The New Beats

Flea laughs, she knows the scene and knows not to take it too seriously. She looks around at the same old cats and kitties in berets and black skivvies and the mad guy at the back going on and on to the smart suited Mr Cool about how Jesus saved him — the mad guy, not Cool — Jesus was this kid from Mexico with a god complex; but Cool isn't listening, he just smiles his half smile and draws back on his small cigar, before blowing out the blue smoke which he examines lazily through half closed eyes; Cool really knows how to smoke a cigar. Cool is an affectation of bored contemplation; behind his mask nothing is real.

Returning from the lane behind the venue, where they had indulged in a toke or three of tea, the band suddenly come to life in the corner of the small crowded bar. A tall skinny man with huge hands and a bigger beatific smile cradles his bass and plucks at the strings, he's looking at a pretty woman in the front row and the electricity is almost painful. The Hammond B3 player is a mad genius with round features and an incongruous cigarette usually stuck between his lips; he goes with the melody, but takes it places you would never imagine and then throws in a bar or two of some circus tune before seamlessly taking it back. The drummer is a leprechaun, he lays the beats like it's all a great joke and his solo's go for so long that even the rest of the guys get edgy. And then there is the leader, he plays the sax and sometimes sings — but the way he plays sax; he gets the notes no-one else can reach, great screeching notes that cut through to the soul and if you know how to listen, then you know it's the truth, and you really know what the truth is.

Flea leaps up beside the band. Her body taken over by the pulse, the B3 player looks over and flashes her a grin, he knows what she can do, so swings into some totally insane variations; she is up for the challenge, her moves mirror the music perfectly, she has become the music, unaware of anything but the dance and the sounds that travel through her. Wearing an old 1950s op-shop dress, black fishnet tights and Bloch tap shoes without the actual taps; Flea is oblivious to the glare of contempt from the pretty woman in the front, the cheers from the regulars, or even the dumb grin on the face of the mad guy at the back; her torso snakes, feet flick, hands gesture like an oriental. At times her feet kick, spin, tap, and flick so fast they are no more than a blur, then she will suddenly freeze, flamenco serious face, only a finger flicks to the beat, then her hand, then her other hand, her body begins to move in quarter time to the beat, then as the leprechaun behind the skins breaks into his solo, her feet begin to fly once more, he lays the beats so fast for so long that even she can't keep up with him; she has to stop because she is out of breath, but her smile is so wide and pure her cheeks ache from the grinning. The B3 player lifts an eyebrow to the leader, who nods him in as the drummer brings it home, and suddenly the combo is all back on the same page as the dancer flops back into her chair, a stranger compliments her and a regular slips a long vodka soda, with the tiniest dash of lime and several lemon slices in her hand.

"Thank you, just what the doctor ordered."

"My pleasure to fill the prescription."

"The boys are cooking tonight."

"So are you."

Flea smiles, stiffens and shrugs her shoulders; she never knows how to take praise; the stranger can be ignored, regulars are a whole other matter. She considers him for a moment, then flashes him one of her most famous smiles, "Far be it for me to disagree with a gentleman who buys me a drink."

"Oh, I think you earn it."

"Cheers mate."

The pretty woman who has been flirting with the bass player pulls her friend up to dance in lipstick lesbian style. Miss Pretty wears a boob tube and Bertina Liano jeans, her friend is in a mad floral halter neck mini dress with lots of frills and a high thigh split, both girls are tall and bony, they have their arms draped over each other's shoulders With one eye on the bass player, Pretty rubs her pelvis suggestively against her friend's, but everyone can tell that they don't really hear the music. The leader thinks it's a great joke, the guy pumping the B3 hints at a porn soundtrack, but the bass player laps it up like a cat with stolen cream.

Flea surveys the room as she mutilates the lemon in her glass with a long black straw, Cool catches her eye, he gives her one of his crazy little one-eighth salutes, and there is a world of communication in his vague alluding to Miss Pretty and her friend, all with the most subtle flick of his eyes. Flea appreciates his wordless joke, and answers it in kind.

"You should take your floor back." suggests the guy who bought Flea's drink.

"It's not really my floor."

"Even so."

"I'll let them queen it for a bit, the boys are digging the show and I need the a break."

"Reckon you could teach'em a thing or two."

Flea laughs him off and concentrates on the leader who is blowing his solo, "He kills me, really kills me!", and every time the saxophone lets out a shriek, so does she. It is all too much for Miss Pretty and her friend; it's not really the music for their brand of bump and grind.