Bachaco, an established band but new to town entertained last night at the Green Parrot. Sax, trombone, trumpet, couple guitars, the phatest bass player in the world, great drums, oh and those voices, and did I mention His Hotness in the turquoise tee shirt and those bopping hips. Wonderful funk poured from a score of musicians sharing the tiny stage, each jigging in place with instruments pushed to their outer limits.
One of their last tricks was a dance competition, three women and three men leapt to the stage. The men were evidently soused, and possibly didn’t know what they were doing, the women, however, got busy flirting unctuously with His Hotness.
A guitarist emceed, starting with the ladies, first a Latina in a filmy low-cut dress with her breasts peeking out like curious dachshund puppies. She had those puppies vibrating. Next went a sultry Caucasian brunette and she swished around to the beat. They were good these girls, they were certainly brave. Last went a Cafe-au-lait lady in a tribal print long dress. She launched with some precise hips, like she was kneading the music. She was making me think maybe I could be up there, even I could do that, I mused smugly. Then, as if she’d flipped a switch she turned her back to us free credit score report and thrummed her scrumptious rump making the room explode, everyone pulling forward for a clearer look. We were galvanized as on
e prurient mass, and then she revved up another notch and lowered to the ground, cheeks slicing the air like carving knives, by the time she was motoring back up the entire room was whooping, arms above their heads and applauding. As she buzz-sawed her way to the ground and then pulsed back up, her moves mesmerizing, it was obvious she was winning. I was relieved I hadn’t erroneously forced myself on the events. Best for me to watch, and bob discreetly in the crowd.
Next went the men, and it was clear she had inspired them. First a twenty-something, thin and hard like a plank, with stiff pants and a wide belt and a wife-beater and a pork pie hat and he threw himself into a synchronized throb, no doubt he was moving fast, but he reminded me of logs tumbling in a turbulent river. Next were two worrisomely old men of scant hair and much inebriation, and they wobbled dangerously around the tiny stage.
When the emcee declared Mademoiselle Cafe-au-lait the undisputed champion the look on her pretty face was bashful, and she stared down. Her guy, from within the well
of dancers, beamed like a beacon, his wide smile and proud eyes glued to her, yet still she looked down. I could see she was smiling and I thought it was as if she knew she had broken a cardinal rule, she had pulled out the heavy artillery at a pocket knife mete. She stepped off the stage and into the open arms of her guy.