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Authors: Erica Orloff
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to sling the cayenne.
Gathered around the table, we laughed, we toasted New Orleans, we drank. We drank a lot more. We wiped at our tearing eyes and runny noses with our napkins. We emptied eleven bottles of champagne and wine.
And then, in the midst of all the chattering, Tony's brogue emerged, thicker than ever, and he began to sing, in a simple, poignant voice, a Celtic song about a sailor and a lost love who died on the sea. When he finished, we whistled and applauded.
Red spoke when the clapping died down, "That's like the Irish blues, isn't it? See, don't matter where you're from, as long as there's love, there'll be the blues. No use pretendin' otherwise. A beautiful song, Tony. Georgia, you should sing the one from last week." He snapped his fingers, trying to recall the title." 'Give Me Back My Dead Daughter's Child.'"
"What the hell kind of song title is that?" Dominique sputtered. "What's with you blues people? Tony's got a woman drowning with saltwater in her lungs and now a dead daughter's child? What's next? Suicide? Murder? War? Is this song going to make me cry?"
Red smiled. "If Georgia sings it right, it will."
Dominique stared at me. "What's wrong with 'We Are Family' by Sister Sledge? Something upbeat?"
"You wait there, Dominique, before you pass judgment. Go on, Georgia, sing it," Red urged.
The song was a very old one, maybe first sung at the birth of the blues. Jelly Roll Morton, one of the old kings of blues, loved it. It made him cry. I'd had some champagne. And Red had put me on the spot. So I began to sing the blues. I mean, the title says it all. Could there be anything happy in a song like that? People think country music is full of clichéd old sadness: "I Shot My Brothers Hunting Dog with a Rifle after a Quart of Jack Daniel's." But the blues were inventing grief in song long before any cowboy twanged a guitar. I started singing quietly at first but found my range and shut my eyes. I really didn't want to see everyone looking at me, even if they were my friends. I felt my cheeks flush, but I kept on singing this mournful song. And when I was done, no one said a word. Not exactly the response I was looking for.
I opened my eyes, and they were all staring at me. Then Dominique leaped to her feet and began screaming and hooting and clapping. Everyone else started clapping, and Maggie banged her silver spoon on the table and then began clinking her crystal champagne flute with her spoon. Jack and Red followed suit. I cringed. The glasses were nearly as old as Nan.
I stood and took a bow. "Thank you… Now it's someone else's turn to sing."
But they didn't stop. All except Tony, who hadn't clapped at all actually but had raised his glass in a silent toast to me.
"One more clinking glass, and I'll force you all to sit through my rendition of 'Dancing Queen.'"
"Ditch the fuckin' disco. We could be a damn good blues band," Tony said. "That was great. Bloody 'ell, that was fuckin' amazin'."
"We'd starve as a jazz band," Mike chimed in.
"Maybe," said Red, smiling, "but you all'd be makin' real music."
Gary stared at me from across the table. "Georgia… that was great, but you wouldn't leave the band, would you?"
Jack elbowed him, staring at me as if I'd never sung before. "With pipes like those and a song like that we
could
be a blues and jazz band."
Gary shook his head. "But we've worked so hard to get to the point where we can actually make a
living
doing what we're doing. A
living. You
know… that which pays the bills."
Annie bit her lip and bowed her head.
I raised my hands. "Hey… I need to earn a living just as much as the rest of you. It was a song. One song." Out of the corner of my eye I saw Red exchange a look with Nan. I hate when no matter what you do, you're not going to make everyone happy.
No one else was going to do any singing, and certainly no one wanted to hear "Dancing Queen" (except maybe Dominique and Gary), so we cleared the table and Dominique, Red and Nan did
Gathered around the table, we laughed, we toasted New Orleans, we drank. We drank a lot more. We wiped at our tearing eyes and runny noses with our napkins. We emptied eleven bottles of champagne and wine.
And then, in the midst of all the chattering, Tony's brogue emerged, thicker than ever, and he began to sing, in a simple, poignant voice, a Celtic song about a sailor and a lost love who died on the sea. When he finished, we whistled and applauded.
Red spoke when the clapping died down, "That's like the Irish blues, isn't it? See, don't matter where you're from, as long as there's love, there'll be the blues. No use pretendin' otherwise. A beautiful song, Tony. Georgia, you should sing the one from last week." He snapped his fingers, trying to recall the title." 'Give Me Back My Dead Daughter's Child.'"
"What the hell kind of song title is that?" Dominique sputtered. "What's with you blues people? Tony's got a woman drowning with saltwater in her lungs and now a dead daughter's child? What's next? Suicide? Murder? War? Is this song going to make me cry?"
Red smiled. "If Georgia sings it right, it will."
Dominique stared at me. "What's wrong with 'We Are Family' by Sister Sledge? Something upbeat?"
"You wait there, Dominique, before you pass judgment. Go on, Georgia, sing it," Red urged.
The song was a very old one, maybe first sung at the birth of the blues. Jelly Roll Morton, one of the old kings of blues, loved it. It made him cry. I'd had some champagne. And Red had put me on the spot. So I began to sing the blues. I mean, the title says it all. Could there be anything happy in a song like that? People think country music is full of clichéd old sadness: "I Shot My Brothers Hunting Dog with a Rifle after a Quart of Jack Daniel's." But the blues were inventing grief in song long before any cowboy twanged a guitar. I started singing quietly at first but found my range and shut my eyes. I really didn't want to see everyone looking at me, even if they were my friends. I felt my cheeks flush, but I kept on singing this mournful song. And when I was done, no one said a word. Not exactly the response I was looking for.
I opened my eyes, and they were all staring at me. Then Dominique leaped to her feet and began screaming and hooting and clapping. Everyone else started clapping, and Maggie banged her silver spoon on the table and then began clinking her crystal champagne flute with her spoon. Jack and Red followed suit. I cringed. The glasses were nearly as old as Nan.
I stood and took a bow. "Thank you… Now it's someone else's turn to sing."
But they didn't stop. All except Tony, who hadn't clapped at all actually but had raised his glass in a silent toast to me.
"One more clinking glass, and I'll force you all to sit through my rendition of 'Dancing Queen.'"
"Ditch the fuckin' disco. We could be a damn good blues band," Tony said. "That was great. Bloody 'ell, that was fuckin' amazin'."
"We'd starve as a jazz band," Mike chimed in.
"Maybe," said Red, smiling, "but you all'd be makin' real music."
Gary stared at me from across the table. "Georgia… that was great, but you wouldn't leave the band, would you?"
Jack elbowed him, staring at me as if I'd never sung before. "With pipes like those and a song like that we
could
be a blues and jazz band."
Gary shook his head. "But we've worked so hard to get to the point where we can actually make a
living
doing what we're doing. A
living. You
know… that which pays the bills."
Annie bit her lip and bowed her head.
I raised my hands. "Hey… I need to earn a living just as much as the rest of you. It was a song. One song." Out of the corner of my eye I saw Red exchange a look with Nan. I hate when no matter what you do, you're not going to make everyone happy.
No one else was going to do any singing, and certainly no one wanted to hear "Dancing Queen" (except maybe Dominique and Gary), so we cleared the table and Dominique, Red and Nan did
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