Denise Franke Raises the Roof!
The voice was that of a dove, the wings beating softly across the acoustic guitar like the breath of locusts on the gulf coast of Texas, the waters stretching off for a wholly contemplative eternity like the winding vines of a woman's soul, the touch of intuition that mends like a box of chocolates. Of nights driving out in the back of a pick-up under the stars, candles in the sky winking for an eternity for the young kids below in times far more unseasoned than these. It was the beauty, balanced so enticingly on the gulf of hell and the sad "splorch" of mortality and rotten lemon faces of the woman's burdens. . . . . southwestern style, that sunk its teeth like a rattler into your pinched, high-heel shoes; the drinker's wrath like an overgrown baby's crib.
But that was a ghost of another place, like a Klansman's outhouse-- and the sure incongruity of the sort of cross-eyed, bob-cat of a hold-over would have gotten the crowd snickering, or at least those cognizant enough "to get the joke" among this assortment of twitching liberal arts graduates, if not grizzled, storm-faced community-radio types and their sagging wives at this somewhat-boisterous house party of familiars when the in-joke, like the Trotskyist 4th International, was that there were "few new recruits". The patter was dopey, risque, yet inoffensive-- like a hat box filled with mint-flavored condoms with the occasional dildo thrown in for shrieks.
The onerous oppression "of the hive mind" and the polite fiction that folks engage in when they're in a group setting could not match the raw charm of "the bardess", the priestess of sound and those raw, informal tendrils of creativity, shot through with "the muse", that hold it all together somehow "and bring the bacon" back to the shack.
And there's been many a coyote with it's paw blown off.
(The Texan way)
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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
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(Rheeee of Crickets)
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("I heard that, Missy!")
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