Last Train To Dreamsville

Parade Route

(and I'll meet you at the station?)

I had tickets to a big concert. It was Bonnie Raitt but not Bonnie Raitt  -- instead, it was some young, pixie-ish, very blond young woman but she had Raitt’s voice, her raspy, velvet, melodic, beautiful chops anyway. Sadly, no sweet slide guitar though.

Magically, this being Dream City and all, I could hear and I was SO looking forward to this show. It was happening at a concert palace in Back Bay on Bolyston Street -- a place, architecturally, half way between the gilded glitz of the Boston Opera House and the more modest, lovely Orpheum.

THE best marching band attire!

Apparently, this song bird was a big fucking deal, a real going concern to the point that her show was to be preceded by a parade. Joy. Wish I’d have known that before leaving the house -- I would’ve arrived later, post-hoopla.

Nonetheless, Jen and I went out to the street to watch. The marching band, (there’s always a marching band, eh?) was clad all in black, rocking some stellar goth/steampunk duds. I couldn’t quite make out which march they were playing but I believe it was American Patrol by way of NIN. Cool!

Finally, after a long procession down Boylston to Arlington and back up Newbury, the blond goddess of blues took the stage and she was molto magnificent. Half a tune in though, her ballsy, officious secretary interrupted saying, ‘it’s Flint on line one. I’ll patch him through to your dressing room.’ Blond Goddess of Blues yelled ‘I TOLD you to never interrupt me when I’m performing!’

Nope. Refusing to take the call was not an option despite the antsy audience being at SRO capacity.

BGB departed for the dressing room to take that very important call while we poor congregants in the house of velvet blues waited. And waited -- anticipating a total brill performance when she finally got done talking with the besuited fuckwad whose call just couldn’t be ducked. When she eventually emerged, she was toting her bags -- not her microphone! Hurrying out past those of us biding our time in the lobby, she tossed off a semi apologetic and 100% embarrassed, ‘gotta go, sorry.’

Man, I was devastated! My hearing was back but this return engagement was 24 hours only. I could catch another BGB show but I’d be deaf once more and unable to savor her candied, rough notes.

SUCK! Seriously. I woke up in a painful melancholy, rolled over and attempted to get back to that concert hall and maybe a better outcome.

Success of a sort.

Back in Dreamsville, I’m in a hospital bed. It’s MGH -- appearance and furnishings circa 1940s. Dunno what I was doing there but into the room streamed a gaggle of bright shiny young adults. They’d come to sing to me before my hearing booked out on the 4:15 headed for Anywhere-But-Here. They launched into an a Capella rendition of The Battle of Evermore.

They were more vocally uncoordinated than a box full of kittens on crack and kept stopping and starting mid-phrase. It was bloody awful but I was so touched by their caring attempt that my mood was lightened.

And then Coco landed on my chest with all four feet and, possibly, a spare set of paws or more. Good kitten.