The Night is Young & We Have Umbrellas In Our Drinks

It's a drag coming back to Boston after a stay in NYC. I may be outgrowing the proverbial city of beans in favor of the proverbial city of apples. It's like going on one of those kiddie rides at a theme park after tackling the big kahuna of roller coasters. Walking home through Somerville at two in the morning - the streets are deserted, except for the occasional taxi driver nodding off & plowing into a hedge. Everything shuts down at night. Windows are dark, sidewalks are barren. Bars in Somerville close at one & there's nowhere to go but home to bed. Store 24 closes at midnight. Never figured out what the "24" is supposed to signify. The quantity of chewing gum brands, perhaps? If this was NYC, I'd be having a tasty grilled cheese sandwich in a sadluck diner right now, & watching a wino chew on his toenail in the next booth.

Tonight was the sixth incarnation of Ukulele Noir, a monthly event I try not to miss - where ukuleles & porkpie hats collide. Craig Robertson accompanied by 2/3rds of the Sob Sisters (swoon), the falsetto croonings of Rick Russo, the dynamic duo of Tim Mann & Greg Hawkes (yep, the guy responsible for all those chirps & grunts in The Cars), the tuneful Melvem Taylor & the Fabulous Meltones, & straight outta Ohio, Tom Harker & his Prodigal Sons. Now, first, I find it mildly surprising that there are this many ukulele enthusiasts in the Boston area. And second, I find it odd that they all choose to assemble at the Skybar, which is a "beer in plastic cups"-style dive sandwiched between an auto body shop & a baseball field. Then again, they host a goth night as well, so let's hear it for juxtaposition.

I'm going to seek out the identity of the stenchridden lugnut who drove the 12:05 am number 87 bus out of Lechmere roaring past me without stopping & shall cause grievous injury to his person. Yet because of him I stopped into Toad & heard a smokin' jazzfunk band called The Freelance Bishops - one of the tightest combos I've heard in eons. Sort of like an atomic clock with sex appeal. The horn player blew into a device called an EWI that sounded like an elongated electronic kiwi. Due to that & the keyboardist's vintage Rhodes, they often reminded me of something midway between Jan Hammer-era Jeff Beck & incidental music from an episode of Barney Miller. Good merchandise.

Sleep tight, Somerville - you despicable early risers.