I felt the cold tonight. In a heatless storage unit turned music studio in Fremont my son Lawrence, his friend Cameron Brochier and I rehearsed for our February gig in Cotati.
Organizer Geri DiGiorno sounded a bit nervous on the phone when she found out my poetry reading would be accompanied by members of a rock band. I assured her that the music would be more jazzy and bluesy.
But it was the distortion that added a special flavor to the poems. Cameron was pleased that I asked for it and smiled broadly whenever I gave him a thumb-up on his riff.
When I pulled out my Native American drum Lawrence was unsure. “Eh, we’ve never played with native instruments before.”
“No worries,” I told him. “When one ends the other begins.”
We scored the poems, each contributing ideas and moods. The cold was forgotten until we finished. Then, it was bitter.
“Dinner?” I suggested.
“No, we have to do our own rehearsal now.”
I left the guys in their freezer and drove home.
