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THE BLUES SINGER
(1999)
Pentatonic,
pentatonic, pentatonic, the rail sleepers sang to Millie in swing time, as
the train entered urban sprawl. She was beginning to feel a bit edgy.
"Hey
babe, you'll love me tonight, heh?" suggested Ronny the saxophonist.
"It'll
cost you. You couldn't afford it."
"Whadya
want, a wedding ring?"
"Nothing
as pricey as that."
They
were only getting expenses tonight: it was a big publicity gig for a
government-based charity and the boys moaned about it as they rattled
towards Birmingham New Street. "I hate playing without our own
gear," scowled Mike.
"The
back-line they provide will be exactly what we specified," said
Millie hoping she was right.
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Coloured
neon reflected in wet puddles. Drip. Millie dawdled along the shining city
concourse. Chain store doorways sheltered captive window - shoppers.
Traffic splashed gutter-drizzle over late night fashion victims. Drip.
The
boys had remained in the bar. The kit - which was fine - was in in-house
and the sound check was over. As she wouldn't be changing into a
glittering stage-fairy until 11.30 - and as the flu of pre gig tension was
ailing her - she had needed to get out. It should be 'Singing In The Rain'
not 'Crying In The Rain', but she was a blues singer. I stand at the
Crossroads with a vodka in my hand.
In
this business you get addicted to everything.
If
the claps of one performance could be added to the claps of the next, and
so on, then this job would be heaven. But it's not, she thought, unless
you become a star. You have to go out and fill yourself up everyday. The
trouble is you always want more, more....
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