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Papa Was A Rolling Stone

These days. Memories stir, rise, and fall of their own free will. This one comes to the surface, catches flight. This night you head down to old St. Andrews and park on the marina. Evening is coming on and there's a steady wind from across the bay, a chop on the waters. The moored boats rock a little, take the waves. The lanyards whip the masts and sing as only they can do. It's a sound you'll miss with a deep kind of homesick when you're landlocked. A singing you will need to feed your soul, to feel like you are standing on familiar ground. There's a hole-in-the-wall bar down there, the Bayside Cafe and you like the place a lot with a kind of trust granted an old friend. The prices are honest, the beer's cold, the food's good. And the music is always something that pushes the boundaries of blow your mind. This night Jay Scott and the All Stars are playing and somehow like some rodeo trick there are about fifteen guys crowded into a corner of the bar. The best of different band members stepping out to come together because they know when they do it makes some kind of magic. And the palm trees are rustling in the wind and the All Stars are warming up . There's a sax and keyboard and guitar and horns and a bass and you are thinking how lucky you are in this moment to be here in the middle of this one night and it feels so damn good to be alive here and now like this. The opening chords of Papa Was a Rolling Stone begin and a jam is on. The song lasts an hour. Lasts all night. And if you ever wondered if stars actuallly aligned, if the universal sheres could sing the blues, you understand the answer is, yes. This thing can happen where people from all walks of life come together and the band plays on and for one night there is just one song, and you are all just one people.

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