After being invited to an evening of readings and jazz, I show up to the apartment latest of all and hopscotch through the cross-legged listeners on the floor. I settle underneath a small wooden table, and mix my red wine with water, and imagine a cloud of cigarette smoke rising to the ceiling, and maybe a bottle of scotch passing hands. Days later, on the N train, crossing the Manhattan bridge back into Brooklyn at sunset, I see a guy in a white short sleeve button up shirt, with the top buttons unbuttoned and a white singlet underneath, which is tucked into perfectly tailored blue slacks that hit right at the ankle.
Four readings later, Alex, Levon, and Tom, who, at the time, did not play under any name, begin a short set that opens with “Swoon” and easily moves through easy listening, prog, and experimental compositions. They don’t settle. They laze us, then, at some point, I wish everyone was dancing, hand in hand. We’re in some loud, comfortable sphere slowly rotating through the heavy air and no-one is looking at anyone; it’s incredible. Later, I try to steal some poems two poets left strewn about and one poet catches me while the smoke descends.
Listen to the whole set here.
More about: Alex Kirkpatrick, Chris Weisman, Levon Henry, Tom Csatari
