Last night at the Groveland Tap, between games of pool (the series of which I ultimately reigned victorious over my overmatched opponent the Bird) I was perusing the juke box selection, looking for just the right 3-song mix to ease my fevered and over served mind. Per usual, I was looking for obscure gems that would gain mass acceptance, get the room cooking to a low simmer, and yet still establish my superior knowledge and appreciation of music to all who were paying attention. A challenge at any venue, but particularly so in an ersatz college sports bar in midtown St. Paul. As I internally debated the merits of Oasis' Wonderwall vs. the Band's The Weight as my opening salvo, I was interrupted by the soft, breathy, and audibly playful query "Exactly what is a 'Boz Scaggs' anyway?"

Turning towards my questioner, and much to my pleasant surprise, I identified her as the beautiful, long-brown-haired, long-legged, plaid skirt wearing young woman who was playing pool at the table immediately next to ours. In response, and also in a rather soft and breathy manner (as her unexpected presence and attention literally knocked the wind from me) I replied with a note of mock incredulity ,"You don't know who Boz Scaggs is? You've never heard of the finest blue-eyed soul funksmith to come out of the greater Madison Wisconsin area in the past 30 years?" (I guess that's opposed to Otis Redding, the finest soul artist to go INTO Madison, Wisconsin in the last 30 years ). She smiled and laughed and acknowledged her ignorance. I told her I would take the pleasure of introducing the two of them to each other and she responded with a cheerful "all right!" We engaged in few minutes of Jane Austen-style comedy of manners repartee, and as I finally got around to punching in the 4 digit code for "Lido" a large, thick and ordinary presence entered my peripheral vision, followed by a dull, oafish voice saying "Hey, what are you gunna to do, play some music or somethin'?"

Between his locked on, lifeless gaze and baseball cap covered sloping forehead, it became immediately apparent that this was the boyfriend or at least that night's date and he was there to put an end to any shenanigans he suspected was up. And he succeeded. She told him "no, we're just talking about music" and then she demurely thanked me for the Boz Scaggs info and excused herself to go back and play pool. It was a fleeting couple of minutes and I was disappointed to see her go so soon, but I also knew that things weren't quite ending just there. I would have the entirety of "Lido" and the magic of Boz Scaggs to keep those moments lingering on. Whether or not she would choose to acknowledge it, I knew I'd still possess at least some of her consciousness during that song, such was the positive vibe that emanated from our brief discussion. And I also realized that if I were to choose wisely with my other two songs, well then, I'd have her on the hook for up to 10 full minutes. And if it all ended there, after an energized, bittersweet, regretful but beautiful journey through the best AOR to rock of the 70s, 80's, and today, well then it may just rank in my top five relationships of all time.

And it didn't take me long to find the other two songs. A few button flips over from Boz was a collection of Prince hits, any number of which would have worked for my purposes. But near the bottom of the list was the ideal selection. As I clearly caught a glimpse of the flame of intelligence in her eyes and therefore could assume an appreciation of irony, I dialed in the code for the rollicking, subtly poignant and sadly beautiful "I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man." This song would keep the up tempo vibe of "Lido", it would communicate my appreciation for the genius of old school Prince, and most importantly, it would state as Prince intended, 'of course, I could take the place of your man, but it's simply not going to happen.'

This bittersweet message would allow me to transition to a slightly more downbeat tone for the final number, one that had to communicate regret and longing and the beauty of a love untold. As there was no Westerberg in the juke, I turned to an older master, David Bowie and the song "The Man Who Sold the World." A song not specifically about the matters at hand, but clearly focusing on coming to terms with the poor choices one makes in life, and about looking back in anger and sadness and wondering how else it might have all turned out. I suspected she'd eventually recognize the song from the Cobain version of a few years ago--she was that young. But the thin, reedy, space oddity voice of Bowie would add to the intended affect of momentarily rising above one's limitations--both those self imposed and those enforced from the broader social context.

3 songs--that's all a dollar buys you and just maybe it was enough. I returned to finish kicking the Bird's arse at pool, while keeping an eye on Miss Plaid Skirt for her reactions. And, by God, my plan seemed to work. She smiled and playfully nodded her head back and forth to Lido and at the end of the song turned to me and winked (gulp). Too perfectly and impossibly, she sang along to the Prince song and danced about just a little bit (which contrasted to her boyfriend's perpetual Easter Island statue impersonation). And during Bowie she slowly, almost wistfully rocked back and forth and at all the right moments, stared off into the distance and almost imperceptibly sighed. (Of course all of these moments occurred in between her setting up 3 corner bank shots and dropping her sledge hammer break on the various racks of balls--but allow me some poetic license here). Soon after the droning, plaintive wailing of the Bowie song ended, she and her man left the room and that indeed was that. But it was ten minutes of light and beauty on a dark Thursday night and I think I've rarely spent a better dollar.

Labels: Music

Posted by Saint Paul--Link