Last night, Beki and I went to Camel Rock casino to see Pancho Sanchez. We arrived and stood in line just inside the casino and just outside of the slot machines. I hadn’t bee inside of a casino since I was nineteen and my cousin and I walked over the Niagara river to check out the Canadian casino in Niagara falls. In that visit I lost a couple dollars at black jack while Sky won enough to buy us both pizza and beer. I haven’t felt a desire to go back to a casino and as I walked amongst the slot machines on my way to the men’s room, the smell of stale cigarettes starting to cling to my jacket, I remarked that slot machines don’t look fun. Then, as I was trying to dry the toilet seat enough to allow me to apply the thin layer of protective paper, I realized that slot machines are supposed to be fun. They’re supposed to be addictive. I walked back through the slots to get back in line, counting the number of women playing alone and smoking who looked over sixty. I got eighteen, but I must say that the neon and flashing lights made counting difficult.
Twenty minutes later Beki and I had finished our discussion about whether a black Don Imus would or should have been put under as much pressure as the white Don Imus. The line began moving and we filed into a large room that’s more suited to conferences than concerts. The room was filled with chairs and we took our seats about six rows from the stage. Even though we’re in New Mexico seeing a latin jazz band in a pueblo, most everyone in the audience was between forty-five and sixty and white. There were big hairdos galore and I knew I was in for an evening of middle-aged dancing and awkward cat calls.
To my left was Beki; to my right was and empty chair. This chair was promptly filled with a woman in her early forties, but only after she sat on me. She tried to readjust herself, but sat on me again. She never actually acknowledged that she sat on me, she just kept shifting herself as though she just couldn’t get comfortable. I never received an apology.
Like all non-classical music performances this one did not start on time. Beki and I played some word games and then I turned my attention toward eavesdropping. The partner of the mad sitter was a middle-aged man (I probably don’t need this qualifier any more) who was telling stories about what sounds like a gambling addiction. He talked about the different casinos in Vegas and which are best and which are most expensive. He told stories of going back to his room to get more money from the safe and walking in on his parents becoming intimate. He talked of making friends with women so gorgeous they have to wear wigs to disguise themselves (I’d like to think they were actually men in drag). The highlight of his storytelling was the one about taking his parents and girlfriend to Vegas on holiday.
Our hero got great orchestra seats for Siegfried and Roy because he was having an affair with one of the dancers in the show. He takes his parents and girlfriend to the show and his father turns to him midway and says that one of the dancers is giving him the eye. Joking, father tells son that he should invite this beautiful woman to dinner. Little does the father know that this dancer is the person that got them the great seats and has already been intimate with the son. The story ends with the girlfriend splitting her dress trying to climb on stage after being selected as a volunteer. It is unclear whether or not they are still together.
Eventually Sanchez and his band took the stage. The band was Pancho on vocals and bongo, a trumpet player, a sax player, a trombone player, a drummer, a pianist, a percussionist, and a bassist. The bassist had an electric stand-up, something I’d never seen before. The band plays pretty straight forward, but excellent, latin jazz. They’re very tight and have great energy. The trumpet and trombone players were particularly good. Pancho had at least one inspired solo.
I’m always conflicted when I see music like this. On the one hand I want to just listen to the music, but on the other hand I feel an obligation to dance. This is, after all, dance music. Isn’t moving your body crucial to understanding and experiencing this kind of music? It seems especially necessary to dance when you’re in public. But when I dance I often miss lots of the music. I find myself focussing more on the dance rhythms than the solos and I don’t have as nice a listening experience. I made a compromise. I’d listen just listen and tap my foot for a while and when everyone else got up to dance I’d get up too. There were, of course, some folks who danced from song one. The aisles and wings were littered with women in bad jeans and men in bad shirts shaking their butts. These folks are a godsend because they are the one giving off the best energy to rest of the crowd and the band. They’re also great to watch.
Oddly enough, it wasn’t a salsa that eventually go everyone up, but Pancho abandoning his bongos for the mike and belting out a straight-ahead Stax sounding Memphis horns tune. The slightly foreign rhythms of latin dance music were abandoned and the red-blooded Americans of the audience got up to get down. Unfortunately, this was the next to last song and Sanchez killed the energy by not going right into another piece, but instead giving a very long introduction of everyone in the band. Everyone sat down for the introductions and it was only with great reluctance that they got back up for closing number.
Filed under: Alcohol, Concert, Dancing, Food, Music, New Mexico, Society, Soviet Defectors
Last night I went with Beki, Ben, Dave, and Leslie to see The Red Elvises. I hadn't seen the Ybor City staple in several years and was pretty stoked to see their giant red bass guitar and hear their Soviet surf-rock in all it's glory. They played at the Santa Fe Brewing Company, which has decent micro-brew, but pales in comparison to Sarasota Brewing Company. I had an extremely mediocre hamburger, which was especially disappointing because I so rarely eat meat these days. The venue was, like so many places in New Mexico, in the middle of nowhere; an oasis of light, wood, and cars.
The Elvises were as great as I remember. I'd have never thought a really loud whistle could add so much to a rock song, but the bassist used it to great effect (using his mouth, not a whistle like your middle school coach used). They had a really good keyboard/accordian player. She was short and Russian and wriggled around to great effect. The sax/flute/clarinet player was pretty good. He even played a lot of baritone sax, which I happen to love. The drummer was quite good as well. At one point all five of the band members played a drum solo that culminated in everyone leaving the stage to drink beer. It was just the drummer up there going off for five minutes. He's no less than six feet six with a huge wingspan. He moved from a funk breakdown to surf groove to a Don Cabellero freakout to his best Elvin Jones impression. It was pretty impressive.
The Elvises (which is really just the guitarist and bassist) are incredible showmen. They've taken the do-it-yourself way of conducting a music career and run with it. At the end of the show, after doing four encores without actually leaving, they announced that they were, “The Red Elvises; your favorite band!” It's amazing what two Soviet artistic defectors with a dream can do.
The crowd was a strange one. It ranged from high schoolers to middle-aged women in terrible jeans. One of these drunk forty-something crushed Beki's toe with her high-heeled black boots. The older men spent the evening trying to holler at young girls. I've often cringed at men coming on to women, but never has it been so upsetting. Everywhere I looked there were men leering at these women. I can't imagine what that must feel like. Whenever Chantal and I would ride our bikes to downtown Sarasota, she would marvel at how no one would honk at her when she was with a man. I thought that was telling, but seeing it in such full force last night took my understanding to a new level.
Today featured the best hamburger I've ever had and surrealist film. But I'll save that for tomorrow.
