The Orford Ghoul
I was hunkered down in my usual booth at the Orford, the one they used for Tina and Bobby, deep in the dim corner where the light never quite arrives. Tonight I skipped the usual cheap shandy and ordered a few large dirty vodkas, straight, no ice to soften the truth. It went down like
The Pavilion
the place on Renfield Street. the Pavilion. a dump with velvet seats. the stink of yesterday’s drink. four musicians drag their bones onstage. the trumpet player’s lips are cracked. old pavement. the drummer sweating whisky right through his shirt. they blow the blues anyway. noise. raw. ugly. tickets are still available, plenty of them. cheap