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Label: Blue Pie Productions
Artists Genre: Pop
Business was down and so was he. After a fruitless
encounter with the First Lady of Nova Scotia (married
to the boss a' Nova)at a state dinner in Manhattan,
the aging gigilo known only as Jaques-Pierre Francois
Boudin, was slowly making his way down the coast,
south to Key Largo. His real name was Randy Lee and as
he stood by the side of the road with his thumb out,
he held a secret dream close to his chest. He dreamt
of being a drummer in a band, in San Francisco where
in his imagination he could smell the espresso and
sourdough as it mixed in the air with the sound of
jazz(he'd read a lot of Jack Kerouac in his youth).
Then it happened. A silver roadster pulled off the
road, driven by a mysteriously striking woman. After
she finished striking him, she asked,
"Where're ya headed, Ddddddaddy?"
"South to Key Largo."
They drove on together, and he took in her strange
beauty: sumptous black hair, ivory skin, green eyes,
and elegant tattoos. He felt a strange new rhythm
rising in his hands and feet as he began to
involutarily play the dash and floorboard, a
particularly groovy rhythm. And she began to sing...
"the people come from far away - they know the night
the night will soon be here - when they can lose their
cares and fears - and fate will live beneath the
"Sounds dreamy," he said.
"Dream on," she replied.
"We're headed for Atlantic City. I've got a standard
of living to maintain. This car? I stole it, all the
way from Europe. It used to belong to my ex-the Duke
of Earl. Now it's all I own but no one owns me."
In Atlantic City, they sat in a piano bar of a lesser
casino, counting their winnings.
"100 bucks. Now what do we do?", mused Randy Lee.
Then, the piano sounded the last chord of "Lush Life"
The pianist rose and came to the bar.
"I couldn't help noticing you two, you're different",
he said, extending his digits. "They call me the
'French Tickler' because I tickle the ivories and
dabble in Parisian Feather Therapy, but actually I'm
Scandinavian. The name is David von Holder. Are you
guys in a band?"
"Funny you should ask. I'm Karen Mitchell and this
here is Randy Lee. He's a drummer and I'm a singer.
We're not a band, yet. We're just poor.
"Listen, we've got to get out of this place, if it's
the last thing we ever do. Let's make like a band and
get on the road."
"cool," chimed Randy Lee, "but what do we do for
"I'll sell one of my several thousand keyboards, and
we'll be off."
A few days later on Route 66, just outside Kansas
City, a silver roadster towing a silver Airstream full
of keyboards, pulled into a roadside rest area. The
sensual sounds of a saxophone filled the sallow air
and our sojourners were stunned to see the satorial
sight of a soul sister, standing on top of a trashed
U.S. Postal truck in the torn and dirty uniform of a
postal worker. Around the truck was strewn spilling
bags of mail and packages, and as she fiercly blew her
sax, the letters swirled, dancing jazz in the setting
"I've gone 'postal'!", she sang out, "and I'll make
the most, y'all, of this freedom jazz dance...'cuz I'm
takin' a chance...on the groove. I'm pushin' the
envelope, I'm gonna move, I'm gonna prove...that
there's a place we can find, if we just free our
mind...a little burg called 'Diggsville'. You don't
need a Ceville, 'cuz I've got a Mustang, I've got my
groove thang, I've got my reed slang... Let's move on
west, 'cuz I hear that's the best...place to find a
portal to that space... that village...that
community...that exists only in the music, at the
right time and place: 'Diggsville'... We'll try the
Golden Gate scene, you can call me Nadine."
She disappeared for an instant, then reappeared in a
black shark-skin suit and a sea-foam green 65 Mustang.
They drove west into the sunset.
So soon, sipping martinis and watching the lights of
Vegas come up from the lounge of the Stratosphere, a
substantially-built, bald man, painted bright blue,
sat down at the bar.
"I know that guy,"remarked Nadine."Dave?"
"Nadine! Whatcha doin' in the Crystal City?"
"Just passing through, are you kind a blue?"
"Was. I've had it with eating paint...and drumming on
a plastic pipe...and dieting! I've got three fine
basses at home, gathering dust. I'm fired! Canned!
Movin on!...Got drunk last night and painted one of
Sigfreid and Roy's white tigers blue...Oh yeah...I'd
love to play in a groove band with a jazzy flair and
hot female vocalist... But Sade won't return my
calls...Hey, do you know the way to San Jose? I've got
alot of friends in San Jose and one said he could hook
me up with a job, operating heavy machinery."
By Fresno, they had a serious groove on. The airstream
was gliding a foot above the highway, powered by pure
music, and though there was no designated driver in
the Roadster, Diggsville somehow stayed on course,
carving its' downbeat funky wake toward the San