At The End of the Show, Can You Drive Me Home?

Matthew Jordan - Collection (2001)

Julian ventured out of her head tonight. She peeked out from inside via the corner of one retina and then the other. She was sensitive to dirtiness, especially the coat of it that she had imagined lining the dimly-lit alleys of reality. So she sprinted. From one controlled surrealism to another, landing in a packed club with a mildly clever, mildly bland name and similar decoration. Everything seemed to be roughly painted black to cover the residue of an old diner or shoe store. Julian noticed this especially in the sloppy corner behind the bar, needing to take interest in something after giving up waving a $5 bill at the bartender like it was worth $95 more.

As a microphone flipped on and a restrained voice asked for more keyboard in the monitor, she rolled up her jeans another time - to a height now as conspicuously enthusiastic as a raised eyebrow. Standing on her toes, she collected that the voice belonged to a bearded man with thick black glasses in a muted striped shirt, joined by four others that each looked carefully assembled in a way that wouldn't attract attention. They fumbled around on stage and then almost fell into a sound that was delightfully big band without the obnoxious enunciation and pizazz.

A scruffy man in front of Julian leaned down to whisper loudly to a shorter scruffy man that the singer sounded "exactly like Fever Marlene", which didn't mean anything to her. But she did notice that the brash cymbal use was a little feverish and she was satisfied with that explanation. Julian was bobbing more than she had expected to. She was surprised what the steady smack of a snare for four minutes can do to someone searching for predictability in her life.

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