Biff and Shorty Play The Blues
Biff and Shorty Play the Blues
It was summer in the city—and the city was as hot as hell—hotter, maybe. Even the devil was laying low and trying to find some shade. But things will not wait. Dues need to be paid. And for the poor musicians, scuffling for a gig, the dues are never ending.
On the corner sit our two protagonists, Biff and Shorty, musicians who were long on soul and chops, and short on dollars and dimes. And that is where our little story begins, as the sweat descends like drops of rain, and the heat rises from the pavement like lines on a musical staff. That is precisely when Biff said to Shorty;
“Listen, I hear those republicans hate everybody but the rich. They hate Blacks, women, the poor, Mexicans, you name it, and they hate em!”
Shorty scratched his head and began to play some bebop on his saxophone, frowning as he swooped from chord to chord, weaving thematically thru the changes, and then finished with a blues lick played just far enough outside to make itself known.
Shorty then gently put down his sax and said in a half snorted reply, “Bullshit!” paused for a second or two, and then continued;
“Republicans are all about small government. You see, Biff, Government ain’t your daddy, and it sure as hell ain’t your mother, neither. In fact, the government takes about half of everything you make, every buck, every penny, you always gotta give Uncle Sam his share, if you don’t he’ll haul your ass off to jail. Think of it like this, they’re like the union bosses down at the 102 there in Miami, only they got guns and bombs and a license to kill. Sure, the union may get you a gig every now and again, but hell, I can do that myself.” Just give me all my dough and things will be lookin’ good. But that ain’t all.” Shorty continued. “Once you pay the union bosses, there’s the local government wantin’ its share. After that comes the federal government. And let me tell you, brother, they really want your greenbacks, no matter how scarce they may be! How’s all them senators and congressmen supposed to live in big houses and drive big cars, flying around the country without em”
Biff sat back, picked up his old guitar, strummed a few chords and then began swinging a four to the bar rhythm Freddie Green style, threw back his head and began to sing;
“Nobody loves me but my mother, and she might be jiving too.”
After a few short choruses, he let it fade and then looked at Shorty and said “You mean, like that? Like they love you but couldn’t give a rat’s ass if you lived or died, is that what you’re telling me, about my dear old Uncle Sam?”
“You bet!” Shorty replied. “It’s not that they’re bad people. It just, well…it’s tough enough taking care of your own. Who has time to really take care of you and everybody else, too?” No, Uncle Sam’s job is to build roads and bridges, schools and hospitals, catch criminals and fight wars when some son-of-a-bitch in one of them foreign countries gets outta line. It’s not his job to raise your kids, tell me where I can live, where my kids have to go to school and what to eat. You got it?”
“Yeah. I think I got it.” Biff said, and then he laid down a blues so low that the roaches could walk right over top of it and never feel a thing.
After a minute or two, he stopped and said, “So, tell me why I’m paying taxes on everything I buy, and, on everything I sell. I could have a lot better digs, drive a nicer car, eat better food, I mean, I ain’t sayin’ Uncle Sam don’t deserve nothing, he just don’t deserve half or anything close.”
Now you’re talking!” Biff hollered back. Just because Uncle Sam wants to buy your vote by offering free stuff—that ain’t really free—don’t mean he loves you. And, it sure as hell don’t mean when a republican or two stands up and says “No way! Enough with spending already!” That they hate poor folk, Black folk or Mexicans.”
With that, Shorty grabbed his horn and let fly with an arpeggio that would’ve made Bird and Pops stand up and salute, while Biff picked up his guitar and laid down some rhythm changes at a tempo that was so furious, and the swing was so vast, that the summer heat wave turned to spring—and with it, a cool descended on the city—and people got along—for a while, at least.
Until the next time, when Uncle Sam came up with a new scheme. Which, unfortunately, was in no time at all.
Claude Hopper
It was summer in the city—and the city was as hot as hell—hotter, maybe. Even the devil was laying low and trying to find some shade. But things will not wait. Dues need to be paid. And for the poor musicians, scuffling for a gig, the dues are never ending.
On the corner sit our two protagonists, Biff and Shorty, musicians who were long on soul and chops, and short on dollars and dimes. And that is where our little story begins, as the sweat descends like drops of rain, and the heat rises from the pavement like lines on a musical staff. That is precisely when Biff said to Shorty;
“Listen, I hear those republicans hate everybody but the rich. They hate Blacks, women, the poor, Mexicans, you name it, and they hate em!”
Shorty scratched his head and began to play some bebop on his saxophone, frowning as he swooped from chord to chord, weaving thematically thru the changes, and then finished with a blues lick played just far enough outside to make itself known.
Shorty then gently put down his sax and said in a half snorted reply, “Bullshit!” paused for a second or two, and then continued;
“Republicans are all about small government. You see, Biff, Government ain’t your daddy, and it sure as hell ain’t your mother, neither. In fact, the government takes about half of everything you make, every buck, every penny, you always gotta give Uncle Sam his share, if you don’t he’ll haul your ass off to jail. Think of it like this, they’re like the union bosses down at the 102 there in Miami, only they got guns and bombs and a license to kill. Sure, the union may get you a gig every now and again, but hell, I can do that myself.” Just give me all my dough and things will be lookin’ good. But that ain’t all.” Shorty continued. “Once you pay the union bosses, there’s the local government wantin’ its share. After that comes the federal government. And let me tell you, brother, they really want your greenbacks, no matter how scarce they may be! How’s all them senators and congressmen supposed to live in big houses and drive big cars, flying around the country without em”
Biff sat back, picked up his old guitar, strummed a few chords and then began swinging a four to the bar rhythm Freddie Green style, threw back his head and began to sing;
“Nobody loves me but my mother, and she might be jiving too.”
After a few short choruses, he let it fade and then looked at Shorty and said “You mean, like that? Like they love you but couldn’t give a rat’s ass if you lived or died, is that what you’re telling me, about my dear old Uncle Sam?”
“You bet!” Shorty replied. “It’s not that they’re bad people. It just, well…it’s tough enough taking care of your own. Who has time to really take care of you and everybody else, too?” No, Uncle Sam’s job is to build roads and bridges, schools and hospitals, catch criminals and fight wars when some son-of-a-bitch in one of them foreign countries gets outta line. It’s not his job to raise your kids, tell me where I can live, where my kids have to go to school and what to eat. You got it?”
“Yeah. I think I got it.” Biff said, and then he laid down a blues so low that the roaches could walk right over top of it and never feel a thing.
After a minute or two, he stopped and said, “So, tell me why I’m paying taxes on everything I buy, and, on everything I sell. I could have a lot better digs, drive a nicer car, eat better food, I mean, I ain’t sayin’ Uncle Sam don’t deserve nothing, he just don’t deserve half or anything close.”
Now you’re talking!” Biff hollered back. Just because Uncle Sam wants to buy your vote by offering free stuff—that ain’t really free—don’t mean he loves you. And, it sure as hell don’t mean when a republican or two stands up and says “No way! Enough with spending already!” That they hate poor folk, Black folk or Mexicans.”
With that, Shorty grabbed his horn and let fly with an arpeggio that would’ve made Bird and Pops stand up and salute, while Biff picked up his guitar and laid down some rhythm changes at a tempo that was so furious, and the swing was so vast, that the summer heat wave turned to spring—and with it, a cool descended on the city—and people got along—for a while, at least.
Until the next time, when Uncle Sam came up with a new scheme. Which, unfortunately, was in no time at all.
Claude Hopper