it was the sound of a car's horn that finally sent him over the edge. for years he had dangled over the precipice of madness, not daring to look down at first then challenging the dark abyss below his feet to swallow him if he released his grip on sanity. his rage always carried a playfull tint that permitted those who considered themselves to be his friend to simply shrug and say, "it's just bix being bix" whenever he got particularly out of hand.
he kept moving over the past year because every place he went presented a chance to make a new enemy. the occaisional bar fight was to be expected but when matters were serious enough to include guns, the band knew that bix had once again gone too far and it was time to pack their bags. bix's reputation never failed to proceed him and some wondered if crowds appeared at their evening engagements to hear them play or to wait and see what happened next.
the ones that knew really knew the power that bix had when he played. everything else was a sideshow to the ability he put on display without fail, night in and night out. the women that he made hot or the men he caused to lose their cool only had their emotions magnified by the sounds he created with his horn. bix loved to play to the crowd and he was never more furious or brilliant than when he was urged to, "reach, reach, REACH!" he would hunch his shoulders before furrowing his brow and arching his back to unleash a salvo of sound.
some played to exorcise demons but when bix blew, his blood would boil and his hands would shake as if he were trying to wring sound out of his horn. his sound was like a predatory plant, beautiful and fragrant but deadly to any insect that was lured too close. each "REACH!" that the crowd uttered was like a whiplash across his shoulders and his chase after the perfect, angry sound was propelled forward.
tnoight's performance wasn't remarkable by any means compared to the hundreds that had come before. those that had saved up their nickels so that they could hear some music went home happy and bix paced around the bar trying to keep his hands from shaking so much. the band knew by now to keep away from bix after any set and to keep those who didn't know clear of his path, to let him pace, mutter, and shake himself out of his rage.
it was a hot night and even hotter in the tar paper gin joint where the band had finished playing. francis the drummer was collecting the band's fee for the evening when bix stepped outside, his only company a large clay jug of rum. it was when he stumbled into the street that he heard the sound he was chasing his entire life, one of perfect anger. stepping from the sidewalk into oncoming traffic, a motorist swerved to avoid hitting bix and layed on the horn of his automobile. at that moment, bix realized that no matter how hard he blew or fast he played, he could never match the wrath of the motorist planting his closed fist onto the horn of his car.
neither the horn nor the clay jug made a sound as they fell from bix's hands. his world became silent, all except from the horn of the packard that nearly ended his life. it probably would have been easier on poor, angry bix if it struck him in the street and kiled him, for a dark heavy curtain descended over his eyes and his jaw hung limp, never to utter a word again. his spirit was broken with the realization that all his ability could not match the only sound that a machine, probably created by some scared old timer behind the wheel, made.
he kept moving over the past year because every place he went presented a chance to make a new enemy. the occaisional bar fight was to be expected but when matters were serious enough to include guns, the band knew that bix had once again gone too far and it was time to pack their bags. bix's reputation never failed to proceed him and some wondered if crowds appeared at their evening engagements to hear them play or to wait and see what happened next.
the ones that knew really knew the power that bix had when he played. everything else was a sideshow to the ability he put on display without fail, night in and night out. the women that he made hot or the men he caused to lose their cool only had their emotions magnified by the sounds he created with his horn. bix loved to play to the crowd and he was never more furious or brilliant than when he was urged to, "reach, reach, REACH!" he would hunch his shoulders before furrowing his brow and arching his back to unleash a salvo of sound.
some played to exorcise demons but when bix blew, his blood would boil and his hands would shake as if he were trying to wring sound out of his horn. his sound was like a predatory plant, beautiful and fragrant but deadly to any insect that was lured too close. each "REACH!" that the crowd uttered was like a whiplash across his shoulders and his chase after the perfect, angry sound was propelled forward.
tnoight's performance wasn't remarkable by any means compared to the hundreds that had come before. those that had saved up their nickels so that they could hear some music went home happy and bix paced around the bar trying to keep his hands from shaking so much. the band knew by now to keep away from bix after any set and to keep those who didn't know clear of his path, to let him pace, mutter, and shake himself out of his rage.
it was a hot night and even hotter in the tar paper gin joint where the band had finished playing. francis the drummer was collecting the band's fee for the evening when bix stepped outside, his only company a large clay jug of rum. it was when he stumbled into the street that he heard the sound he was chasing his entire life, one of perfect anger. stepping from the sidewalk into oncoming traffic, a motorist swerved to avoid hitting bix and layed on the horn of his automobile. at that moment, bix realized that no matter how hard he blew or fast he played, he could never match the wrath of the motorist planting his closed fist onto the horn of his car.
neither the horn nor the clay jug made a sound as they fell from bix's hands. his world became silent, all except from the horn of the packard that nearly ended his life. it probably would have been easier on poor, angry bix if it struck him in the street and kiled him, for a dark heavy curtain descended over his eyes and his jaw hung limp, never to utter a word again. his spirit was broken with the realization that all his ability could not match the only sound that a machine, probably created by some scared old timer behind the wheel, made.
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Everyone talks about the way it hits too, it hits real well.
off to work, see yah later