from the room like a hungry sponge.
This free-lance essay originally appeared in the Austin American-Statesman. Copyright is retained by the author. Written permission is required before reprinting in whole or part. Don't do it!