Me, an Anarchist?

I woke with a Psalter's song in my head. That got me thinking about my Friday evening concert experience. Did I tell you that I was the oldest person there? I was. Okay, maybe there were a few others around my age there, but we were the minority. Skelletones is a really interesting place. The coffee shop itself is in a very old storefront on Division Ave. in Grand Rapids. After acting as though the man at the entrance asking for change was invisible, I walked in and noted old tin ceilings, brick walls, and the fact that the place is long and narrow. The aroma is overwhelming. Coffee mingled with the heavy smell of incense, and as you jostle people trying to find a place to stand one notes the smell of perspiration gone bad. I found my niche leaning up against the tall sides of the coffee bar, over which I could read all the stickers plastered to the metal surface of an ancient food service refrigerator. A guy is sitting directly in front of me on a high stool, elbows on a small, square tabletop. I can just see over his head to the stage, as the Psalter's are trying to set up, after a particularly awful set by a local band (they even apologized for sucking after they were done). I am distracted however, by the girl that comes and begins talking to the guy in front of me. He attempts to ignore her, but soon has been engaged in conversation, and they are laughing together and snuggling. The Psalter's begin playing and I notice all the objects on top of the ancient fridge are dancing along with the rest of the crowd. The guy in front of me is no longer leaning on the tabletop, and another guy asks if he can use it. He and a beautiful girl proceed to spread pamphlets and books across the small surface. Meanwhile the Psalter's play on. People in the crowd are playing finger cymbals.

The Psalter's finish their set, the guy in front of me leaves with the girl, and I commandeer his stool. So it appears that I am sitting at this table filled with reading material. I look with interest at the literature. One book in particular catches my eye. "Recipes for Disaster". I am always looking for new recipes, so I pick it up only to find that it is filled with instructions on civil disobedience. The beautiful girl has shed her coat, and with surprising regularity appears to be tucking her armpit hair, back into place down the sides of her red tank top. Because I am sitting near the tabletop, people are stopping to peruse, and are asking me questions about the next local anarchist meetings. I shrug and point to the beautiful girl.

Madison Greene have begun to play. They do the cuckoo song, and I think of Nelson. I always loved watching him perform. There is a new girl singing with the group, and I find myself disappointed not to see the little, whirling dancer girl that I have grown to associate with the Greene. But then the new girl opens her lips to sing, and my disappointment evaporates immediately. She is incredible as well. Mike stands in front. genuine smile in place. Psalters man African drums, and I am again engrossed in the music, on occasion distracted by the activity at the table in front of me. The music ends, we are swept out onto cold sidewalks, rapidly walking to our vehicle, wishing we had not left our coats there. Robin avoids a patch of ice that she slipped on earlier. We climb in the van, and head home, yawning and wishing for bed, the sweet sounds of Madison Greene echoing in our memories.