Merch Table Blues by Peter Conners

Author:Peter Conners
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Manic D Press, Inc.

DANCING ON A CLIFF

The first time I saw her was during the Albany gig. She was with the Lavernites, dancing at the fringe, casting sidelong glances my way at regular intervals. Felix was there. So was Argute, Fecunde, the two girls from back in Saratoga, and a few new arrivals. It was amazing how the new arrivals blended in. Aside from Felix’s obvious dominance, the Lavernites were almost entirely interchangeable: same clothes, same blank expression, same random dance moves, and complete absorption in Richard’s songs. As a group, they were easily identifiable. Unified. The Lavernites.

But this new one caught my eye. I found out much later that she had a name. A real name. Only then would I come to understand that her catching my eye was as intentional as my first meeting with Felix, all my talks with Richard, and truthfully, my entire presence on the tour. I was no more than a show poodle jumping through their hoops. Hoops I didn’t even realize existed. Hoops that were about to be lit on fire.

Despite the fact that she wore the same clothes and danced the same way, this one stood out from the other Lavernite girls. It was how she carried herself. As if somewhere beneath the surface of her devotion lingered a headstrong person, unwilling to submit completely. She was not like the nameless girl. Not like Tara even. I couldn’t help glancing back at her. As the night progressed, I found myself speculating about her, trying to unlock the gentle mysteries of her eyes, her wrists, the long, slow slope of her legs; wondering where she’d gone when she was out of my sight and if she’d be back.

I finally met the mystery girl, in a way, during set break. It’d been a busy night at the merch table. I’d signed up fifteen people, sold six CDs, eight t-shirts, four bumper stickers, and dispensed tour information to two separate groups of SUNY Albany students (a couple of them had heard Richard and Julius on the radio and brought their friends), and one grizzled taper attending his first show. I felt a part of the Laverna machine. And the band was rocking hard.

Between shows, it was easy to get lost in the fog of annoying interpersonal band dynamics and creepy Lavernites, and forget that Laverna was really an incredible musical group. When they were on, they were the best around. Each member was a skilled craftsman, so trained on his instrument and the band interplay that even the most improvisational passages interspersed throughout songs came across like choreographed ballet: Papa dipping down while Julius’s organ soared above; Richard blasting little staccato rhythms across the crowd, stalking, taunting them with his guitar, while Coolie rode his bass drum and cymbals like a blissed-out dance instructor, arms and legs grooving in time.

It was a sight to behold and a wild garden of sound. Laverna could lean back on their jam skills to get a crowd dancing, or they could morph into that heavier new sound and get downright introspective and spooky.

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