It was our first winter away from Key West. In our fuzzy collective Pacific Orchestra consciousness, that tiny stretch of Old Town between Mallory Square and South Beach had begun to weigh on us like a Jurassic conch, a gastropod's restraint to our musical destiny.
The hot-air balloon of our egos yearned to fly over new venues, inspiring new fans, and amassing obscene quantities of tainted, old dinero.
Khan, our nefarious leader, pulled a coup and we were offered a loft in Williamsburg, a forgotten slice of Brooklyn. A thong between the butt cheeks of an Italian and a Puerto Rican neighborhood; accent on the 'hood'.
The city was muffed in a chilly December cloud cover that reduced traffic noise to a droning 60 cycle hum as we drove to our first Manhattan gig off Liberty Street. We wheeled our equipment away from the loading dock and into a corridor that had an unusual bank of elevators. Each door led to a different set of floors; if we chose the wrong portal we'd be lost like flotsam in the bowels of a concrete and steel mammoth.
The private party was on the 110th floor, down the hall from Windows on the World, so we pushed the button for floors 80-110. The stainless steel mouth opened wide and we made our ascent. Our first set played out to a disinterested collection of chiseled GQ's in tuxedos and slim Cosmo gals in spiked heels. During our break I wandered the halls trying to find a window that wasn't gray with fog, but every side was socked in solid. It was like being on a cruise ship the ocean had swallowed.
Our last set rocked as the booze performed its magic, limbering the joints and brain cells of the audience. Stiletto heels were tossed into the corners of the room and ties dangled limply around sweaty necks as body's surrendered control to the beat.
It was after two in the morning when the last guest left, and each of us in our own post-gig solitude, started to tear down for the ride back to Williamsburg. Silently, behind our backs, the fog began to lift. Bassie, reached for the light switch. In the pitch black of the top floor of the World Trade Center we watched as the last wisp of cloud swept away.
Spread below us was a galaxy of polished light, but so much more than just a starlight metaphor. The buildings thrust concrete and steel arms through the Earth. Skyscrapers scratched at the soft underbelly of the clouds, their lighted windows setting the night sky on fire stretching on and on until, at 57th Street, a cradle of light nestled the long shadow of Central Park.
The news is dreadful every day. I hug my kids and try to love a little better then the day before.
