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STAYAROUND.COM > ARTISTS > DIGGSVILLE

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Daze Of Normal Life
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DIGGSVILLE

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."

"Hop in."

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 moon"

"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 bread?"
"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 sun.
"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 Francisco Bay...







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