He was drunk because John Lennon was dead. "Don't pay attention
to her--she's my mother, and she's crazy." She was drunk,
too. Maybe 64, white-haired and disheveled white blouse, she danced
with her arms swishing in the air. "There are no heroes anymore,
she said."
It was strange, as she spoke to any eye she could catch, and said to one, "Tell me when I should be quiet," and he replied, "Sit down, Ma!" And she said, "Oh, shut up." Later they hugged, and once kissed after she bought a wine after borrowing money for coffee.
When the guitar player rested, "Ma" went up to play the piano. "She's good, no listen to her, she's fuckin' more intelligent than me, and she's 64." Indeed, she played Debussy, to everyone's surprise, and a jazz piece, interrupted by Son's sudden, "That's it baby." And they talked from stage to booth, as if this were a play.
(These two ordinary, private people, playing their personal lives in front of us--visible, loud and audacious.)
She said that she was weird, not a "weirdo"--"that's what this crazy world makes of you." The idea struck her as clever.
I wanted to dance with her when the performer played Cat Stevens. I loved to watch her energy, her honesty.
Later, Son sang too loudly, especially when Lennon's "Working Class" was played ("that's heavy!"), so the sound man told him to quiet down, and patted him on his back lightly when he moaned during a song.
The police were called and Ma packed up. ("Heh, you don't want to be 86'd honey.") But Son refused to leave until the last number, Lennon's "Imagine" was over.
It seemed cruel to take him out. I almost told the officer to wait a minute. He called for help and a woman officer came. They knew his name. "I don't want to go to jail--see, I'm quiet."
They asked us to move back and we all left.
I felt sorry for him. She takes care of him, I think. Is Dad dead? Or gone?
December 12, 1980
11:45 PM
Copyright © 2004 William J. Clancey. All Rights Reserved.