restless folk arcana

Ill-lit by xmas lights, no one notices a shabby figure warming up his pump organ, mashing the chords like it's 1885 and you're strolling restless on a boardwalk at coney island. in no hurry he sets a sampler to carry a a few sparse notes, kills the lights, and pulling out an old diver's lamp begins creating his world. out of a box comes a red and black striped carnival barker's jacket, and a faded parasol protecting the organ from the dark. out of a decrepit traveling chest comes a paper mache head, followed by hands, one covering the mouth, one pointing still into the dark of the box. from another chest comes more lamps, colored gels, a miniature record player, the atmosphere of a winsor mccay comic. with care he places them just so, and casually picks up a trumpet to accompany the procedures in small plaintive squawks. and then a tiny case with a tiny chair reverently deposited on the turntable, a tiny man even more reverently set on the chair, which begins to spin as the boardwalk descends into some dark jangley rhythm from your dreams. the jerk and start of sine wave switches all one-handed with organ and trumpet key saloon songs like some old-timey analog sequencer. he's telling a story, about his father and 4000 year old finubulae. questions accosted by the melody. and back to the boardwalk for a last stroll into the crooked sunset.

followed by a punk cowgirl singing a sad ukulele in front of old twenties' silent films, keaton and chaplin, journey to the moon; and my favorite 22nd century blues singer rocking caveman songs to scrambled porn.