The sound check was in full swing and the loveable lovely’s at the door swept my cover fee and gave me a hug with their eyes alone. The tables were set and the auction was on. I always preferred silent auctions because it really gave me a chance to cry someone else’s tears. If there is one thing on this moldy sandwich we call earth that touches my soul more than music, it’s art. And with our friends at Marijuana for Trauma Inc. standing by to answer any questions or just lend a smile, you immediately felt like you were a part of something much greater, something charitable and pure. Organic alternatives to sludge and symptoms, our creator, whether it be nature, God or Dio himself, gave us those plants as a gift and gave us the will to seek them out.
Hello music maniacs! it’s your pal Al here. The scene was serene as sound waves corroded my spleen. I’m still wiping off my trench coat after my face was melted and my ears caressed on the cusp of Charlotte Street’s finest venue. Richie Young snatched the stage and brought exactly what we expected. A Hoochie Coochie Man in his own right, A Howlin’ Wolf in his own despair and a Smokin’, Tokin’ , Jokin’ titan of a little thing we call The Blues.
I had the pleasure of seeing Young down in the depths of our quaint river city about a year ago doing his thing and doing it well. Guitar case open, harp around his neck and nothing but the day to burn away. His style alone is enough to turn heads but his sound will completely spin that sucker right off your shoulders. As he tapped his toe to his rendition of Little Walter’s “My Babe”, I thought the sidewalk was going to crack and the concrete pieces were going to start dancing as sensually as the hairs on Richie’s lip.
We at The Underground Alliance were wandering the city of Fredericton, when we came across a strange man preaching what seemed to be nonsense to a small crowd. Some of the people were laughing, but some of them were crying. Strolling over to get a closer look, we noticed a pungency that only even the most morose of alley cats could produce. This guy was obviously out of his head. He had an old vinyl record in his grasp and was waving it around as if to hypnotize an orchestra. His jacket was slim and tattered and we assumed he had stolen the perfectly conditioned Top Hat upon his melon. A quick look was all we needed to disband this “creature” as just another vagabond dog, just looking to blow off some steam. It wasn’t until he turned his face that we saw it. He had mirror-like eyes and we could see ourselves staring back. His skin was every shade of every race and his voice was monotone and crisp.