At Last

The Girls & I celebrated our belated birthdays last night with a trip into Boston to see Etta James at the House of Blues.

While we waited to head inside, we ate and drank outside at a restaurant on Landsdowne, the roar of Fenway Park in the background and the breezing chill of a tepid May evening at our backs.

It was one of those nights. You know, the nights when you feel like the pieces have all fallen into place and it's just... right. So good.

Anyway, there we were, sitting outside, eating, drinking and laughing, all in full view of the House of Blues (the old Avalon, for those who are familiar with the city) and suddenly, a tour bus pulls up.

"Maybe it's Etta."
"She's really late."
"There's some sort of scooter thing happening..."
Necks crane.
We sip our various vodkas in silence. Waiting. Watching.
"Is it?"
"I don't know."

Suddenly, an entourage begins processing from the steps of the tour bus towards the entrance and, in the midst of it, a blonde-headed, gold-sequin-clad Etta James... operating a Rascal.

A Rascal, for those who are unfamiliar (and I find myself in the position of "familiar" because M happens to recieve offerings in the mail for them often, though she is far from Rascal ready at the youthful age of 27), is a scooter for the aged. It's the kind of thing you might dodge out of the way of in the supermarket aisle as someone's Nana speeds towards you, the distinct whir of a low-power motor drifting along with her as she searches for that week's BOGO items.

Etta sped right into the House of Blues, entourage in tow.

Whiiiiiir.

On stage she sat in a chair; a chair that appeared to have been made specifically for her performance(s). A high back, a padded headrest, one arm - padded - the other missing so she could sit - lounge, really - in a low slung, half laying down way, an ideal position from which to belt out a song.

I have never seen Etta before. For those who have also not had the pleasure, let me offer you a generalized interpretation of what goes on.

Etta croons. Etta jams. Etta plays air guitar and points towards the band when she expects a halt in musical accompaniment. (She gets one every time. The lady knows her shit.) Etta sings about men. About sex with men. About women and men. About love. About betrayal. Etta gestures. Etta rubs herself. Breasts. Legs. Ahem. Crotch. Etta makes vulgar faces, twitches her tongue. (Yes. Twitches. Like a snake. Like a perverted snake.) Etta nods encouragingly to the screaming crowd each and every time she performs one of these pervese gestures.

Etta is a filthy seventy-one year old Rascal driver. And the crowd dug it. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it... but it was interesting to watch.

And when she was done. When it was all over. Or, rather, when it was time to tease for the encore, a man pushed out Etta's Rascal and she boarded it, cruising off the stage - ridin' low.

She came back for an encore, riding the Rascal, sang the song (which has escaped me - the victim of too many Citron & sodas) from her chair, and then boarded the Rascal again and cruised away. Gold sequins twinkling into the night.

It was quite... remarkable.

Thanks, Etta. Thanks, Girls.

-k.