“You know, tonight is maybe my favorite night of the month,” Suzanne said.
“Me too,” I agreed. “I always look forward to hearing you say…”
~~ Later that night ~~
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Suzanne said into her mic, “We are The Bluebirdz.” Then we launched into our usual opening number, Room 335.
The song was Larry Carlton’s ode to the famous Gibson ES-335 hollow-body guitar model he favored. The exact same model currently resting on my thigh.
For our tenth wedding anniversary Jill had given me a Gibson ES with a Blueberry Burst top. I’d complained about how much money she’d spent (mainly because she’d upstaged my gift of diamond earrings to her), but it was my most prized possession. I’d named her Little Wing, after the Stevie Ray Vaughan version of the song that was the first tune I ever played on her, the night Jill had given her to me. She was pretty much all I played when we performed, except the rare occasions we wanted a less electric sound, then I’d switch to Belle, my white Yamaha acoustic. But most nights I wouldn’t even pull Belle out of her case.
The song was a great opener for us. It had some rock elements that would hit our audience right in the face, and let them know we weren’t about that ‘smooth jazz’, Kenny G shit. It also straight-up stole the organ line from Steely Dan’s Peg, which was a useful hook for older folks who had happened to come to the brew-pub for dinner and weren’t necessarily jazzophiles.
I finished my first long part, transitioned to background chords to give Jill the lead, to the sound of several yeah!’s and woo!’s from the audience. I looked back and made eye contact with Suzanne on her electric upright bass and we shared some nods and grins as Jill’s fingers danced through her organ solo. She killed it as usual. As good as Donald Fagan, in my own opinion. I’m sure I’m biased though.
We always set up in a tight triangle, Jill stage left, seated behind her keyboard, me stage right, perched on a tall stool and Suzanne in the middle and slightly behind us. We played in the corner of the restaurant, rather than the outdoor stage they had for most live music.
I had no idea how Suzanne could practice on a standard Fender bass, then perform on an electric upright, but she did. Anytime I gave her shit about it she just said it was because she was a better musician than me. As if. But she was the Warren County school district’s primary strings and orchestra instructor, and she sure could do some pretty bow work when she took a solo.
At our first practice, Suzanne had taken one look at my guitar and Jill’s hair and announced that we had to call ourselves The Bluebirds. We later had to change it to Bluebirdz, because we found out there was a blues band named the Bluebirds from the eighties and nineties with about a dozen albums. But it was still so perfect we didn’t even bother to brainstorm other names. Jill, as always, wore an elegant black dress. I was, as always, in a black dress shirt and slacks. Tonight I also had thrown on my silver vest to fancy up a bit, since this had potential to be a ‘date weekend’ for me and Jill. Suzanne, as always, was wearing a brilliant blue evening dress to compliment Jill’s hair and my guitar and complete the Bluebird theme. She’d amassed quite a collection of blue dresses since we’d formed our group. Tonight it was a sleeveless number with spaghetti straps and a slit up the side that showed a lot of leg as she played her bass.
We finished the song to a round of applause and moved straight into one of our own compositions called Life Flight. Unlike The Rotors, which had pretty much been a straight cover band, about half of what The Bluebirds performed was original material. I’d been a shit songwriter when it came to rock or pop songs, I was definitely no lyricist. But with Jill as my co-writer, it turned out we could write some pretty slick jazz tunes.
We’d even recorded a live album of our originals with the help of an old friend who used to be The Rotors sound guy. We’d sell a couple download codes after most shows, people who wanted to support us. Suzanne wanted to get a vinyl record pressed to sell as merch, but we hadn’t quite gotten popular enough yet to lay out that kind of money. We did sell t-shirts, with three cartoon birds holding instruments. Jill had done the artwork.
We finished Life Flight, and transitioned smoothly into a cover of Spyro Gyra’s Shakedown. Then we went on a run of about eight of our own compositions. We ended the set with Gail Jhonson’s Keystroke, showcasing Jill again, and finally the Santino Surfer’s Sun Rise Swell. I’d recently discovered the band from the twenty-twenties decade and had immediately worked up arrangements for a half dozen of their songs. They weren’t traditional jazz, but they were definitely a vibe. The song made Little Wing seem to come alive in my hands, like she was the fourth member of the band.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Suzanne said into her mic as the applause died away, “We’re going to take a short break, and will be back in about twenty minutes, so… stick around.”
I chucked at the breathy jazz diva affectation she added to her voice.
Good set, Little, I thought to my guitar as I set my baby down in her stand then stood up and stretched my arms over my head, cracking my back. Be back soon. I turned to my compatriots.
“Nice set ladies,” I said, after I made sure Suzanne had her mic off. “Should we get a drink or stretch our legs outside?”
“The Reeds came tonight,” Suzanne said, “I need to go talk to them about the PTA bake sale next week for the band fundraiser.”
“Tell ’em we’ll bring our lemon muffins again,” I said with a grin. I was constantly amused at how our lives had transitioned from the group of young couples always looking forward to our next opportunity to rock out in front of a crowd to the routine lives of band parents. All of our kids were in the marching band. Not just Eric, LJ and Esme but also my brother’s kids Henry and Ginny.
“Hey sexy, can I buy you a drink?” I asked Jill as we watched Suzanne walk over to sit with her co-chair of the PTA.
“Why darling, I thought you’d never ask!” Jill said with a smile.
“So what to do with the rest of our weekend alone?” I asked, once we were seated at a small table in the bar, a glass of white wine for her, a glass of Angel’s Envy bourbon for me.
“I was thinking that we haven’t made a bet in a while.” As she said it, she rubbed her toe up under the cuff of my slacks to caress the skin of my right leg.
“I can’t tell you how much I was hoping you’d say that.”
The tone in my voice elicited a sly smile from her.
Bets were a game we’d come up with to keep the spice in our marriage several years ago. Anytime Eric had a sleepover at a friend’s or we somehow had a weekend alone, we’d make a bet in the form of a comic book trivia contest. First one to three correct answers won. The loser had to do anything the winner said until our alone time was over.
Anything.
She took a tiny sip of her wine, and I swear her eyes twinkled in the dim light of the bar. Her toes tugged the cuff of my slacks just a little higher and I suppressed a shiver as her toenail scraped along my calf. She’d worn my favorite shoes tonight, black four-inch heels with a web of straps encasing her feet and ankles. They made her tower over me, and I absolutely loved them.